"Dunno, Daddy." Gus dubiously eyed the pumpkin sitting on the newspaper-covered picnic table between him and Brian before shaking his head. "I don' think thash the right one for your first time. Lemme get more."

But this pumpkin was literally made for him! Brian narrowly resisted shouting, ‘Come back!' after the seven-year-old, who'd already scampered off to the other end of the porch. His gaze dropping back to the beautifully shaped gourd, which was actually two pumpkins that had grown together, he eyed it appreciatively.

He reached out a finger to caress the seam between the two halves, when someone hissed, "No, Brian, absolutely not."

Brian darted a glance to the left, where Justin appeared to be quivering in outrage. Brian suspected the outrage was an automated response - there was no removing the WASP from his blond - but it seemed to be warring with amusement. A squeaked, "Brian!" followed by a quickly smothered giggle, proved him right.

Brian affected a wounded mien. "But- but, it's perfect!" It really was, he thought, giving the two plump halves of the pumpkin, the left side ever so slightly larger than the right, a wistful look. All it needed was for the cleft to be made a little deeper and for a whorl to be added near the bot-

"This a new kink?" Justin teased, keeping his voice low so Gus wouldn't overhear.

Justin's query interrupted a fantasy about hollowing the pumpkin out, very carefully doing a bit of carving and then using it as a model for a bronze replica. He could always have Cynthia check around for him for someone good at casting bronze.

It wasn't like he planned to stick his dick in there or anything, but he might use it for target practice the next time Justin was out of town for a show and Brian didn't feel like finding a subpar trick to fill in for him.

"It is!" Justin crowed, barely managing to keep his voice under control.

As it was, Gus heard him and mistook it for his father liking one of the pumpkins he was inspecting. "This one, Daddy?" The young lad gave it a closer look. "It's a defnit' poshbilty," he announced seriously, sounding far older than seven.

Brian smiled weakly, but it was good enough for Gus. His son lifted up the pumpkin, which probably weighed around eighteen pounds - roughly a third of the boy's weight - and toted it over to the table. He followed that with another gourd of comparable size before scampering back over to study the remaining pumpkins.

"You know," Justin murmured, "you've got the real thing at home." His bare arm brushed up against Brian's, causing fine brunet hairs to stand on end.

Brian wasn't about to say he wanted the gourd for when Justin wasn't around; he wasn't up to explaining that. He'd just have to tell Gus to keep it for him, maybe lie about how one of his uncles would like it and that he planned to give it to them. 

Not Honeycutt. One look at the pumpkin and Emmett was all too likely to guess why Brian wanted it. He'd never let Brian hear the end of it.

Maybe Michael could help him out? It was unlikely that Mikey would quiz Brian about why he wanted the pumpkin; all he cared about was his honeybun's latest accomplishments - teething and drooling.

Wait, there was a better option. Rather than Cynthia, he'd task Theodore with locating a foundry. His CFO had untapped depths of knowledge about the most esoteric things. Plus, Ted knew when to keep his trap shut.

Brian's enthusiastic young tutor in the arts of pumpkin carving plunked two more sizable orange gourds down on the table. One was taller and had an oblong shape, while the other one was squat and rounded. "Whaddaya think?" he asked, all bright blue eyes. 

Brian was momentarily distracted by the blue of his son's eyes, puzzled yet again by how the kid could've ended up with that color, when as far as he knew, there was no blue on either side of his family tree. You'd almost think Justin had been involved if the boy wasn't a total chip off the Kinney block.

"I shoulda shoosen bether ones," Gus apologized. "This one's no good" - he pushed the coveted double pumpkin to one side - "for a beginner." He critically eyed two of the gourds. "And theesh are too small for the stenshells Jushun helped me make."

Brian sighed, certain the designs wouldn't be nearly as intriguing as the double-buttocked gourd, which was perfect as is. 

Misconstruing the reason for his father's disappointment, Gus reached out and patted Brian's hand. "'shokay, Daddy," he lisped.

Losing another baby tooth had done the lad's pronunciation no favors, Brian reflected, making the gap at the front of his mouth even larger. One of his permanent teeth was finally peeking through the gum, but it was barely a third of the way into view and didn't do much good by itself.

"Everybody's a beginner at shomeshin," Gus went on. "Doeshn't matter how old you are."

"That a pearl of wisdom from your grandma Deb?"

Gus merely shrugged in response.

"She's right, you know," Justin put in his two cents. "I mean, I'd never kicked a soccer ball till you coerced me into playing with you and Gus."

The coercion had been fun, Brian thought, smirking at his blond. Still was since Justin insisted on being convinced every single time that another player was needed to round out the father and son team.

"Yeah!" Gus enthused. "That goal yesherday was the besh, Jushun! The way you kicked it between Daddy's legs!" Excited all over again, he pumped a fist in the air.

The other boy imitated him, looking almost as excited - and young - as Gus.

Little sneak'd had Gus distract him; otherwise, they never would have scored. Brian's idea of having his boys double-team him had been a good one, and they definitely provided him with a challenge, but they weren't that good. They'd had to trick him to score off him. 

Of course, when he'd tried to make that point to Justin, the blond refused to listen, claiming they'd outwitted him and teasing him about being a sore loser. Brian was still thinking about the best way to avenge himself.

"Debbie was right about carving pumpkins for Thanksgiving too," Justin interrupted his vengeful musings. "I mean, why didn't I ever think of that? It's, like-"

Gus chirped, "Double the fun! Halloween and Thanksgiving!"

"Plus" - Justin made a show of rubbing his flat stomach - "there'll be more pumpkin seeds, pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie-"

"And cushard!" Gus yelled excitedly. "Mommy makes a shuper good cushard."

Hmm, maybe he could snitch a couple bites of that custard. His sonnyboy was right about his blonde mother's culinary skill. 

An extended pumpkin-carving season did have some benefits.

Brian had initially pooh-poohed the idea of carving pumpkins for Thanksgiving, but then Deb belligerently questioned, "Why the fuck not, mister? I had Christmas in February. Besides," she'd gone on more quietly, just for Brian's ears, "Gus wants to do it with you. You gonna pass up the chance to have some fun with your kid?"

His surrogate mother had a way of making him see what was important, Brian allowed. Now, looking at the gap-toothed smile his son was sporting, he was glad he'd given in - even if he ended up making a fool of himself with this carving business.

As Gus pushed the pumpkins he'd deemed too small over to join the curvaceous gourd, a scowling bulldyke slammed the sliding door open and barged onto the glassed-in back porch, a tray in her hands. "Chr-" she started to say, which had her son perking up and holding out a hand.

"Cripes," she amended the word that had been about to fall out of her mouth, smirking at her son.

Brian had to laugh. If Gus hadn't given himself away like that, there'd be five more dollars in the vacation fund.

"It's fu- uh, flipping hot out here," Melanie complained, awkwardly attempting to wipe her brow on the sleeve of her tee without dropping the tray.

Brian would've described it as pleasant, the fall sunshine warming up the space to a bearable temperature. The dyke couple that'd lived here during the girls' temporary sojourn to Canuck Land had been inspired to enclose the porch with thermal windows that not only warmed the space appreciably in winter but kept it from getting unbearably hot in summer. That and other improvements meant the munchers had had to pay considerably more to reacquire their house than what they sold it for, but since Brian was bankrolling the acquisition, it had all worked out. 

The she-devil set one foot down hard, in what was presumably meant to be a loud stomp, punctuating the scowl on her face. It didn't work out very well, the foam sole of her slipper barely making a noise. "Fu- fu- fu-" she grumbled, abbreviating the word that was clearly on the tip of her tongue.

Brian grinned. He could practically see the steam coming out of the dyke's ears. 

Melanie came closer, her gait ungainly. "Fu- fu-" she huffed, setting her left foot down flat in a natural motion before gingerly moving her right foot forward and balancing on the heel.

Brian knew better than to ask what had happened - he liked his balls where they were - but he couldn't deny being curious about why she was limping.

Gus hastily moved the pumpkins out of the way, making space.

Brian inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of freshly brewed coffee.

"Here," Melanie grunted, plunking the tray down, the dishware, cutlery and other items clattering and clanging. Milk sloshed over the edge of the creamer and a couple of small items sprang out of a bowl, like they were jumping beans.

In desperate need of caffeine, Brian immediately reached for a cup and the carafe. His partner had roused him far too early this morning, insisting Gus would be waiting for them. You'd think he'd be allowed to get a little extra shuteye on a rare day off - how long could it possibly take to carve a pumpkin? - but you'd be wrong.

If not for a leisurely sixty-nine and then a shower fuck, Brian would've been cranky, but he could hardly complain about getting off twice. The only problem was that he needed more than just a ‘protein shake' to get him going in the morning. Their fucking expensive DeLonghi coffee machine had gone on the fritz last night, which meant they couldn't fuel up before leaving. To add insult to injury, the Starbucks located between the loft and the girls' house had had a line a block long. Admittedly, the coffee chain didn't have the best coffee, but all he'd wanted was quick and convenient. So much for that idea.

"Wush that?" Gus demanded, his indignation coming through loud and clear.

Already pouring coffee into the cup he'd snagged, Brian paused, looking up. He followed Gus' pointer finger, his gaze landing on an offensively pink item with a green blob on it.

Mel growled, "Your juice," the warning plain in her voice.

"But it's a sippy cup," Gus protested. "A Little Mermaid sippy cup!"

The dyke bared her teeth at her son. "If it's good enough for JR, it's good enough for you. Capisci?"

Gus wisely backed down, although his lower lip stuck out mutinously.

"You know, Ariel can be totally badass," Justin interjected.

"Yeah?" Gus looked up hopefully.

Adding more joe to his cup, Brian waited to see how Justin was gonna back up that outrageous claim.

"Mhmm," the blond hmmed thoughtfully. "The prince gives up eating sea creatures, right?"

Gus' brow furrowed. "He does?"

"You betcha. You think a mermaid's going to marry a prince who eats her friends?"

"Um, no?" his sonnyboy stated uncertainly.

"Definitely not," Justin assured Gus.

"Thanks, baby." The tired-looking muncher smiled at Justin. "Just don't put him off seafood, 'kay?" she muttered under her breath.

Justin nodded back in understanding.

Melanie glanced toward the far end of the table, and the three carvers followed her gaze. Along with masking tape and scissors, various implements had been laid out next to an open black case with orange trim, which contained more carving tools. Brian resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the tools in the case; Gus probably got a charge out of the black handles on which orange eyes and teeth were outlined.

He figured the empty metal tins were meant to be filled with pumpkin goop and that someone - it sure as heck wouldn't be Brian - would extract the seeds for roasting. A shallow bowl was half filled with flour, although Brian had no idea why it was there. The box of toothpicks was also a mystery. The toothpicks couldn't be meant for poking holes in one of these gourds; they'd just break in half.

Mel looked from the carving tools to her son. "You be careful with those, you hear? Do what Jush- er, Justin tells you."

Gus' head bobbed up and down. "I will. Promish."

The bulldyke studied her son through narrowed eyes but then, apparently satisfied, she pivoted on her left foot and limped back into the house without saying another word.

"Thanks, Mama," Gus shouted after her, earning a negligent, backward wave of one hand before she disappeared from view.

"I asked Mommy to roash pumpkin sheeds yesherday," Gus confided, moving the bowl so that they could all reach into it and sticking his hand inside.

Stirring the barest pinch of sugar into his coffee, Brian gave a mental nod of approval. The seeds should taste good and wouldn't be loaded with carbs.

He joined Gus and Justin, dipping his fingers into the bowl and popping some of the pepitas into his mouth.

A crunching noise was all that could be heard for a bit.

