Work Text:
“What on earth have you done?” Steed asked, wrinkling his nose.
St. Hammond grinned at him over his sunglasses. “I’ve made ninjabread men.”
“And burned them, by the smell of things,” James said.
“I haven’t!” Roger protested. Grabbing James by the jacket, St. Hammond towed him over to the very manly, and not at all domestic or ladylike, cooling rack. “Look,” he said, gesturing.
There were tiny Jasons with pink scarves and pot bellies; little Jameses with grey moustaches and horrible floral-print shirts; and of course, karate-chopping Rogers, with noble turtlenecks and sexually-stimulating maroon jackets.
“Why are all the Jasons off to one side, and the Rogers and the Jameses are bunched together?” James asked. “Are they fighting?”
Roger sighed; for a bombs expert, he could be incredibly dense. ”No James,” he said, sweeping his sunglasses off. ”They’re doing it.”
“They’re what?” Steed said, or tried to say, except by then Roger was on him, and his moustache was sort of in his mouth and obviously that is the only reason James didn’t bother protesting further and instead took him down like a rather naughty crim and debauched him quite thoroughly on the kitchen floor.