Possibly, I'm Insane

They don’t usually rewatch their old shows. So Eames is surprised to find Arthur watching Love It or List It.

“What’s this?” he asks, intrigued.

“This is the show where we fell in love,” Arthur replies, like he has to explain this to Eames.

Eames gives him an amused, fond look. “I know. I lived it.”

“On Reddit, they’re trying to pinpoint the episode where it happens. I wanted to know if I could find it, too.”

“And what’s your conclusion?”

“I think I was just in love with you the whole entire time,” Arthur admits, sounding annoyed.

Eames laughs.

“I think we can do it,” Pete says confidently.

Pete thinks they can do anything. Maybe being a big-deal band on the cover of Rolling Stone is something they can do, but definitely not this.

“No,” Patrick says. “I am willing to believe you in many circumstances. But we are not doing this. We are not capable of doing this. Neither one of us knows how to make pasta.”

“I don’t think it’s actually hard. I think you just—”

Patrick, however, is fond of the apartment not being burned down. “No,” he says again. “We order pizza like usual.”

chocolamousse

When you think about it, there’s a shocking lack of food in the Twelve Days of Christmas. Unless you count all the birds, which – John thinks about Perdy the partridge and decidedly does not count any of the birds in the carol as food. So that just leaves him with the maids a-milking, he supposes.

He is aware that he could make any number of Christmas foods – plum pudding, or a Christmas trifle – but it needs to be Twelve Days of Christmas-related. It’s romantic.

John makes them simple cups of steamed milk with honey and cinnamon. Sherlock, gratifyingly, gets it.

For postynotemusing 

Rose’s kids are not good at waiting. It is not one of the skills valued by time travelers.

Rose buys them Advent calendars and brings them back to the TARDIS. The kids are utterly perplexed.

“You open one of the little doors each day of December,” she explains.

“But,” Brem says, nose scrunched up with thought, “why not just open them all at once?”

“That’s not the point. It’s for counting down each day to Christmas.”

“But we could just skip ahead to Christmas,” Athena points out quizzically.

“I vote we just open every door now,” Fortuna proposes.

Rose sighs.

charisstoma

Sherlock hates to admit there’s anything he can’t do, but—

“What should I get John for Christmas?” he asks Mrs. Hudson. Getting a…boyfriend…a Christmas gift is simply outside of his area of expertise.

Mrs. Hudson says archly, “If I were you, I’d clean the bathtub. A proper scour.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t you just run an experiment with human ears and hydrochloric acid?”

“Human noses,” Sherlock corrected her. “But yes.”

“John loves a bath, you know.”

“I did wipe the bathtub down when I was done with it!”

“Bleach it, Sherlock Holmes. John would appreciate it.”

It turns out that John does.  

sdlibrarian

The Doctor thinks it’s an understandable mistake. He has two daughters in the TARDIS who are so in love with sparkly things that just walking through the control room can be enough to cover him in glitter. They have more tiaras than anyone can count; just the tiaras gifted to them by grateful planetary empresses number in the dozens.

So the Doctor, faced with what kind of cupcakes to buy for the girls at the bakery on Rrrrrrh, decides the sparkly ones are the obvious choice.

How was he to know they would turn out to taste like sweaty socks?


(There are still more slots available! Sign up here!)

Matt was so used to celebrating baby milestones. It felt like Adam was always doing something new, always achieving something. He grew in leaps and bounds, seemed to get older by the hour. It was dizzying to Matt, a roller coaster ride entirely different than the one with the girls.

One day he realized that the pace had shifted, that Adam no longer had as many firsts, that instead Adam seemed more settled in the world.

“He’s getting older,” Patrick said. “That’s what happens.”

“Well, that’s…” Matt didn’t know what it was.

“A completely different type of adventure,” Patrick said.

It starts with the orange sneakers that Pete buys, one pair for him and one pair for Tennyson. And then there’s matching fuzzy orange sweaters to go with the orange sneakers. And then Pete manages to locate orange pants, too.

“The exact same shade of orange! And in the right sizes! It’s fate!” Pete explains as he buys them.

“Obviously you need orange socks now, too,” Patrick remarks.

He thinks that Tennyson won’t be into these matching orange outfits, that he’s too old for these shenanigans, but actually it’s Tennyson who suggests, “Maybe we should dye our hair orange, too!”

“I missed out,” Pete tells Tennyson mournfully.

Tennyson is unimpressed by his regret. “On what?”

“I didn’t create any Christmas traditions for you. And now you’re too old.”

Tennyson looks at him incredulously. “What are you talking about? When I was a kid every Christmas Eve Patrick would come over and we would make sugar cookies in unrecognizable shapes and Patrick would make you or me play the piano while he sang carols to us.”

This…is true, Pete realizes.

“So. That’s our tradition.”

“Oh, my God, it is.” Pete beams. “So glad I created a good tradition for you, kiddo!”

Arthur has an inventory of their Christmas ornaments.

“Look,” Arthur says. “This is the only way we can keep organized. You own over a thousand ornaments.”

“We own over a thousand ornaments.”

“Yes, and sometimes you say things like, ‘The only thing we can put on this branch is the ice blue metallic boot we bought in Lucerne that trip we took when your wisdom teeth started bothering you.’”

“And then you save the day, darling, as you always do, by pulling up your inventory and knowing exactly where that ornament is.” Eames beams at him and kisses his earlobe.