Raising his cup to his lips, Brian took a sip and quickly set it down again. Linds might've done a good job with the seeds, but she'd obviously left the coffee to Mel. 

Brian peered down at the motor oil in his mug and sighed. It was better than no coffee at all but was going to require twice his usual amount of sweetener. He stirred in another pinch of sugar and then, to be sure it was palatable, added a little bit more. The coffee was so muddy, it rivaled the stuff the diner occasionally produced - when the pot sat untouched on the hot plate for an hour or more.

Nevertheless, he knocked back the java, too in need of a caffeine infusion to wait any longer, and immediately refilled his cup.

"That bad?" Justin mouthed, warily picking up the thermal coffee jug.

Watching Brian pour such an exorbitant amount of sugar into his cup warranted a cautious approach.

"Milk won't be enough," he advised Justin, who needed the petrol almost as much as Brian in order to be functional. Justin switched up between taking his coffee black and adding milk, which Brian didn't see the point in - why bother, unless it was a latte or a cappuccino?

"You're gonna need sugar," Brian added, in case he hadn't been clear enough.

The kid scrunched up his nose, which had Brian leaning in for a nose rub. How that nose scrunch could be so fucking adorable, Brian didn't know, but whatever the reason, it was almost irresistible. 

The blinding smile he got might be what made the nose rub worth it. That and the happy giggle from his sonnyboy, who just loved it when they Eskimo kissed in front of him.

"Sugar?" Justin scrunched his nose up again, with Brian narrowly resisting temptation this time.

Christ, you'd think the lad never consumed anything sugary.

Justin poured his cup half full, then added milk until it was about three quarters of the way to the brim, and took a tentative sip. "Ugh," he muttered, pouring in more milk until it was just shy of overflowing the brim. Another cautious taste and he declared, "That'll do."

More than once, Brian had pointed out that milk had sugar, but Justin always blew that off as being of no consequence. All because it was natural sugar. Brian snorted. What the fuck was sugar from sugarcane? Unnatural?

The lengths the twat would go to to avoid processed sugar in his coffee never ceased to amaze Brian. Yet, he'd turn around and shovel in lemon bars and bear claws like there was no fuckin' tomorrow.

"Your mama make the coffee?" he asked his son, wanting to find out for certain who was responsible for this caffeine outrage before he plotted his revenge. 

Lindsay would never try to poison him, so it had to be Melanie. Unless one of the neighbor dykes had come over and brewed it. The two lesbian couples spent so much time in each other's homes that they should just take his advice and join their houses together. 

The neighbors seemed like a longshot though, which only left Mel.

"Mommy got the coffee ready and told Mama all she hadda do was turn it on," Gus explained. "Then, 'cause she was busy with a proshet, she asked Mama if she could roash- do the sheeds instead of her."

Kid was definitely an apple from the Kinney tree. Brian'd gone through an equally awkward in-between, toothless stage when he was about Gus' age. Until yesterday, he'd seen no reason to dent his mystique; anyone who thought he'd sprung from Joan's loins fully formed, exactly like he was now, could just keep believing that. But then Gus had been near tears, mangling every other word, so Brian shared that he'd had just as bad a lisp, if not worse. What he hadn't mentioned was that Jack had yelled for him to shut his yap and keep it shut until his teeth grew in. Or else.

He'd never reduce his sonnyboy to a mute shadow, instead of the lively chatterbox sitting across from him. He smiled at the way his son's obvious excitement had him spewing out the words in a fashion that was even more garbled than usual.

Shaking off the childhood memories of Jack, Brian stared into the murky cup of coffee. He still wasn't sure what had happened to make the java taste so bad. Mel must've let it stand on the hotplate forever. Or maybe she forgot Linds had prepared the coffee and threw in more grounds before turning the machine on?

"So who roasted the seeds? Your mama?" Justin inquired, his brows rising.

"Yeah, shay-" Gus immediately stopped speaking, enunciating carefully when he resumed. "Mama tried to get out of it 'cause she can't cook."

At least Mel recognized her weaknesses, Brian thought approvingly as he took two more long swallows from his cup and then refilled it.

It was weird that the seeds had come out not only edible but were actually tasty. Usually, Brian avoided the dishes that the girls prepared, so really, who cared which muncher had cooked it? He'd been certain they were responsible for the vegetarian dish that was inflicted on the family at a recent Sunday dinner; Carl had tried to be polite by sampling the dish but then had to hurry out back to hurl millet and soy cheese off the stoop. Turned out it had been Ben's contribution, which had everybody cracking up, while the professor spluttered an incoherent defense. 

"Mommy inshishted she hadda do it though, so Mama shaid the F-word twice and the S-word once." Getting excited, Gus bounced in his seat. "That made fifteen dollars for the vakey fun." 

Curious how his offspring's lisp practically vanished when it came to discussing his ‘earnings,' Brian noted in amusement. He might almost suspect Theodore had been tutoring the lad; his CFO's language was never crisper than when he was discussing money.

"Anywaysh, it was when Mama kicked the spot 'neath the cabinet really hard that it got really good," Gus exulted. "Mama, was screamin' the F-word plush the S-word. Again and again."

Brian, who'd kicked off his shoes as soon as he realized they'd be in the sun room, almost echoed what the bulldyke must've said, his bare toes curling under. At least Mel wouldn't have been barefo-

"Ouch!" Justin exclaimed. "No shoes?"

"Nuh-uh. Mama shaid her cal- calfsh, you know" - the boy waved a hand in frustration, getting nods from both men - "were killin' 'er, so she wushn't wearing shoesh."

Brian scooted both feet under the bench he was sitting on, protectively wrapping the toes of his left foot over his right. 

Justin, laid a consoling hand on his thigh and kneaded the suddenly tense muscle.

"It was grrrrreat!" the boy enthused, his missing teeth only hindering him a little as he rolled the ‘R'.

Brian winced as he sipped at his second cup. Gus sounded like Tony the Tiger touting that horrible, over-sweetened cereal. Fucking striped cat was still popular. He'd better have a word with Linds, make sure none of the stuff was in the girls' cupboards.

"Nice Tony," Justin complimented Gus, holding out his hand to high-five the boy.

Gus beamed at the blond, the large gap between his teeth evident as they slapped palms. "Thanks, Jushun." Turning to Brian, he explained, "I waited till Mama calmed down - Mommy told me to let 'er shimmer - before I asked-"

"-for money for the vacation fund?" Brian supplied.

Justin leaned in and whispered into his ear, his breath wafting across sensitive skin and making it pebble, "Finishing someone's sentences, Mr. Kinney?"

Brian whipped his head to the side, his mouth open to issue a retort, when he stopped, appalled. He really had done that. Christ, he was turning into a-

"Nuh-uh, Daddy," Gus denied Brian's assumption. "I wanted to know what that playsh 'neath the cabinet is called, but Mommy didn't know. Mama either. Wush it, Daddy?"

Gus turned an expectant gaze on him, certain his dad would have the answer.

Jesus. Like he could come up with an answer to that; it would be like explaining Gus' blue eyes. Why was his son asking him anyway? Kitchens and carpentry were muncher specialties.

Justin started giggling again. "It's a toe kick, Gus."

Brian sent a baffled stare Justin's way. He had to be making that up. How the fuck did he know that? Was it some weird kind of osmosis from cooking in the loft kitchen?

"It's wasted space," Justin informed Gus. "What would be really cool is if there were toe-kick drawers there. Space for cookie sheets and racks. Or muffin pans."

Gus' eyes lit up, to Brian's exasperation. Unlike him, the kid had a sweet tooth. He took after his Jushun that way.

"What happened next?" Brian prodded his son to return to his tale before he got the idea in his head that the pumpkin carvers needed sugary treats in addition to roasted pumpkin seeds to fuel their endeavors. 

It wasn't like he needed to feign interest. He didn't mind hearing about Smelly Melly's latest mishap.

A guilty look flitting across his face, Gus related, "JR got hold of the lids of a coupla pansh and started bangin' 'em together. Like thosh shymbal things, y'know?" He clapped his hands together to demonstrate cymbals clanging. "It was really loud an' Jenny wouldn't schtop."

Demon spawn for sure. JR was a chip off the old block - on both sides of the family.

Justin couldn't hold back the laughter any longer, a spate of giggles escaping. That set Brian off, a loud guffaw bursting out of him.

Gus started giggling too. "JR was sittin' in the middle of the floor, bangin' away and singin' - leashwaysh she thought it was singin'," Gus revealed with a philosophical, brotherly shrug. "Anywaysh, Mama shaid one bad word after 'nother for, like, half an hour. She jush couldn't stop."

The seven-year-old looked both awed by and elated about his mother's prodigious cursing powers. He'd probably been hearing ‘ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching' and seeing dollar signs the whole time, Brian figured.

"It smelled kinda bad all af'noon 'cause two trayfulsh of sheeds burnt. Mama kept curshin' and curshin'."

"Holy fuck," Brian breathed out. The whole thing was kind of awesome, he couldn't help thinking. He just wished he'd been there to take a photograph. Then again, he'd probably have gotten a fist to the eye from an irate bulldyke for his troubles.

"Five dollars, Daddy!" Gus immediately piped up, his countenance brightening.

Brian heaved out a sigh. The advance he'd made on Mama Mel's curses at Halloween had long since evaporated; the surprise was that it had lasted until the morning of November twentieth.

Fishing out his wallet, he extracted a twenty and slapped it down on the table in front of his son.

Gus quirked an eyebrow in an exact replica of Brian and looked from the wallet to his face and back down again.

Brian sighed again and took out two more twenties. 

"Thanks, Daddy!" The boy snatched the twenties and stashed them under an uncut pumpkin on the edge of the picnic table. Gus then paused, frowning in thought. "Are those jush for you or Mama too?"

Mercenary little shit. "For me, your mama and mommy and Justin."

The blond seated next to him smiled smugly. "I won't need that," he proclaimed.

Maybe not, Brian acknowledged. He could hardly use tried and true methods to get Justin to scream ‘fuck' in front of a seven-year-old; besides, he didn't want two pissed-off lesbians laying into him.

"That helps, Daddy," Gus carried on excitedly. "I mean, after all the curshin' from Mama, Mommy shaid a ‘blue streak' was only worth five dollars. I hadda ask what a blue streak was, and she shaid it's when the bad words come out nonschtop."

The boy's lower lip jutted out. "Only ten dollars for the vakey jar," Gus mourned the loss of the money the blue streak should have produced.

Brian's eyes narrowed. Did the bulldyke think simply doubling the sum would pacify his son? After watching what should've been a significant contribution to the vacation fund vanish into thin air? By now, Melanie should know that he'd cover any shortfall... although he had to acknowledge that he'd be reluctant to ask if it was the other way around. Years ago, it had been fucking painful to accept help, just so he could get back on his feet financially. And that had at least been cloaked under the guise of donations to the Concerned Citizens for the Truth, even if by that time most everyone knew there was just one ‘citizen.'

Justin, looking puzzled, inquired, "Ten?" 

"There were two streaks," Gus explained dolefully.

Okay, that was pretty funny and made Brian chuckle. 

"It's still not fair." Gus pouted, showing his dissatisfaction at having a sizable number of curses parlayed into a measly ten dollars.

"Did you count up all the curse words?" Brian asked, betting his son had done exactly that.

Gus nodded, his head bobbing up and down. "Fourteen, Daddy! But that wushn't all."

"Your mama took a break in between?" Justin guessed.

"Yeah," Gus agreed. "But jush for, like, a minute. Then Mama shaid seven more bad words. I tried, but I couldn't cash Jenny. She was runnin' all over the playsh and knocked over a vase Mommy got from her mommy and broke it. Thash when Mama started curshin' again." The boy shrugged. "I don' know why Mama got upshet; she thought the vase was ugly. She's shaid so lotsa times. I thought it was ugly too," Gus confessed.

