So, I have a tumblr.

I mean, who doesn’t, right?

Either way, I’ve had mine for over a year. I follow about 60-70 blogs on there, no biggie. Most of them are fandom related, because I like to at least watch the pretty fanart from the sidelines even if I’m not producing fanfiction for my fandoms. Which, let’s be real here, most of my contributions to any fandom now is smut. I love writing it, what can I say?

But there’s a tumblr I follow called “Imagine Your OTP.” It is the best blog ever. It is also very inspiring, and has gotten me writing things these past few days while my brain slowly corrodes due to real life stress. I came across one of their little scenarios — which was basically this: Person A decides to surprise Person B by making dinner — wearing nothing but an apron. There’s a bit about Person A being embarrassed/feeling self-conscious when they hear the door opening and bolting to hide, basically.

I ignored that part, lol. But I thought “Savin would so do this!” and then I started writing it. Instead of it being Jazz/Savin like I had intended it to be… Mitchel showed up. Apparently, I haven’t been writing enough SavMitch for his liking. Or something. The piece is really meant to just be silly and for me to keep the writing going, so it’s not very serious — nor is it very in-character. Don’t particularly care. Here is part of it, because it amuses me:

***

“Planning to surprise Callahan in that getup, Bates?” Mitchel snickered. “What, pray tell, is supposed to be appealing about you wearing just an apron like that?”

Savin glared at him, tugging the edge of the apron further down over his legs, hoping he hadn’t inadvertently flashed Mitchel earlier. “What do you want, Mitchel?” he snapped.

“I needed to speak with Callahan in private,” Mitchel answered, shrugging a shoulder. His hand drifted to his tie, smoothing it out some as Mitchel’s eyes finally moved off of Savin’s body. Savin’s shoulders relaxed a little, though he kept his hands on the hem of his apron, holding it in place. “However, it’s obvious that Callahan isn’t here. Is he at a meeting with the NBLM?”

“Yes,” Savin muttered. He continued to watch Mitchel’s hands, the heat in his face finally dying away. He crossed his arms over his chest, a thought worming its way through the back of his skull. “How the hell did you get in?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at Mitchel.

Mitchel held up a single key. “Callahan gave this to me months ago,” he said, smirking to himself. “I was coming to return it, as well. If I had known you were here…”

“How the hell do you have a key?” Savin demanded, snatching the key from Mitchel’s hand. He shoved it in one of the small pockets of his apron.

“Bates, as a man known for his medical prowess, surely you can figure out why for yourself?” Mitchel prompted, raising an eyebrow. He didn’t move away from Savin, either, though the two stood too close to each other for Savin’s comfort. “The same reason you have one, I’d imagine.”

“I live here now — of course I have a key,” Savin said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Now, can you please leave? I’m trying to make dinner and –”

“I wasn’t aware you could cook,” Mitchel remarked, his smirk never leaving his face as he moved past Savin. Savin turned on his heel, careful to keep his backside out of Mitchel’s view. “Then again, it is an art that requires both your hands and your mind, so it’s not all that surprising.”

Savin just stared at Mitchel, his jaw going slack as the older man walked towards the kitchen. He tried not to think that the bastard in front of him may have lived here, too, once — if Mitchel had, then…

He didn’t want to think about that. Definitely did not want to think of Jazz and Mitchel in bed together, or living together, or anything together. He felt his fists ball at his sides as he stalked into the kitchen after Mitchel. “What the hell are you doing, Mitchel? Leave.”

“Why should I?” Mitchel countered, raising an eyebrow yet again. “Callahan should be here shortly — his Thursday meetings have never run long. It’s not my fault you’re continuing to embarrass yourself by insisting on wearing that frilly mess. Though I must say, that is a good look for you.”

Savin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you mocking me, asshole? Because I’m not afraid to kick your ass while wearing this,” he threatened, moving towards Mitchel.

Mitchel glanced over at him, boredom apparent in his eyes as he picked up the knife Savin had left lying on the counter. Savin’s eyes widened, unable to focus on anything else as Mitchel picked up the knife and twirled it between his fingers. “I could help you prepare this,” Mitchel offered, selecting the onion from the line up of vegetables. “As long as you put on some clothes, that is. I would prefer not to stare at your backside unless I’m taking you, myself.”

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