om_main | Babs & Eames & Damon

Babs and Eames bake a pie. Also, Damon is there and he's not wearing a shirt.

Barbara had just come from the gym, and she was still a bit sweaty, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a bright red tank top and sweatpants. By this point she'd at least somewhat gotten over her general self consciousness about the fact that she was working out at all. She might as well get strong, and she might as well learn to fight as well as she could. It was nothing like before, of course, but she could still do something.

In the kitchen now, she chugged water from a bottle and wheeled over to the fridge to pull out some ingredients to make a pie. Then set herself up at the kitchen table with a cutting board, chopping apples.

Eames strolled into the kitchen, making a bee line for the kettle and going to fill it. "Hello, Barbara," he greeted. He eyed her ingredients. "Ooh, pie? What's the occasion?"

Barbara smiled up at him. She didn't know Eames all that way, but he seemed like a really nice guy. Very friendly. And pretty. And apparently dating Arthur, because she'd crushed on Arthur a little and that's how her life worked. "It's pie o'clock," she teased. "If you want to help me you can have the first slice."

"Oh, with a promise like that I'm your willing servant. How might I help you?" He grinned broadly.

"Would you like to roll out the crust?" Barbara asked, pointing to the pile of dough, already floured, in a bowl. She grinned at him. "I appreciate a man secure enough in his masculinity to rock a rolling pin."

"Darling, you know me." Not on a personal level, mayhaps, but everyone knew some basics on Eames. "I am secure in my everything." He went to rock the rolling pin as requested.

"Must be nice," Barbara said with a little smile, and went back to chopping the apples after handing him the rolling pin.

"Oh, you just have to fake it insufferably until it becomes your true nature. At least I think that's how it works. A complete lack of self-preservation, and very little common sense may also help."

"Mmm I might have some trouble with that," Barbara admitted. "Oh, here!" She tossed a handful of flour onto the wax paper she had out for rolling out the dough. Then she pushed her glasses up and ended up with a smudge of flour on her nose.

With a flourish of his hand Eames was suddenly wearing a checkered print apron, and he moved to roll to roll out the dough. "Mm. I've found that ever since I got my new roommate I bake more often. More savory than sweet though. I've been neglecting sweet."

"And that neglect has not gone unnoticed," Damon answered the other teen as he strolled into the kitchen, dressed only in a pair of dark designer jeans. He headed for the fridge, obviously a little rumpled - either from sleep, or more likely, judging by his damp hair, from a recent shower.

Barbara looked up from he chopping at his voice, and at the surprising sight of Damon all... shirtless, and wet... she had to make herself not stare. Or blush. Or any of the other reactions that he treacherous body seemed intent upon pushing her to. She adjusted her glasses again. More flour.

Eames glanced briefly at Babs and her very good attempt at no reaction. In turn, he felt no qualms taking a good long look at Damon. It was no worst than admiring a painting in a museum. Clearly he didn't need intentions to admire something nice. Looking didn't break any promises. ((And to be fair, there was just as much if not more of a risk of him putting his hands all over a painting...)) Eames grinned as Damon sauntered his way over to the fridge.

"Darling, I swear you are more allergic to clothing than I am," Eames commented with amusement. "And if you've been missing out, it doesn't hurt to ask very nicely."

"Spring has sprung," Damon informed them, swinging the fridge open to snatch a bottle of water from the side compartment. "And I intend to take full advantage of that fact. What are we making?" he inquired, turning a pointed look over his shoulder at the two. Everything in his smiling gaze could have told them that he knew he looked good, and yes, he knew they were watching.

Barbara didn't know whether she wanted to kiss him or punch him in the face. She suspected this was a pretty common reaction to Damon. "Apple pie," she said. "And if you'd like some, then you too can be sweet like Eames and help make it."

"You don't have evil queen aspirations, do you?" Eames asked with mock fretfulness.

"Poisoning people isn't my style," Damon made a face at them as he closed the fridge. "I prefer my food healthy and robust; full of life."

"Here," said Barbara, and tossed a slice of apple towards him. "Fresh, sweet, and naked."

Eames snickered softly.

Damon just barely caught the slice, but he gave the piece an appreciative, tender bite, his eyes all the time locked on Barbara's face.

She managed to maintain eye contact with him for a second, but finally looked away as heat rose to the back of her neck. "Glad you like it."

Eames reached for the wooden spoon that hadn't been immersed yet and casually thwacked Damon on the ass with it. "You want to bake those apples, or molest them some more?"

"I'm in favor of molestation, myself," Damon gave a quick, amused look at the spoon. "But if it means looking at a gorgeous redhead covered in flour all morning, I think I could restrain myself."

It was a little awkward for Barbara to realize now that despite it having all been in their heads, Damon had not only, you know, seen her naked, but seen her acting as she would thinking she was dreaming and completely sexually uninhibited. It wasn't that she was ashamed or anything, but he did have a way of looking at her now that suggested he was enjoying pulling up those memories.

She caught her reflection in the shiny metal of the stove door, and immediately wiped the flour from her face. "Just wait until I'm cooking with jell-o."

"Babs, my darling, I'm just going to put out there that on Arthur's behalf I feel the need to protect your honor---so Damon, keep you oggling and your hands to a PG-13 rating." Eames grinned at both of them, trying to steam-roll over any of the awkward in the room. "It's always the end of the world when I play adult chaperone."

Damon rolled his eyes. "On second thought, maybe I can go without pie."

"It's okay, I'm perfectly capable of protecting my own honor," Barbara said, and went back to chopping apples. The last thing she wanted was more damsel in distress bullshit.

"Oh, I know it. Just speaking as a proxy. You're likely more capable than I am."