If it was the fugly vase Linds'd had forever - he'd have to check whether that one was missing - it was a case of good riddance. Stifling a laugh, Brian inquired, "You understand why you just got ten dollars?"

"Yeah," Gus reiterated, looking mournful. "I jush wish Mommy had told me before Mama shaid all the bad words."

Brian had to agree; setting a rule after the fact wasn't fair. "What if I put the difference - ninety-five dollars - in the vacation fund?" he proposed. "Just this one time though, okay? Otherwise what your Mommy said stands."

"Thanks, Daddy!" Gus gave him a gap-toothed smile. "You know, Mama wouldn't have been curshin' if it wushn't for JR," he tacked on. "It's her fault Mama burned the first bash of sheeds."

Justin prodded, "Hmm? I don't follow. Unless" - a stern note crept into his voice - "you were supposed to be keeping an eye on your sister."

At being chided by his beloved Jushun, Gus burst out, "I only looked away for a second! I- I was jush tryin' to eshimate how much money was goin' in the vakey jar."

"Hmm," Justin reiterated, although Brian was fairly certain that he was trying to hide amusement this time. 

Gus added, "But Jenny's so fash!" He shook his head in disbelief.

A rueful laugh from Justin bore out his amusement. He confessed, "I might've lost track of Molly a time or two. She was faster than a bolt of lightning."

"Aunt Molly?" Gus got all big-eyed. He adored Molly and had a major crush on the strawberry-blonde girl, who had less than eight years on him.

Brian felt a spurt of sympathy for his son. Fucking Taylors were dangerous.

"Mhmm, ask your grandma Jen sometime," Justin advised.

Brian would remind Justin that he'd thrown himself under the bus when Gus did just that. In the meantime, he decided to pursue his original line of inquiry.

"After the wick-" Brian paused to correct himself. "-your mama was injured, your mommy saved the day?"

"Nah," Gus refuted. "Mommy shaid Mama should know how, so she shupervised. And made me watch Jenny. Again."

His son looked so put out that Brian had to laugh. 

"Jenny's a sweetheart," Justin claimed.

Father and son swiveled their heads toward him. "The demon spawn?" Brian choked out.

"JR?" Gus echoed, his tone making it sound exactly like Brian's ‘demon spawn.'

"Sheesh, guys," Justin reproved the Kinney men, "she's been teething."

When Brian had run into Mel at the diner a week ago, the butch lawyer had been all smiles because it looked like JR's teething woes were over - she'd been quiet for two nights straight. Figured Mikey and the she-devil's kid wasn't done being an outlier.

The blond stressed, "You'd be fu-" Blue eyes twinkling, he paused for half a beat.

Gus sat up straight at the near slip, but he sank bank down when "-rious," followed.

That was pretty clever. Maybe Brian should brush up on words that started with ‘fu' and suggest to Mel that she do the same. He'd even be willing to share any good substitutions he came up with.

"Did I scream like that?" Gus wanted to know. "Like, all the time."

Images of Gus as a baby flashed through Brian's mind. His sonnyboy had squalled his head off, refusing the binky, even when his dad stuck it in his own mouth to demonstrate how tasty it was. He didn't think the binky crisis was related to teething however.

"God, yes," Justin replied authoritatively. "You'd scream for hours when I babysat you."

Gus goggled at the blond.

Brian wondered where he'd been when that was going on, but then he realized that it must have been during that dark period when he and Justin weren't together.

"You didn't like the teething ring or the teething star; you'd just throw them at me," Justin divulged. 

Brian grinned, picturing Justin in the munchers' kitchen, dirty dishes and bits of food everywhere, the blond futilely bouncing his wailing, inconsolable sonnyboy in his arms. Almost exactly like he'd discovered Melanie and JR a few weeks ago - with the addition of a teething ring stuck in blond locks and a teething star sliding down inside his T-shirt. The ‘bite me' orange tee that fit him like a second skin and always led to Brian doing exactly that. He might have to dig that shirt out from where he'd hidden it...

Gus' shock transformed into a giggling fit.

Seeming unoffended by the boy's reaction to his younger self's obnoxious behavior, Justin chuckled. "You were turning my hair gray, I swear." He pulled on a long strand of blond hair and side-eyed it suspiciously, making Gus laugh some more.

Brian cast a sidelong glance at the blond. Gray hair, his ass. The twat didn't have a single gray hair, and if he did get one, it'd doubtless be such a pale shade that you wouldn't even see it. Unlike Brian.

Granted, his lover hadn't wanted to upset him and tried to unobtrusively remove the evidence of Brian aging, but his plan backfired. A sharp pain from his buttocks had awakened Brian a week ago, and he reared up, screaming, "Ow!" and caught Justin red-handed. The curly, thick gray hair - it must've been two inches long - gripped between the pincers had him gaping in horror. How the fuck could something like that have been growing out of his ass? 

Christ, what if a trick had been the one to discover that monster of a gray hair? Brian would never survive the humiliation. He now lived in dread of gray hairs springing up elsewhere in his nether regions, but he hadn't figured out a means to prevent them. He knew Justin would be willing to inspect and tweeze - he'd offered more than once, both during and after Brian's hissy fit - but that was hardly a long-term solution.

Justin's voice recalled Brian from the all-too-real, recurring nightmare about the most monstrous gray hair ever to afflict a gay man. He wasn't sure at first what the blond was rattling on about - surely nothing as critical as gray hairs in unsightly places.

"I was at my wits' end." Justin let go of the blond strand of hair he'd been examining and scratched at his head, his forehead furrowed. He then widened his eyes dramatically, signaling an aha moment was imminent. "But then I remembered how when Molly was teething-"

Teething. Who gave a fuck? Brian started to tune out again. Sure, the Wicked Witch's get was making everybody miserable with her caterwauling, but it was up to the munchers and Mikey to deal with the tot.

"-after chilling it with a couple of ice cubes, my mom would dunk a washcloth in chamomile tea - and let Molly suck on that. That did the trick." 

Brian fleetingly considered trying chamomile tea on his pubes. 

"You stopped wailing right away," Justin concluded.

"Tea?" Gus scrunched up his nose.

Stifling a laugh - he'd only just now realized Justin was talking about Gus' teething history - Brian commiserated with his son. Tea was gross. But he was positive that a trace of chamomile tea was nowhere near as bad as the yak-shit tea the blond had once foisted on him.

"Hmm." Justin tapped a finger against his chin, appearing to be deep in thought. "I could carve a teething pumpkin-"

"No!" shouted Gus.

Justin shrugged. "I thought Pumpkin Jenny would make your mama smile, but..." he trailed off.

"Oh," the seven-year-old said in a small voice, a red tint to his cheeks.

His sonnyboy might be embarrassed, but his chin had a stubborn tilt, Brian noted, grinning. There wouldn't be a ‘Pumpkin Jenny' if Gus had anything to say about it.

 

 

"I made some new stencils for our pumpkins. Wanna see?" Justin inquired, reaching into his messenger bag.

"Yeah!" Gus' eyes lit up in excitement. "I've got the rest, Jushun." He scooted along the bench and grabbed a folder that was next to the carving tools before scooting back again. Opening the folder, he flapped a piece of paper at his dad. "I 'member you lwicked" - he spoke even more awkwardly as he tongued a stray pumpkin seed - "the one of Mama-"

Brian could just make out a figure on a broom. Ordinarily, he would've enjoyed the confirmation that the model for the broom-riding witch was Mel, but the way his son slurred ‘like' made it sound like he'd licked the bulldyke.

"No fuckin' way," he muttered.

"Five dollars, Daddy!" Gus caroled joyfully.

Brian cast his eyes toward the twenties he'd already splashed out.

That earned a muted "Oh" from his son.

"Take a look at these." Justin fanned out five sketches - a bison; a dreamcatcher; a turtle with a cluster of arrows above it; a tipi with a feather; and a medicine wheel with an eagle - so both Gus and Brian could see them.

Brian wasn't sure why the drawings had evenly-spaced holes punched along some of the edges. Since he didn't want to look like an idiot for asking, he had to hope that the answer would become evident as they proceeded.

In any case, Justin's stencils should satisfy his son's current thirst for all things Native American. Brian had been equally fascinated at Gus' age. He'd always wanted to be one of the Indians when playing cowboys and Indians - even though the ‘noble savages' usually got the shit kicked out of them and even though he hated being the underdog.

"Cool!" came the enthusiastic accolade from his son, who was getting more nuanced information about Native American history, both in school and from his parents, than Brian had. 

"I know a tipi isn't right for the local tribes" - Justin shrugged in apology - "but I thought it might do?"

Gus frowned down at the sketch. The boy was a stickler for accuracy, so he might reject that one out of hand.

"It's simpler than the others, so it might be good for your dad's first time," Justin clarified. "Besides, it could be a cone-shaped wigwam. Some of the wigwams had a more basic design than others."

Brian did his best to hide a wince. He didn't mind using that template. It really was kind of ‘cool' and would be different from the standard, ‘toothy' Halloween fare. It was just that the ‘first time' thing - at his age - was more than a little embarrassing. 

"'kay." Gus nodded, accepting that reasoning. "I really like the dreamcasher." He ran his fingers over the intricate design.

"I can help if you want that one. Or with any of the others," Justin offered. "I thought you might like the bison since it's unique to North America. Besides, when we put a couple tea lights inside the pumpkin, they'll look like pools of fire in his belly."

The bison was also less complex than the other designs - except for the one which had been designated as Brian's - which would make it easier for Gus.

"You gonna do one of the others?" the boy wanted to know.

"What do you say we save those for next year?" Justin smiled at Gus. "I'll work up some more designs too, including a proper longhouse."

Huh. Brian eyed the now empty folder speculatively. Where was Justin's template? Then again, the blond artiste could probably draw something freehand, the grooves in the pumpkin - whatever the fuck they were called - barely impeding him.

"We're gonna do this again?"

"Sure." The word fell out of Brian's mouth before he could think it through. Why not though? He'd have some experience and wouldn't be a rank beginner next year. Besides, it'd make his boys happy. "We can make it a tradition to carve pumpkins for Thanksgiving," he proposed.

That elicited yet another fist pump from his son, and Brian was then obliged to high-five both of his sonnyboys.

"Can we take 'em to Grandma Debbie's?" Gus ran away with Brian's notion. 

"Deb'd love having them for decorations," Justin seconded the idea.

Shit. What if his pumpkin was a flop? It was too late to back out now however. With what he suspected was more of a grimace than a smile, Brian asked, "So what do we do first?" directing the question to his son.

Gus sat up straight, clearly relishing the opportunity to be in charge. "First, we gotta cut off the top. Um." He paused for a moment to study the two pumpkins he'd recently carried over to the table, then pushed the slightly more oblong one over to Brian, almost knocking over the motor oil masquerading as coffee.

Cup rescued, Brian took a swallow, scowling at the bitter taste. He must've forgotten to add a bit of extra sugar, he reckoned, quickly rectifying his mistake.

"That one's good for the tipi, Daddy. And I'll yoosh this for the bishon." Gus kept the squatter pumpkin in front of him. The seven-year-old flicked a quick glance at Justin, who nodded in approval of his choices.

Gus smiled happily. "What 'bout you, Jushun? Wish one do you want?"

Justin motioned at a couple of large, oblong-shaped gourds at the far end of the table. "I've got dibs on these."

"'kay," the youngster acquiesced. "Now, Daddy, we gotta cut off the top of the pumpkin."

