Aw, Steve is super into Star Trek.  He really, really is.  DS9 is his absolute favorite – especially these days, when shades of grey start to blend together and become confusing – but they’ve all got their charms.  He thinks Janeway and Peggy would have a lot in common.  He suspects Natasha and Kira Nerys wold be besties.  Modern Chekov and Kirk both remind him of himself a little bit.  Kirk and Bones in both series remind him of himself and Bucky in a way that makes him ache a little.  (Related but a tangent: some day he will watch Babylon 5, and he will spend half an hour telling Maria Hill about Ivanova.)

Actually, I’m betting what he really likes is Star Trek meta.  I bet once he watched the show, he has spent hours reading all the background information, everything from Roddenberry’s dream of a diverse and complex show and and idealistic future down to Leonard Nimoy’s autobiographies and how the actors came to terms with being this grand symbol to this lovely subculture.

TO THE FUTURE WITH GREAT HOPE FOR TOMORROW, y'all.  That’s Cap in a nutshell

(beware the unbeta’d fic, for it shall have anachronistic nonsense) 

It should not ordinarily befit a lady of Miss Martin’s stature to hire a detective of any stripe or variety, but sometimes needs must.  She traveled through the streets by coach with the curtains carefully closed; the driver pulled into the side alley and she kept her face hidden behind the wide brim of her hat as she rapped on the door and was quite relieved to be admitted quickly.

There was no foyer, no servant to take her gloves and coat, no sitting room.  The walls were lined with books and carefully archived newspapers and magazines. There were weapons carefully kept on a corner table and a desk covered over in a riot of paperwork.  It was all most peculiar.

“What can I do for you, Miss….?”

“Martin.  Miss Lydia Martin.  And you are Miss Alison Argent?”  She produced a neat clipping from the newspaper, one that advertised MISS ARGENT’S LADIES DETECTIVE AGENCY.

“I am.”  Miss Argent was as peculiar as her offices; dressed in square and sturdy boots and shockingly short skirts, she moved about the space with a predatory grace that caused something in the pit of Lydia’s stomach to burn.  She crossed the space between them to take the clipping from Lydia’s hands, examined it and smiled.  "You have a case for me?“

"There is a gentleman who has been courting me, and he has begun acting in a most unusual manner.  I wish to know if he has been doing anything unseemly.  Something that would make him unworthy to court a Martin.”  Lydia lifted her chin.  "I will pay your going rate, and double for the utmost discretion.“

Alison smiled - an odd, appealing half-expression – and handed the clipping back to Lydia.  Their fingers brushed together, and even through her gloves Lydia could feel the warmth roiling off the other woman.  She burns too hot by half, she thought, and she could feel a flush beginning to stain her cheeks, and suddenly so do I.

"I will only take my going rate,” Alison said, “if you will suppliment my pay with one favor.”

Lydia’s eyebrow went up.  "Dare I ask?“

"The pleasure of your company.  Come dine with me, Miss Martin.”  Alison tilted her head and leaned in just a little.  "Here I style myself quite plainly, but in my home I like to surround myself with beautiful things.“

Scott’s absolutely endlessly reliable about mowing the lawn for three very important reasons:

1. Because he’s Scott McCall and of course he is, it’s who he is and when he decided it was his job, ages and ages and ages ago, he has never ever let up on it.
2. Because if he doesn’t do it, his mom will have to.  And if there’s anything that Scott doesn’t want to do, it’s give his mom more work than she already has.
3. Because in the end, he will absolutely shamelessly admit that there’s something amazing about having a big huge heavy machine grinding away under his hands, and he totally does imagine he’s Godzilla attacking Tokyo while he’s pushing the mower.  GRRRMMMMMMMMM goes the mower, and there goes all the down town skyscrapers, one by one.  ”oh no!” say the badly dubbed citizens in his head, “help!  He’s destroying everything!”  Every blade of grass is another building, spectacularly crumbling to dust.  ”Rowr,” he says to himself with an amused smile.  ”Grrrrr.”