"He's right, Red," Damon drawled. "Though, admittedly, that's not saying a lot."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence from both of you," Barbara said. "Now roll," she said, pointing to Eames. "I'm done cutting the apples." She looked up at Damon. "By the way, are you allergic to shirts like Matthew McConaughey or what?"

Eames dutifully rolled out the dough.

"Tsk, tsk," Damon taunted, his eyes flashing as he watched her. "I seem to recall that you're the one who likes to pull them off of me."

"In my dreams," Barbara snapped, so very not looking anywhere near Eames right now, not wanting to see his reaction. "And strangely enough, I'm finding you somewhat less charming in person."

Eames raised an eyebrow at the dream comment, because with Damon that was a very different statement. Alas, Babs had already forbid the honor defending, because Eames would otherwise have tossed something at Damon.

"Mm-hmm," Damon answered, because really? She said it herself. He caught the raised eyebrow from Eames and smirked, then strolled toward the door. "I'll leave you two to it, then."

Barbara scowled and cut one of the pieces of apple in half again just so she had an excuse to slam the knife down hard. Once Damon was gone, she said to Eames, "Don't say it."

"Don't say which? Option A is: Are you suuure I'm not allowed to smack him around a little bit and say it's for your honor? Option B is: I can't blame you, I've been there, done that, and I can hardly judge."

"I mostly just don't want confirmation that I've been an idiot when it comes to him," Barbara said. "I mean, I already know." She paused. "It really was only in a dream, though."

"One that he made guest appearance in?"

Not looking at him, Barbara nodded. "I didn't know at first that he was real, of course, and then he told me, and I... didn't make him leave."

"Well, at least you have a dream as an excuse. I have no good reason other than he wasn't wearing a shirt, there was hot fudge involved, it seemed like... an idea... I will not say good nor bad... an idea at the time. He's so nice until he starts talking and poking at people's soft spots." Eames presented the rolled out dough to her. "Do you regret it, or was it okay?"

She wanted to ask of he'd been male or female at the time, but totally recognized that was none of her business.

"It was more than okay," she said quietly. "In my dreams my legs work." She paused, then admitted, "He was just kind of a dick when I woke up."

"I'm sorry he's the only dreamwalker of the right age and caliber around here then. You clearly deserve the great time, without the douche-bag afterglow."

Barbara stopped messing with the apples and looked up at Eames. "To be completely honest... I mean, except for that bit of douchery, he's actually kind of been... okay, nice is not the right word for Damon. But I actually liked being around him."

"When he decides not be a terrible arse, he isn't the worst company," Eames agreed. "Just don't let him know you enjoy his presence, or allude to the possibility that he's being nice, or let other people see he's not all poison and rose-thorns. Heaven forbid he makes real friends. It would ruin his whole image." And Eames knew a thing or two about maintaining an image.

Barbara blinked at him, thinking of the conversation she'd had with Damon after she woke up, how she'd told him that she appreciated him trying to protect her. "Do you think he was a jerk to me on purpose? Because he thought that I was, what, seeing some good in him?"

"Oh god, did you see some good in him?" Eames asked with friendly horror. "Maybe he didn't intentionally act like a jerk---maybe he just reacted like a cat that had its tail stepped on. Some clawing, some hissing. I've never tried to prod too hard when he's being pleasant. He just snarks harder."

Barbara sighed. "He's just so damned smug. He knows that I want him. It's infuriating." She peeked at Eames and blushed a little, because it was embarrassing to just say it like that.

"Darling, don't be shy," Eames encouraged her. "If I wasn't head over heels for a very dashing robot, I'd probably be making really bad decisions up that same tree. Kind of hard not to want him once you know that he's not only eye candy, but he actually knows what the hell to do with a woman. Still, I strongly encourage you not to get emotionally involved. I think he'd burn you. Unless you can handle shag-buddies, and brace yourself for the fact that he's an arse?"

"Does it still count as, um, shag buddies, if it's only in my dreams anyway?" she asked.

"Well, great way to avoid teen pregnancy, but I'd count any situation where both parties are aware, and orgasms are involved."

Barbara almost clarified that she and Damon hadn't actually had sex, but that seemed a little too personal an admission. So instead she just nodded, and then as she took the dough from him and started to press it into the pie pan, she added, "I'm really happy for you and Arthur, by the way."

"Thanks," Eames said softly. "You know, they may not all be dream stalkers, but I'm pretty damn sure you are going to find much better interested parties in your future. As I fearfully told Arthur, you're kind of a catch. They don't make gorgeous, brilliant redheads every day. Some of us have to forge that at best, but sadly I don't think I could pull off smart the same way."

Barbara was looking down at the pie pan rather than at him, but she did smile a little at first, at that. "You're very sweet," she said, and then finally looked up at him. "You can't pretend the wheelchair doesn't matter, though."

Eames made a face. "Sure, it complicates things--but seriously. You're a high caliber woman. Anyone who can't deal with the chair isn't good enough for you. You make compromises when you really care about someone."

"Maybe someday you'll say I told you so," Barbara finally said, since that was about as much of a concession as she was willing to make on that, considering her experience so far. She held out the pie pan to him, now filled with apples, filling, and crust. "Here, ready for the oven."

Eames took the pan and went to put it into the oven. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for any telepaths, dreamwalkers, decent men that might show up one of these days.

"Thank you for the help," Barbara said with a little smile. "It needs to cook for about forty minutes."

"Shall I entertain you with song while we wait?" Eames asked with a wink. "Or, wash the dishes."

"I don't see why you can't do both," Barbara said cheerfully.

"Any requests?" he laughed warmly, completely willing to oblige.

"Oh, I want to hear whatever you like," Barbara said. "Sweep me off my feet."

"As you wish." He picked something at random and serenaded her quietly as he did the washing up.