Unprompted, Justin passed over a crayon so that Gus could draw a circle around the stem. Gus lost control at one point, the marker hitting one of the grooves, skittering off course and leaving a jagged, bright blue smear across the pumpkin.

The boy seemed unbothered, just picking up where he'd left off and completing a slightly lopsided circle.

Gus looked up and grinned. "Don' worry if you make a mishtake. It'll wash off. It's- Whatcha call it, Jushun?"

"Water soluble," Justin supplied.

"That," Gus concurred. "You try, Daddy." He handed the crayon over.

Brian couldn't remember the last time he'd held a crayon. He'd left the coloring books to Linds and Justin when it came to Gus; Melanie had also demurred when JR came along, until it rapidly became apparent that coloring outside the lines was de rigueur for the toddler - a skill Mel declared she possessed in spades.

"You want a different color?" Justin dangled a lurid pink crayon in front of Brian.

Gus giggled, "That mashes the Little Mermaid's top, Daddy. You gotta yoosh that one."

Just great. Brian curled his lip at Justin, snatching the disgusting marker from fingers that had gone limp.

Justin winced, evidently just now registering what the fish girl was wearing, and flicked an apologetic glance at Brian. "Sorry," the twat muttered.

Brian hiked an eyebrow in reply, not sure what Justin was apologizing for: the Little Mermaid's existence; her outfit; the over-bright crayon; or something else entirely. Whatever, Brian wasn't quite ready to forgive him for foisting the pink crayon on him. The things he did for his sonnyboy. He hastily drew a circle around the top of the pumpkin, almost falling prey to the same pitfall as his son. Just managing to maintain control, he passed the pink thing off to Justin as soon as he was done.

The blond wrinkled his nose at the gaudy crayon, causing Brian to huff out a laugh. Now the brat got how repulsive the color was.

As the younger man drew a circle around the top of one pumpkin and then started on another, Brian wondered what had possessed Justin to inflict that garish hue on him. He'd never known Justin to use pink in his paintings, and none of his clothes were pink. Among the gang, only Emmett incorporated pink in his wardrobe; it was too showy for the rest of them.

It was then that Brian remembered the Pink Posse and the deliberately eye-catching sleeveless T-shirts the vigilantes had worn. He'd been so fucking scared that Justin would end up in prison or get seriously hurt, he recalled, a shudder traveling down his spine. Every single night he went out with that whack job Cody, Brian had pictured himself sitting outside the hospital room where Justin lay in a coma - only this time, he didn't wake up.

"Brian? You okay?" he distantly heard Justin ask.

It took a worried "Daddy?" from Gus to penetrate his fugue and bring him back to the present.

He croaked, "Yeah, Sonnyboy," before raising his coffee cup in trembling hands and burying his face in it. Christ, he hadn't been hit by a daymare about the bashing in a long time.

When Brian lowered his coffee, he was met with two sets of concerned blue eyes. 

"I'm okay," he reassured his son. "Just... a bad memory."

Gus' brows drew together. "'What memory, Daddy?" 

Brian didn't want to give Gus an aversion to the color, so he just said, "A really awful sense of fashion," accompanying the vague statement with an exaggerated shiver.

Naturally, Gus, who took after Justin in throwing on whatever was ready to hand - and reasonably clean - thought that was funny. 

Brian slanted his eyes at Justin, planning to tease him about the paint-splattered clothes he'd donned, but an image of his lover's head being caved in, blood everywhere, superimposed itself on his vision.

"Hey," Justin murmured, running a soothing hand down his back. Like Gus, he was perceptive and had a better idea of where Brian's mind must've gone. His mouth next to Brian's ear, Justin assured him, "No more posse." 

Brian was grateful that he was keeping it circumspect in front of Gus. The boy was bound to be inquisitive if he overheard.

"Yeah?" He searched earnest blue eyes. He still didn't know what had happened to wean Justin away from Cody and stop him from toting a gun around. He'd confronted Justin about the gun, but he didn't do anything else. Maybe it was time to ask - and talk things out.

As if he'd read his mind, which wouldn't surprise Brian, Justin's lips touched the corner of his mouth in a butterfly-soft kiss. "Promise," he husked.

Brian wrapped an arm around Justin's waist and tugged him closer, but the urge to go further was waylaid by a protest from his seven-year-old son.

"Pumpkins, Daddy! Papa Jushun!"

Cockblocked by a pumpkin, Brian mused wryly, resting his forehead against the blond's. This was what had become of Brian fucking Kinney. Not that he really minded when faced with an eager smile from his son, the son he hadn't known he wanted until he held Gus in his arms for the first time. After that, it had just been a matter of time before he realized he was fooling himself about being nothing more than a drop-in dad.

Predictably, Justin beamed at being called Papa. Not that the moniker was new - Gus had been calling him Papa Jushun ever since their sojourn to Toronto. He just usually skipped the ‘Papa.'

When he remembered how being a drop-in dad had morphed into being a long-distance dad, Brian's heart started thumping wildly against his ribcage. He'd nearly torn himself in two, letting Gus go to ensure his well-being - especially since he didn't agree with the half-baked rationale behind the move.

Thankfully, neither the separation from his son or his lover had lasted long. Mostly because Justin had called him on his ‘it's only time' nonsense, showing up at Kinnetik for what Brian thought was a visit less than three weeks after his departure.

When Justin confessed that he'd never actually left the Burgh, they'd had a serious row, Brian not giving a fuck that his employees could hear them yelling. After rattling off the news about his upcoming shows, Justin had kissed Brian to shut him up, the kiss rivaling the one he'd once planted on him at Vangard. A growing desire to get to the makeup sex had led Brian to admit that he wouldn't rather have Justin in New York. 

He hadn't cared that his employees could hear them going at it either.

Their trip to see the girls two months later had revealed the cracks in the lesbians' ill-planned resettlement in Mountie Country. Crammed together in a too-small, overpriced rental down the street from one of Mel's nosy family members - cousin, aunt or whoever the fuck - hemorrhaging money, no work visas and no easy path to obtain them, they'd been constantly in each other's hair and on the verge of splitting up again. 

Brian and Justin's visit had been the start of the girls coming to their senses. 

Brian had done his best to demonstrate his appreciation to Justin for arranging the trip, the young artist shelling out money he could ill afford for flights and a hotel, one that was of a standard Brian wouldn't balk at.

He'd known Justin would be offended if he tried to reimburse him - he was as touchy as Brian in that respect - so after spending a couple days with Gus, he'd dragged Justin off to Church Street. There, at Fly, the best gay club in town, he'd bottomed for Justin in public for the first time.

He still wasn't sure who had benefited the most from his brainstorm, but Brian was pretty sure it was him. Justin'd had him on all fours on one of the couches in the backroom, pegging his prostate relentlessly but keeping him from tipping over the edge for what seemed like hours. Even now he could remember how agonizing that had been - and how good it felt.

"Yinz can kish later!" Gus insisted, recalling Brian to the present.

Just as well, Brian thought. Even his oldest, baggiest pair of jeans was becoming uncomfortable.

The frustration on Justin's face consoled him a little as he sat up. He wouldn't want to be alone in his predicament.

"‘Yinz?'" he queried, arching an eyebrow at his son.

Gus shrugged. "We're Yinzers, Daddy."

Joanie would've been mortified if he'd called himself a Yinzer when he was growing up; his mother didn't like to betray her blue collar roots. While he hoped she'd never meet Gus, it amused him to imagine Joan's reaction to her grandson proudly proclaiming himself a Yinzer. It'd probably give the old bat a heart attack.

"Ready, yinz?" Gus asked with an infectious giggle.

Brian glanced at Justin's pumpkins, each of which had a perfectly formed circle around the top. No jagged marks or splotches; the dips apparently hadn't caused any trouble for the blond.

Justin, who'd followed his gaze, smiled and shrugged. "You just gotta know how to manage the ribs and it's easy."

Those annoying indentations were called ribs? It figured Justin would possess that useless tidbit of information.

"Huh," he grunted.

Justin stood, plucked a tool with a short, wide grip from the orange-trimmed case and carried it around the table to Gus. 

"I can do it!" Gus spoke loudly as he reached for the implement, his brow creasing.

"What did you promise your moms?" Justin demanded.

The boy slumped. "That I'd let you help me."

Justin lifted his brows and waited.

"'Cause I'm too young..." the seven-year-old trailed off before dissenting, "But, I'm not-"

A stern "Gus" from Justin cut him off. "You are too young to do this without supervision. If not for the age-appropriate tools in that kit" - he waved a hand at the end of the table - "you wouldn't have dispensation-"

Justin paused when Gus tilted his head inquisitively. "That's another word for ‘permission,'" he explained.

Gus nodded, and Justin then finished, "You wouldn't have dispensation to try any of this. You'd be stuck with coloring book pumpkins, along with JR."

Brian had to clamp his lips together to keep from laughing at the disgruntlement on his sonnyboy's face.

"Besides," Justin continued in a gentler tone, "the top of the pumpkin's hard to cut through. It's really thick."

"Yeah," Gus admitted sheepishly. "I could barely wiggle the knife Mama was yooshin', even wif her hand over mine. Thanks for gettin' a speshul kit for me." He held up the weird-looking tool, which had stubby, pointed protrusions along one side and a blunted, squared-off tip.

The black handle fit perfectly into Gus' small hand, Brian noted. He'd have to come up with a way to thank Justin for purchasing the child-size set of tools.

He was already planning a deluxe blowjob when Justin requested, "Let me get this into the pumpkin, okay?"

Gus relinquished the tool, and Brian watched as Justin placed the serrated edge against the pumpkin and rocked it back and forth, again and again, until it finally popped through the rind.

Craniotomy underway.

"Now you can help me." Justin wrapped an arm around the orange gourd so it wouldn't slip and helped Gus cut back and forth in short, jerky motions, making his way around the crayon circle.

"Keep it at a slant," Justin counseled, correcting the angle of the blade. "We don't want the lid to fall into the pumpkin."

"'s a lotta work," Gus gasped at just past the halfway point.

"Why don't you take a break, and I'll get your dad started," Justin suggested. "Have some OJ."

"‘'kay," the boy readily agreed, thirstily slurping his juice. "Ima get shome more," he said a few beats later, scooting off the bench and trotting into the house, sippy cup in hand.

Brian waggled his eyebrows at Justin. "You got an age-appropriate tool for me?" 

Justin smirked. "I'll save that till we get home. In the meantime" - he grabbed a version of the whatsit that had an adult-size grip and handed it to Brian - "try this out."

Brian pushed the weird implement at the circle he'd drawn and got exactly nowhere. "What is this thing?" he asked, irritated.

"It's a keyhole saw. It's easier - and safer - to use than a knife."

The prongs did sort of resemble the ridges on a key, but why not just call it a ‘key saw'? Then again, he thought, absently poking his tongue into his cheek, he didn't exactly mind the image of a ‘key' sliding into a ‘hole.'

Justin grinned slyly, as if he knew what Brian was thinking. He probably did; you didn't have to be a mind-reader to figure it out.

Taking the funky saw from him, Justin held it perpendicular to the gourd and moved it back and forth, punching through the skin in short order. "It just takes a minute to get it going since we haven't thinned out the skin yet.

"You wanna give it a go?" He bestowed a bright, encouraging smile on Brian. "I'd better get started on one of my pumpkins so I don't hold things up. Just rock the saw back and forth and don't rush it. You'll have the blossom end off in no time."

"You mean the lid," Brian commented sardonically.

Already sawing into one of his pumpkins, Justin agreed, "Mhmm, it makes for easy removal."

"How the fuck do you know it's called the ‘blossom end' anyway?" He probably shouldn't ask - Justin would likely launch into a PSA - but he couldn't help being curious.

