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This Place We Call Home

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"So, uh. . ."

  Dan looked at the smoking pot; whatever had been cooking mere moments before was charred black, and melted into the silver interior.

    He looked at Jack, something bordering fear in his brown eyes. "Am I going to tell Mark or are you?"

    Jack bit his lip, blue eyes nervously looking not just at the inedible remains, but also darting to the mess littering the counter and dripping down onto the floor. Empty, gray cartons glared back mockingly.

    Dan swore Seán's eyes looked green briefly whenever he felt this much emotion come from the Irishman, but that was neither here nor now, as the undisputed 'leader' of the apartment would be home in mere minutes.

    Far too soon to clean the mess and hide the evidence.

    But that wouldn't stop them from trying, apparently.

    "You soak the pot," he finally responded, "and I'll start on wiping the counters and dumping this mess into the trashcans. Get the windows open and the fan on, while you're at it."

    Dan didn't even argue - simply did as told with a rapid ferocity that even Phil would be caught off guard by.

   (Despite hiding the traces of their debacle as best as they could, Mark knew as soon as he got home. Phil walked in to him lecturing both the brown-haired men.

    They were put on "probation" for the following month, after "The Egg Incident", and couldn't cook together without supervision from Mark himself.)