"Five dollars, Daddy," Gus rejoiced as he returned, carrying a presumably full sippy cup. 

Brian cast his eyes at the pumpkin cum paperweight, which was safeguarding the twenties he'd handed over earlier. "I've still got money to the good, Gus. How much would you say is left?" The kid was a whiz at both addition and subtraction - well ahead of the simple math most first graders could do - so Brian knew he'd have no trouble calculating the amount. He was testing his son's honesty, not his mathematical ability.

"Forty," Gus drew out the word super slowly, waiting long seconds before tacking on, "five." A dimple winked into view, the seven-year-old no longer trying to hide his glee.

Brian chuckled. Christ, this was so different from his childhood. Even if Jack had done something so implausible as to fork over money for cussing, he never would have put up with Brian trying to finagle more out of him. He'd have backhanded Brian to teach him a lesson. 

Gus though didn't have the least bit of fear that his dad would hit him. So maybe Brian was doing something right.

A squeeze to his thigh let him know that Justin approved. That was how he interpreted it anyhow, considering the blond had always encouraged him to spend more time with Gus and to believe that he was a good father.

Gus looked over at Justin. "Can we do the resh?"

Abandoning his own pumpkin, Justin moved back around the table to sit next to Gus. He held the boy's pumpkin steady while guiding Gus' hand on the saw.

It took Brian a few attempts before he could successfully emulate the short, jerky sawing motions, but then he made good progress. He finished sawing around the top at almost the same time as Gus and Justin.

He grunted in satisfaction and looked up to see both his boys smiling at him.

"Now we gotta take off the bloshom end," Gus announced, closing his fingers around the protruding stem.

If it was even called a stem; Brian wasn't about to ask the smart-alecky blond. Unlike his son, he had no interest in learning proper pumpkin lingo.

"It makes a great handle," Justin contributed.

Now that made sense. Brian could get behind a logical term like ‘handle.'

Gus used the handle to lift off the lid and Brian copied him, only to be confronted with a solid white layer. Jesus. All that sawing and he still wasn't all the way through the rind of this fuckin' gourd?

It made him feel a little better that Gus faced the same predicament, although his son didn't look in the least daunted.

Neither did Justin, but that didn't surprise Brian. He'd begun to suspect the blond might be an expert pumpkin carver when he'd casually whipped out those templates. Never mind the way he'd been babbling excitedly for weeks about how he loved carving pumpkins when he was young.

His hand over Gus', Justin used the saw to cut a circle around the white layer, about an inch from the edge of the pumpkin.

Brian copied his boys, thinking they must have punched through the hardest part of the rind since cutting around the white layer went fast.

Justin inserted the blunted tip of the keyhole saw beneath the white layer and pried it up, Brian mimicking him.

The blond then set the saw to one side and nodded at Gus, who grabbed hold of the white piece and lifted it, setting it down on the newspaper with a muted thunk.

The underside was a little gross looking, stringy orange bits and seeds hanging from it, but nothing too awful, for which Brian was grateful. Straightaway, he removed the same hard, whitish piece, dropping it on the newspaper and fastidiously wiping off his fingertips on the newsprint.

That hadn't been the best idea, Brian realized, frowning. The tips of his fingers now had a grayish-orange tinge. He lowered his hand, planning to rub his fingers off on his jeans, but then changed his mind. The crud might stick to the denim and leave a permanent stain. Brian sighed; he'd just have to live with having Freddy Krueger's hand... for now.

Justin, unsurprisingly, didn't even notice Brian's dilemma. He grinned at Gus, asking, "You wanna show your old man what comes next?"

Brian scowled. How dare the blond brat use that three-letter word? His scowl morphing into a smirk, he decided they'd find out later which of them was ‘old' and wore out the quickest.

Justin slid a metal pie tin over until it was next to Gus' pumpkin and handed him a vaguely spoon-shaped tool with a rounded, lime-green plastic grip. He also grabbed a couple of flattish yellow packets and set one down next to Gus, placing the other one between him and Brian.

Wet wipes, Brian realized when he took a closer look. Great. This was likely to get messy.

"Now we dig out the brains!" Gus announced with relish. He tilted the pumpkin, stuck the spoon inside and began scooping nasty orangey goop from the gourd into the pie tin.

Shit. That meant- Brian looked into his pumpkin for the first time, immediately confirming his suspicion that the same loathsome gunk awaited him. 

"Here." Justin extended another of the ‘spoons,' his features bland as he looked at Brian.

Fucker. Well before he started hitting Babylon's backroom, Brian had enjoyed creating glutinous substances of a different sort in his high school chemistry class. But that didn't mean he liked just any kind of gluey, slimy concoction. He stayed away from icky foodstuffs that weren't fit for human consumption: like runny eggs, escargot, and Michael's attempts at baking cakes.

Now he had something else to add: pumpkin brains.

Justin helpfully set another pie plate next to Brian as he reclaimed his original spot at the picnic table and then went to work sawing the tops off of his pumpkins. Brian could hardly miss the twitching of Justin's lips when the blond sent a sidelong glance his way.

Brian sighed and eschewed the notion of protecting his hands with a couple of condoms, in lieu of disposable surgical gloves. If he didn't want to look like a wuss in front of his son, he was going to have to shovel the brains out of this pumpkin barehanded. 

Turning the pumpkin on its side, he braced himself and stuck the plastic spoon inside. He should have pushed up his sleeves, Brian realized a beat too late, his forearm brushing against the rim of the pumpkin and something viscous squishing between his fingers.

Shit, he was gonna have to throw out his supersoft, old Metallica T-shirt. He shoveled out spoonful after spoonful, getting more and more irritable. "Why aren't we just dumping this in the trash?" he griped, unable to keep a querulous note from creeping into his voice.

"'Cause a the sheeds, Daddy!"

Well, okay. The pepitas did taste pretty darned good, but he wouldn't want to be the one to separate them from the rest of the gloop. No wonder Mel was so fuckin' cranky; he would be too if his partner put him up to that.

"Mmm," Justin hummed in agreement. "And pumpkin for pies."

Brian froze, hand buried in pumpkin brains. "You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered. "Just buy a can of pumpkin."

When Justin didn't say anything for a moment, Brian cast a wary glance his way before resuming his curettage of the gourd's innards. The blond better not be planning to bring one of these tins home with-

Justin alleviated his burgeoning concern. "Yeah," he concurred. "That's way easier. Maybe fresh pumpkin makes for a tastier pie, but I'll leave it to Linds to prove it. I-"

Gus broke in, "Mommy says waysh not, want not."

"That's why I'm giving her the pumpkin guts," Justin said with a naughty giggle. 

Brian snorted in amusement. While he'd been fussing around with slithery, mucky pulp, Justin had finished sawing around the top of his second pumpkin, removed both lids and was in the process of extracting the white layer from the second one.

"Yoosh your hands, Daddy," Gus suggested. "It's fasher."

Brian looked across the table to see that his son had a much larger pile of slimy guts in his pie tin than he did. Dropping the scoop down on the newspaper, he reached in and grabbed, only to realize when he extracted his hand that he now had orangey gunk under his fingernails. 

"Shit," he kvetched. 

"Forty!" Gus promptly updated his dad on how much of the ‘curse advance' remained.

He'd better watch it, or he was gonna blow through the whole sixty dollars all by himself - before he even got the sludge out of this damned pumpkin.

He could always succumb to a streak, but Brian fucking Kinney was not a lesbian and wasn't gonna use that pathetic excuse to wriggle out of the fix he was in. Besides, his competitive instincts were roused; he'd show the ball-busting bulldyke that he had what it took.

Biting back the curses that were ready to flow, Brian dropped the mucilaginous orange crud into the pie tin. He then stuck his hand back into the ooze, extracting another gloppy handful. Rinse and repeat.

The one good thing about this approach was that he got the pulpy, squishy guts out much more quickly than if he'd stuck with the spoon. His fingernails might be in worse condition, but they'd been acquiring an orange hue anyway. He was going to need a specialty soap - like the one for removing ditto ink - to get rid of that. Hmm, maybe his manicurist would have an opening-

His musings were interrupted by a giggle from his son, quickly followed by, "Thash my plate, Jushun!"

Brian looked up to see his son scoop up a handful of mucky orange slop and drop it on the pile in Justin's pie tin. Orangey bits - and a couple of pumpkin seeds - splattered Justin's T-shirt, but you'd never be able to tell since the tee was one he painted in.

Justin giggled too. "I don't have enough space." He grabbed a handful of the goop, gesturing with his hand at Gus' pie tin. 

Brian leaned back to avoid a flying pumpkin seed and almost fell off the bench. Righting himself, he shoved his pie plate at Justin and curtly ordered, "In here."

He then outstretched a hand, catching hold of Gus' wrist before the boy could transfer more slippery pumpkin guts to Justin's tin. Christ, all he needed was for this to degenerate into a food fight. 

"Linds, er- your mom won't be happy if she can't make pie," Brian warned.

Injured blue eyes turned toward him, although Justin's gaze spoke more of mischief than hurt.

"Like that'd bother Mr. Carb-Conscious Kinney," Justin commented sotto voce as he added handfuls of pumpkiny effluvium to Brian's two thirds full pie tin.

"We're jush playin', Daddy," Gus ventured as he dropped the pumpkin guts back onto his tin.

That was what Brian was afraid of. His duds might be old, but he didn't want them decorated in orange crap. More than was already on his tee anyhow.

"Mommy's jush gonna tell Mama to do it," Gus went on. "An' Mama shaid she doeshn't wanna, so-" He shrugged philosophically. 

"Don't you want your mama Mel to be able to tell your mommy where to sh-" Realizing that ‘where to shove it' wouldn't accomplish anything, Brian used reasoning that should appeal to a seven-year-old. "If you splatter the pumpkin guts all over the table, there won't be anything for your moms to argue about." He paused for a beat, watching Gus' brow furrow in thought as he stared at the goopy mess in the pie tin. "No arguing means no money for the vakey fun," Brian finished.

Justin snickered.

It was an odd sort of bribe, Brian conceded, encouraging his kid to make money off of the bulldyke like that. Who cared though as long as it prevented a food fight and made Brian seem like less of a killjoy?

He might even be looking forward a little to hearing Mel let loose. Not even a week ago, the petite but tough she-wolf had decided that although she could do it all - putting in long hours as a litigator, co-parenting and playing Suzy Homemaker - she wasn't going to do the cooking and cleaning anymore. Not until Lindsay got a job anyhow, and then they could share.

Brian was pretty sure that meant Linds would cover the kitchen while Mel took care of the rest of the house. Fuck knew she wielded a mean vacuum, almost sucking up Brian's bare toes on more than one occasion.

After that resolution, he was more than a little puzzled about what could have led the butch woman to give in and bake pies, using honest-to-God pumpkin guts. That didn't sound like the dyke he knew. She was as tenacious as a fuckin' bulldog once she decided on something.

Really, the girls should just get a cleaning lady. Who the fuck wanted to do chores? He'd even offered - again - to pay for one, but Lindsay had responded with her usual BS about how lesbians had to prove they were better than other women. His blonde friend didn't get that being able to hire someone proved just that. Linds had grown up with a live-in cook and other staff, so you'd think she'd get it; however, playing second fiddle to Lynette because Lindsay was a lezzie must have erased her ability to think it through logically. 

Gus' mournful, "Mommy'll jush clashfy it as another streak," pulled Brian away from the unfathomable workings of the muncher mind.

"There could be more than one streak," Justin observed in his ‘chocolate wouldn't melt in my mouth,' innocent, WASPy tone.

Brian mentally cursed Justin. Next thing you knew, Gus would be intentionally interrupting a streak and waiting to see if the bulldyke picked up again. Anything to net himself another five dollars.

The seven-year-old perked up. "Thash right! Mommy shaid if Mama stops and then curshes more, thash 'nother five dollars."

Yet again, Gus' enunciation was crisp and clean when he got to the amount.

His sonnyboy recommended, "Maybe you should make a bigger advance, Daddy," every word coming out crystal clear.

"No more until it's down to twenty," Brian huffed. 

The blond at his side teased, "Until, huh?" 

"Little shit," Brian growled affectionately.

Gus crowed, "Thirty-five, Daddy!" He glanced sidelong at the pumpkin paperweight before returning his gaze to his father and dissolving in giggles.

Likewise overcome by a giggling fit, Justin leaned against Brian.

Christ, at this rate, his kid was gonna empty out his wallet, Brian mused, joining in the laughter at his expense.

Justin reached up and squeezed his neck, kneading at the muscle there.

"Mmm," Brian hummed in pleasure, his eyes lowering to half-mast. They snapped back open however when something slithered down his back - beneath his T-shirt.

"What was that?" he demanded, twisting around and dislodging Justin's hand. A hand - he now realized in horror - that was coated in pumpkin guts.

"Get it off me!" he squealed, his voice coming out abnormally high-pitched.

Justin straightaway lifted up his tee - Brian doing his best not to think about two grubby hands now touching him - and scraped the slimy vegetable secretion off his back.

"Did a spider get on you, Daddy?" Gus' brows knitted together, and he swung a leg over the bench, clearly planning to get up and help. "Don' kill her, 'kay? She won't hurt you, and I can put her owshide."

Shit, Brian silently cursed. His reaction to the pumpkin guts was bad enough. Brian didn't want Gus to think spiders freaked him out. They didn't really, unless they got on him.

"No spider," Justin announced. "Other than the one I saw making a beeline- er, spider-line for the cacti." 

As Brian watched, Justin stealthily wiped his hand on the old pair of cargo pants he was wearing, the orange blob immediately becoming indecipherable from the other stains. If there had been a spider on him, it was impossible to tell now.

"She musta been after pumpkin worms," Gus declared.

Brian paled. Pumpkin worms?

"Could be cucumber beetles," Justin stated with a sort of wicked relish. "Or squash vine borers," he added after a beat.

Jesus fucking Christ. Now Brian was picturing an insect boring into the tender skin at the nape of his neck. It took a second before he remembered that the arachnid, if it had been there in the first place, was a goner. The beetles were just Justin winding him up. Right?

His brow furrowing, Gus looked toward the corner where Linds kept trying to nourish a cactus garden. "Do you think she's hungry?"

Justin shook his head. "I'm sure she had a good snack, and she'll likely have more tasty tidbits stored in her web."

Although he settled back down on the bench, Gus looked torn between going to check on the spider and scooping more brains out of his pumpkin. Ever since his first Christmas - when Justin had gifted him with a drawing of Spinderella settling into her new home, aka Gus' bedroom - the boy had adored the creepy-crawlies. 

That was also when Brian had discovered he was fucking an arachnophile, which still made him shudder. He'd willed himself to overlook the weird spider affinity in favor of the blond's other attributes.

Those attributes still outweighed - if just barely - defects like Justin decorating him with sticky orange glop. It wasn't like he'd hesitated in covering for Brian's squeamishness, coming up with a nonexistent spider. Of course, if Justin hadn't caused the problem in the first place, he wouldn't have had to lie, but still.

Scowling a little - talk about gross - Brian grabbed a wet wipe and wiped off his hands. Despite the fact that his left hand was mostly clean - it had only gotten dirty when he made the mistake of holding the pumpkin by the rim - and without digging under his nails, it took two more wipes to get rid of the worst of the goop. He then tugged out yet another towelette and scrubbed the back of his neck. Peering at the wipe, which was now streaked orange, he didn't see any icky insect parts.

"Did I get it all?" He turned his head so Justin could take a look. "No, uh, beetles?" he checked, just in case.

A guilty look flitting across his face, Justin replied, "Um, no. There's nothing on your neck."

Brian relaxed. He should be used to accidents like that one by now - hazards of living with an artist.

Sighing, he picked up his spoon and fished around inside the pumpkin. He was resigned to having more of the stuff slither between his fingers, like pumpkin worms-

Darned twat, putting that in his head. He glared at Justin, who didn't even notice as he excavated more pumpkin brains from one of his gourds.

When he pulled out the scoop, Brian was surprised to find it was almost empty, just a couple of orange droplets and one seed landing in the tin. He turned the pumpkin upright, scrutinized the inside and mentally pumped a fist. The gourd was empty. No more squishy, pumpkiny sludge under his fingernails!

Snagging another of the moist towelettes, he cleaned his fingers off more thoroughly, even digging a little under the nails. It didn't do much good, a carroty hue remaining not only around the nail bed but also across his knuckles.

In addition to the unnatural hue of his skin, the cuticles looked ragged and he'd also nicked a couple of his fingernails. Christ, his nails looked as bad as Theodore's after his friend had been gnawing at them.

His companions of course didn't give a shit about the state of their hands. But then they didn't have to give a presentation tomorrow morning, during which their hands would be on display. He didn't want to lose the account because his hands were too disgusting for a fussy, metrosexual CEO. That meant he was gonna have to call Manuela and ask for an emergency appointment later today - and pay through the nose for a manicure.

Glancing up from the perusal of his fingernails, he noticed that Gus and Justin also appeared to have finished emptying out their pumpkins. "What now?" he asked rather belligerently.

"Easy there, Mr. Kinney," Justin whispered; "I've got a soap that'll take care of the pumpkin stains. And I know you have at least one cream that'll help make your skin all smooth and soft."

Brian pictured all his expensive lotions lined up in the medicine cabinet at the loft and tried to decide which one he'd allow Justin to apply after they got home.

He was jerked out of his musings by his son.

"Now you gotta deshide the best playsh for the wigwam."

"How about on the pumpkin?" Brian deadpanned, making both his boys giggle.

"Sheesh, Daddy," Gus expostulated. "'Course it goes on the pumpkin. But which shide is the best?"

Brian had to grin at the exasperated tone and the look the seven-year-old was directing at him. He still had a problem though; when he slowly spun the orange gourd around, all the sides looked the same to him.

"Fu-"

Gus watched him alertly.

"-bsy," he finished. "On all sides."

"Fubshie?" questioned Gus. "Is that dirty?"

"Dirty, no. Insulting, yes. It means fat and squat," Brian informed his son. It was also British, but it couldn't hurt to expand the boy's vocabulary with a word or two from across the Atlantic. Or the border; Gus doubtless would've been exposed to that kind of jargon if he'd grown up in Toronto.

"Squat?" Gus questioned in puzzlement.

A slight quaver to his voice, Justin supplied, "Kind of like Santa Claus - a big belly but thickset and muscular."

That answer appeared to stump Gus, until Justin added, "It works for Santa, but it's not a good look for most people. Nice qualities in a pumpkin, however."

"It makes the pumpkin handshome?"

"Pretty much," Justin agreed. "The Santa look is in."

Someone should tell that to Debbie and Carl, Brian thought. Not that he'd ever be so foolish, particularly with his surrogate mom. Carl would most likely laugh it off and crack a joke at his own expense, but Deb... She'd probably crack him upside the head.

Justin turned to Brian. "The best side of a pumpkin is the one that's the smoothest - no deep ribs or gouges. That's where the ‘face' goes." 

Brian still didn't see much variation in his pumpkin, but there were a couple nicks on one ‘side,' so he decided to carve on the opposite side. 

Further guidance led to him using the spoon thingamajig to thin the side that would be carved so it was approximately an inch thick. Roughly an inch, according to Justin, would make it easier to carve, but you had to be careful not to thin it so much that the pumpkin caved in. That cautionary advice running through his brain, Brian longed for a ruler to take an exact measurement. If he had a ruler, he could stick it through the middle of the pumpkin, claiming it was where the fuckin' tipi would go anyhow. But he couldn't chance that a slit for a ruler would end up in completely the wrong place, throwing the entire design off and forcing him to start over.

Really, thinning the gourd wasn't so bad - the mucking out was done - but he could feel the rind getting under his nails and wreaking even more havoc as he dug at the pumpkin with the spoon. Even Manuela wasn't going to be able to resurrect his hands on time for tomorrow's pitch, he feared.

A bead of sweat traveled down Brian's back as he worked to thin the wall of the pumpkin, anxious that he was gonna overdo it and stick the fucking trowel right through the gourd. As long as he was careful, he knew that wasn't likely, but he was having trouble estimating how much made up an inch. This wasn't nearly as easy as guessing the girth of someone's dick.

Finally, what seemed like hours later, Brian was satisfied with the results. The smoothness on the inside of the ‘face' wasn't uniform, but it would have to do. He was ‘plumb worn out' as he could recall Debbie muttering tiredly after an extra-long shift at the diner.

He'd been vaguely aware of his boys chattering away while he worked, but he'd blocked out the noise, determined to get the job done right. When he glanced over at Gus, Brian noticed his son was cutting a circle around the buffalo template that he'd chosen.

"How's that?" he asked, nudging his pumpkin an inch or two closer to Justin. He wiped his brow off on the sleeve of his tee, wishing he'd worn a short-sleeved shirt instead.

The blond artist looked up from the pumpkin he was busily drawing on, although Brian couldn't tell what it was supposed to be. It just looked like a bunch of squiggles - and maybe a drumstick? Brian shook his head. That couldn't be right. He must be getting hungry.

Justin peered inside Brian's pumpkin, raised his eyebrows and let out a whistle. "Wow. I've never seen a pumpkin hollowed out so neatly. Mine doesn't look anywhere near as good."

Brian couldn't help preening at the praise, even if it was just about a stupid orange gourd. He could feel tension leaving his body as he also peered into the pumpkin, his cheek rubbing against Justin's.

A droplet of sweat trickled from Brian's hairline and down his nose, lingering at the tip.

"Mmm." Justin's tongue snaked out to reel in the drop. "You taste good."

Brian dove in for a kiss, wondering if they could sneak inside for a quickie. It had been years since Brian caught Justin urinating in the girls' upstairs bathroom, and he'd like to replace his godawful memories of that day with something better. Justin might have been off limits then, but-

Gus interrupted the moment. "Wush next, Jushun?"

"Fuuuck," Brian whined in protest when Justin lifted his head away, their lips separating with a soft pop.

Justin husked, "Hold that thought."

There was something else Brian would rather hold, which he did his best to communicate telepathically.

His eyes locked on Brian's, Justin's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. One beat and then another passed before he swiveled his head toward Gus and rasped, "Hang on a sec so your dad can catch up."

"Here, Daddy." Gus handed Brian the stencil with the tipi and the feather. "Jush cut around the owshide. Like I did." He held up the bison template for Brian to see.

His brain still clouded with thoughts of dragging Justin off to ravish him, Brian accepted the stencil and a pair of scissors from his son and started cutting a lopsided oval around the pattern without thinking about what he was doing.

"Oh, Daddy?" Gus commented when he was done.

Brian looked up, raising his eyebrows.

"Thirty dollars, Daddy."

"Shit," grunted Brian, still not thinking clearly.

"Twenty-five!" came the immediate update on the rapidly dwindling curse fund.

Giggling, Justin gave Gus another pair of scissors and instructed both of them, "Now make some slits around the edges - a few on each side - so the template will sit as flat as possible on the pumpkin. Just be careful not to cut into the pattern."

It helped, Brian supposed, to know why he was sitting here with a pair of kid's scissors in his hand, his thumb and forefinger barely fitting through the holes. 

Once the slits had been cut, which took less than a minute, Justin handed over rolls of masking tape.

"I'll hold the template; you tape it down," Justin told Gus as he moved back around the table to sit next to the boy.

Gus frowned. "But what if I wanna yoosh the stenshell again? The tapesh gonna ruin it."

"I can always draw another bison for you." Justin gave an exaggerated wink and tilted his head at Brian. "You should turn the pumpkin around a little ways, so we end up seeing the bison from his best ‘side.'"

"Like Daddy!"

Justin nodded his agreement, and the two boys cracked up.

Offended, Brian snorted. He didn't have a best side; he looked good from any angle. He might've said once or twice that Justin should stick to profiling him from the left, but that was only because the barest suggestion of a double chin had appeared in a couple of drawings. Only when he was sketched from the right side though. Even though the renderings obviously weren't accurate, Brian didn't like having them around; he'd consigned them to the incinerator, feigning ignorance when Justin tried to find them.

Brian watched as Gus, mollified by the promise of future bison templates, enthusiastically tore off pieces of masking tape and plastered the stencil to the pumpkin.

"Cool!" Gus pronounced once he was done.

Justin pointed at the thick, holey outline of the bison. "Trace over the holes with your crayon."

"What about the hoofsh?"

"I'll show you a neat trick once you've got him outlined. Go slowly and make sure to fill in the holes."

Gus picked up the bright blue crayon he'd used earlier and began industriously filling in the holes, his tongue protruding as he concentrated.

Justin got up and trotted back over to Brian. Pressing his chest to Brian's back, he reached around and placed the stencil against the pumpkin. "How's that?" he breathed into Brian's ear.

Wasn't that supposed to be his question? Brian had trouble thinking as Justin nipped at his earlobe.

"Fuck," muttered Brian as Justin rubbed against him. How the hell was he supposed to get the damned template taped to the gourd with his blood flowing south?

Without looking up from his pumpkin, Gus proclaimed, "Twenty."

Brian groaned.

Justin moved back, the stencil sliding down the pumpkin's face, and rather gingerly sat down next to Brian. "That wasn't the best idea," he noted ruefully, pinching the worn cotton of his trousers between his fingers and pulling it away from his groin.

That was only fair, Brian thought, smirking. "Hoist with his own petard."

The blond arched an eyebrow. "I'm gonna hoist something else with it later."

Gus announced, "Jushun, I'm done." 

Visibly collecting himself, Justin picked the pattern back up and replied, "Wait a sec while we get your dad's template in place."

Without Justin distracting him - anymore than he always did - Brian soon had the tipi and feather fixed to the pumpkin.

Gus pushed the over-bright pink crayon, which had rolled to the middle of the table after Justin finished with it, over to Brian. "You can keep yooshin' this one, Daddy." 

Shit. He should've hidden it in among the damned cacti when Gus refilled his sippy cup.

While Brian colored in the holes on his pumpkin, Justin used a metal toothpick to poke holes where the bison's feet would go on Gus' pumpkin.

"You wanna do yours?" Justin asked, holding out the toothpick.

"Huh?" Brian asked, double-checking to make sure all the holes in his template were obnoxiously pink.

Justin pointed at a detail Brian hadn't noticed - puffs of smoke coming out of the hole at the top of the tipi.

Forget that. Brian pushed his pumpkin over to Justin.

It didn't take Justin long to poke holes where the smoke puffs would go.

Next, Justin grabbed the bowl with the flour, and taking a large pinch between his fingers, he thoroughly dusted the bottom half of the bison on Gus' pumpkin and the top of the tipi on Brian's. He then sat back, looking satisfied.

"Wush that sposhed to do?" Gus asked, perplexed.

Justin instructed, "Take off the stencil."

Gus and Brian tore off the masking-taped patterns. Colored dots showed where the bison's back would be carved out on Gus' pumpkin and the tipi and the feather on Brian's.

"Oh!" Gus' eyes lit up. "Thash where we cut!"

Justin smiled. "You got it."

The flour-filled pinpricks did stand out against the orange skin of the pumpkins, but Brian wasn't sure what the big deal was. "What," he snarked, "you think our eyesight's failing? We couldn't find the holes?"

Justin rolled his eyes. "I know you're good at finding holes-"

Gus didn't let him finish. "It's losh better, Daddy! I could barely see the holes in the ones Mommy did for Halloween."

"Huh," Brian grunted, conceding the point. "Cutting out the bison's hooves is still gonna be a pain in the a-"

Gus' eyes lit up, the boy clearly scenting money.

"-uh, caboose," Brian corrected himself.

His sonnyboy sighed, the dollar signs in his eyes dimming

Chuckling, Brian looked down at his own pumpkin, suddenly thankful for his simpler pattern, even though the feather looked overly complicated for a beginner. Never mind the puffs of smoke; as far as Brian was concerned, those were an SOS signal.

He needed more go-juice before he tackled this part of the project, Brian decided. "How about a break?" he suggested, already reaching for the carafe with the high-octatance liquid. "I need to fuel up."

Taking hold of his sippy cup, Gus chimed in, "Me too!"

"I guess I could have another dose of that, er-" Justin stumbled to a halt.

Brian started pouring the thick, oily brew into his cup. "Battery acid? Worm dirt? Varnish remover?" he offered a few pithy descriptions.

"Um, sugar?"

That was a strange reply, Brian thought, before realizing that Justin was actually cautioning him about leaving room for the sweetener. "Shit," Brian cursed; he'd filled his cup almost to the brim.

"Fifteen," Gus promptly briefed him.

Justin took the cup and carefully transferred some of it to his.

How he did it without spilling a drop, Brian wasn't sure. Shrugging off the minor miracle, Brian grunted "Thanks," before digging into the sugar and ladling it into his mug. He took a cautious sip and immediately spooned in more of the white granules. Geez, this had to be the worst joe he'd ever tasted. It even beat out the swill McDonald's served.

"Sorry, Sunshine," he apologized when he realized he was scraping the bottom of the sugar bowl.

Gus volunteered, "I can get more, Jushun."

"Thanks, Gus." Justin smiled at the boy. "I'll be okay; I'll just add some extra milk."

The blond topped off the tar in his cup with a sluggish trickle from the insulated carafe - apparently the last of the she-devil's brew. He then added milk, which barely served to lighten the murky color of the coffee.

He should just give up and pour himself a cupful of milk, Brian reckoned; that was what it would take to dilute this mud.

Gus reached for the bowl of roasted pumpkin seeds, but Justin stopped him before he could dip a hand in. "Wipe your hands," he intervened, holding out the packet of wet wipes.

With a long-suffering sigh, Gus pulled out a wipe and swiped at his hands.

It would have to do, Brian supposed, taking a wipe for himself and doing a somewhat better job of cleaning his hands. They should wash their hands thoroughly, but if he went inside, he might be accosted by Lindsay. His blonde friend had, of late, taken to airing her grievances about Mel every time she saw him, and he'd rather not be subjected to another go-round of ‘woe is Wendy.'

The butch lawyer's patience with her wife waiting for ‘exactly the right job' had waned in the last few weeks, and she'd started pushing Lindsay to take ‘good enough.' It was more than a little unnerving to be in sync with the bulldyke, but Brian thought Melanie had the right of it this time; Linds did need to get her shit together and find a job.

Just then, raised voices and banging noises came from inside the house, like a pot had been slammed down on the stove - repeatedly.

"I'm gettin' hungry," Gus announced, digging into the pumpkin seeds. 

Brian also scooped up some of the pepitas, which provided a satisfying crunch and a burst of nutty flavor when he bit into them.

"I hope Mama's makin' shomeshin good for us to eat."

"Don't you mean your mommy?" Justin asked, his forehead creasing as he also dipped into the seeds.

"Maybe?" Gus looked uncertain. "Mommy shaid how Mama hadda take care of lunch, 'cause she had shomeshin yurshent to do."

Brian exchanged a worried look with Justin. If Mel made lunch and it was anything like this coffee... he'd just have to haul everyone off for pizza, he resolved. He'd see what it looked like first, just to be polite, but if it was a tasteless vegetarian dish, they'd all be better off with a carb-laden, meaty pizza.

 

 

All too soon, Brian was crunching on the last of the pumpkin seeds, chasing them with the dregs of his coffee. "Hell," he sighed, eyeballing his pumpkin. He might as well get it over with.

Gus chirped, "Ten, Daddy." 

Brian sighed again. ‘Hell' barely counted as cussing in his opinion. He didn't think he'd get very far if he tried to convince his son of that though.

With a sympathetic look and a pat on the shoulder, Justin got up and moved back around the table to sit next to Gus. "Remember," the blond artist cautioned, "the face of the pumpkin is thinner now, so it won't take as much force to punch through it. The bison is really large, so how about we cut out smaller pieces first?"

Gus nodded, and Justin looked over at Brian. "You might want to do the same thing with the tipi."

Brian almost blurted out a reminder about being a beginner, but then he decided to watch and see if he couldn't copy whatever his boys did.

He soon figured it out when Justin, his hand over Gus', guided the youngster into sawing through the middle of the bison, small chunks falling into the gourd as they proceeded to carve out the Great Plains' animal. 

Justin periodically stopped so Gus could fish out the chunks and drop them on the newspaper.

Picking up his keyhole saw, Brian imitated their rocking motion and cut a hole in the middle of the tipi, which he gradually enlarged. The wigwam wasn't as big around as the mammal, so he started working his way along the edges of the tipi before the boys got to the bison's hump.

Once he'd added the sawed-off pieces to the pile in the middle of the table, Brian swallowed hard and ventured along the edges of the design. He gradually started to feel confident that he could manage the tipi without any help from Justin. The two sides done, he then made his way across the bottom, saving the piece that projected from the bottom of the tipi for last. Maybe it was part of a fire pit? After studying it for a second, he decided it must be a door flap. That still didn't explain the slits beneath the tipi, but Brian shrugged it off. He'd figure it out later.

"Goddammit!" burst out of Brian when the point collapsed into the interior of the gourd. He'd been so careful and now this. "Fuck!"

He looked across the table at his boys and could've sworn he saw dollar signs lighting up Gus' blue eyes. "Sh- ucks," he muttered, annoyed when substituting a word as mild and inoffensive as ‘shucks' did absolutely nothing though to relieve his frustration.

He'd drawn his right foot back to give the table a good kick when he remembered what had happened to Melanie and hurriedly retracted it. 

A really colorful blue streak would allow Brian to vent, but he wasn't gonna let Gus win quite that easily. Besides, the rule of five dollars per blue streak didn't apply to him. He was not a lesbian, Brian reminded himself. He'd either exercise self-control or pay for every single curse.

Gus had opened his mouth - doubtless ready to shout something gleeful, like, ‘Zero! Zilch! Nada!' - when he saw what had befallen the wigwam.

"No," he gasped, instead of confirming that Brian had a zero balance and would soon have to shell out more. "I'm s'rry, Daddy," he apologized, as if he was to blame for the mishap.

The boy then turned a beseeching, hopeful gaze on Justin. "Can you fish it, Papa?"

His kid must really be distressed, Brian realized. For some reason, ‘Papa' by itself rarely slipped out except when Gus was genuinely upset. 

"No problemo," Justin replied confidently.

Brian lifted a sardonic eyebrow, doubting his blunder could be easily fixed. "Don't tell me, there's a glue made specifically for pumpkins," he quipped. 

Justin chuckled. "Hasn't been invented yet."

Of course not, thought Brian. That would be way too simple.

"There's no need for drama queen histrionics though," the blond deadpanned.

Gus giggled. The boy probably didn't know what histrionics meant, but he'd heard ‘drama queen' and ‘drama princess' so many times that he had no trouble getting the gist.

Not that there'd been any ‘histrionics.' All he'd done was spit out a couple of curse words; it wasn't like he'd thrown a temper tantrum.

Justin took a toothpick from the box at the end of the table and broke it in half.

Brian rolled his eyes. How was that supposed to solve the problem?

Smiling smugly, the blond inserted the toothpick into the missing piece and then pressed it into the pumpkin, right where it had broken off. "See? Easy-breezy."

Brian grumped, "You can see where it broke off, Sunshine." You could, although just barely.

"Don' be a drama queen, Daddy," Gus piped up, giggling.

Okay, maybe he was being a little peevish.

Justin promised, "You won't see the hairline fracture at night, when the pumpkin's lit up. Not until the pumpkin has been around for a while."

Brian felt a little better, although he was reluctant to pick up the keyhole saw again. What if he cut the feather in half? That wouldn't be nearly as easy to repair.

"Go on," Justin encouraged him. "You're doing fine."

Bolstered by the praise, Brian carefully cut out the slits beneath the tipi. That having gone okay, he started on the feather, moving cautiously from one bit of the feather to the next. "What are these called anyway?" he asked Justin, pointing at one of the sections.

"Hmm?" Justin looked up from where he was using an Exacto knife to carve out the bison's hooves, Gus watching raptly. "On the feather? Those are barbs."

"Who the fuck came up with that?" Brian wanted to know, pausing to wipe sweat off his brow. Why would the sections of the feather be called barbs?

"Five dollars," Gus caroled.

Justin posited, "Maybe some ornithologist had a wife named Barbara? Or they listened to Streisand a lot?"

That made Brian laugh and helped restore his good humor - along with the fact that he was doing okay with the feather, even if it was slow going.

"What's an ornithishisht?" The complicated word trailed off in an indecipherable muddle.

"It's a bird expert," Justin clarified. He set the pumpkin he'd been working on in an upright position, and after studying it thoughtfully, nodded, seeming satisfied.

Brian, who could only see part of the bison from this angle, thought it looked... okay. He knew better than to voice such a tepid assessment, but really, what was the big deal? It was just the outline of a Plains mammal and not nearly as interesting as his tipi and feather.

As long as Gus was happy, that was all that mattered. And maybe the bison would look more appealing lit up at night.

"What do you think, Gus?" Justin asked. 

Gus beamed at Justin, judging, "Hesh way cool!"

"You wanna name our friend?"

Brian smirked. That was a smart advertising gimmick: get the buyer invested and before they knew what had happened, they were sold on a product. There was no need for a sales pitch in this case, but nevertheless...

Gus looked excited but then his face fell. "Wush a good name for a bishon? Thersh Boma, but hesh not a bishon." The boy scrunched up his nose. "Hesh also not very nish."

Who the fuck was Boma?

Justin scrunched up his nose too, looking just like Gus. "You're right. Boma won't do for this fellow. Our bison would never hog a water hole and create problems for Mufasa." 

Mufasa made it click for Brian. Boma must be a character in The Lion King. Both of his boys were nuts about the animated film. By now, Justin must've watched it almost as often as Yellow Submarine.

His boys were going to be blown away, Brian thought proudly, his mind going to the arrangements he'd made for a trip to New York at Christmastime - for just the three of them. His plans included tickets to see The Lion King at the Minskoff Theatre on Broadway, from three of the very best Center Orchestra seats.

It was just as well that he couldn't get the seats he wanted last year. At seven years old, Gus would enjoy himself more and wouldn't wear out as easily as he would have a year ago.

Besides going to the theater, Brian had all sorts of other activities in mind: they'd hit FAO Schwarz - Gus would be in toy heaven; maybe take a boat out to see the Statue of Liberty; and there was always Coney-

Justin pulled Brian away from thoughts of the other things he had planned for the four-day trip, when he patted the newly created bison on the head and suggested, "Why don't the three of us put our heads together and see what else we can come up with?"

Shit. Naming things was Justin's shtick, not Brian's, but he'd try to come up with something.

Justin capped the sharp Exacto blade and held it out to Brian. "You wanna try this?" he asked.

"No thanks." The blade looked wicked sharp to Brian, and he feared he'd do more damage with it than with the keyhole saw that he'd grown somewhat accustomed to using. "I'll save the fiddly bits for you."

Justin waggled his eyebrows as he moved back around the table toward the two pumpkins that awaited him. Leaning against Brian as he sat down, he husked, "The fiddly bits, huh?"

Trust Justin to turn an innocuous remark into something salacious.

"Can I watch?" Gus asked as Justin tilted one of the pumpkins on its side.

Justin patted the bench on his other side before picking up a keyhole saw and setting it against the pumpkin. "Sure. I can't do this without my apprentice."

Gus scrambled off the bench and over to Justin, clearly thrilled to be his papa's apprentice. But then he dashed back over to turn around the pumpkin, so they could all contemplate the nameless bison.

Hopping up on the bench next to Justin, Gus watched avidly as the blond alternated between using the keyhole saw and the Exacto knife on one of the pumpkins. "Thash looks like our housh," he observed.

"Yours is the only one I know that's got trees around it," Justin remarked, a sad note entering his voice.

Brian arched a mental eyebrow. True, neither Debbie's row house nor Jen's town house had room for trees on the side, but Brian knew of another house that had even more trees... After the wedding that wasn't, Justin had never asked about Britin. Justin must assume he'd sold it, Brian thought, smirking.

Gus looked over at his bison pumpkin. "I dunno what to name him. He's got lotsa hair," he noted contemplatively. "I guess I could call him Hairy, but thash kinda mean."

"Mean?" asked Justin. "Why? Shouldn't a bison be hairy?"

"Yeah, but..." Gus gummed at his lower lip since he couldn't bite down without teeth. "Maybe H-a-r-r-y would be nicer?"

"Sure," Justin agreed, eyes twinkling. "Then he won't have to be self-conscious about all that hair."

"'zackly!" Gus exclaimed.

Brian laughed out loud. It was like a bear not wanting to be hairy.

Halfway done with the feather, Brian carefully positioned the keyhole saw to cut out the next barb. He didn't want to fuck it up now, after all his painstaking work.

"Shaggy," Brian threw in for the heck of it.

"I like that, Daddy," Gus got out between giggles.

"It beats out Harry," Justin concurred before proposing, "Short Tail?"

"Thash good!" Gus studied the carved bison. "He does have a short tail."

"Wouldn't expect you to make fun of someone for being short, Sunshine," Brian deadpanned.

"All bison have short tails," Justin responded in a haughty tone. "Besides, I've got the best tail you've ever seen."

Gus chimed in, "Yeah, Daddy, you're alwaysh admirin' Jushun's caboosh."

Justin's face went tomato red, and Brian guffawed. Telling a curious four-year-old Gus what a caboose was on a human and that ‘chasing tail' meant ‘admiring someone's caboose' had been inspired and kept paying dividends. Glancing over at the pumpkin he wanted bronzed, Brian smiled slyly.

"Whatcha lookin' at, Daddy?" Gus leaned forward to see around Justin, his brow furrowing in puzzlement when all he saw was the pumpkins he'd rejected a little while ago. He rolled his lips in, looking even more like Brian as he studied the pumpkins.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, his gaze fixing on the double gourd. "That one looks kinda like Jushun's caboosh! Is that why you like it, Daddy?"

Brian could feel a dull red color creeping up his neck and into his face. Maybe he shouldn't have told Gus about Justin's caboose.

Despite laughing like a hyena, Justin got out, "It is a work of art." He levered himself up off the bench and wiggled his ass.

Brian leaned back, appreciating the way the threadbare cotton of the old cargo pants cupped Justin's buttocks, and let out a wolf whistle.

"Yinz're funny," Gus proclaimed between loud bursts of laughter.

His son's noisy merriment sparked an idea. "How about Thunderfoot?" Brian suggested, tilting his chin at the bison.

His laughter tapering off, Justin observed, "I bet a herd of bison galloping across the Plains would make the earth shake. Earthshaker?"

"I like Shaggy and Thunderfoot," Gus mused, "but... I dunno." His brow furrowed in concentration, the boy rested his head on crossed forearms and studied the bison carving.

After a few minutes, with nary a peep from the chatterbox, Brian looked around Justin, expecting the boy must've dozed off.

Nope. He was still contemplating the bison.

Brian lifted an eyebrow at Justin, who shrugged in reply.

Another ten minutes ticked by, both men concentrating on carving their pumpkins. He was done! Brian realized, elated. It even looked pretty darned good, he decided, pushing the pumpkin back for a better view.

Justin sat back at the same time, having finished with his second pumpkin, which, like the first one, was turned away from Brian. Brian refused to let it bother him.

"You sure you don't want to finish yours off?" Justin held out the Exacto knife again. "You did a great job with the feather."

Brian gave him an ‘are you nuts' look in return and nudged the pumpkin toward the blond. He was proud of his accomplishment and wasn't about to ruin it by slicing a giant gash in the tipi.

"Next year," Justin vowed as he cut out the smoke puffs in a matter of seconds.

Like hell. Otherwise, what was the point of having an artist for a partner?

"Let's see how they'll look." Getting up, Justin carried the bison pumpkin over to a series of tiered bricks that bordered a graveled area before coming back for the tipi and then his two pumpkins. He finally got to see what Justin had carved, thought Brian.

On the topmost ledge, Justin placed a pumpkin with a tree-shaded, two-story house, a ‘Happy Thanksgiving' greeting stenciled around it. He set his other pumpkin, depicting a roasted turkey fresh from the oven, on the step above the wigwam. The bison, on the lowest ledge, appeared to be leading the pumpkin brigade.

Gus' gaze never wavered from the bison, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Hiding a smile at the cheekiness of the roasted, about to be ‘twice-carved' turkey, Brian snarked, "Never knew you were so good at carving a bird, twat." Not that Brian could talk; he was anything but good at it. He didn't hunt down the turkey, dress it, stick the fucker in the oven, or slice it up for his sandwiches either.

Justin chuckled. "You shoulda seen the time I helped my da- er, Craig. I sent one of the drumsticks flying into Grandma Livvy's lap."

If she was the one who'd come up with the foul-tasting hangover cure that Justin'd practically spoon-fed him on more than one occasion, she fucking deserved it.

Distracted from his absorption with the bison, Gus looked up and worriedly inquired, "Do I hafta carf the turkey at Grandma's?"

Brian was tempted to answer, ‘That's what your mommies are for,' but he was a beat too late, Justin bantering, "Why do you think your grandma keeps Grandpa Carl around?"

"Oh, okay." Reassured that he wouldn't have to carve the monster bird, Gus returned to staring at the bison.

"You know, bison were really important to the Plains tribes, especially the Lakota Sioux," Justin commented, seemingly offhand. "They relied on bison for food, clothing... pretty much everything."

Gus looked up at him, clearly fascinated.

"The Lakota word for bison is ‘Tatanka,'" Justin went on, the name rolling off his tongue like the thunder of hooves across the prairie. "What if we name our-"

"Thash it!" Gus declared, jumping in before Justin could finish. "Hesh Tatanka!"

The youngster did a pretty good job of echoing the way Justin had pronounced ‘Tatanka,' the staccato syllables again lending a ‘thunder' to the name.

It was a good, strong name. Butch.

Jumping up, Gus ran over to the bison pumpkin and leaned down close to it. "Tatanka likes hish name," he confided a couple beats later.

"Good." Justin smiled at the boy. "Why don't you bring him back over here and we'll clean him up."

"Hold your horses," Brian ordered. "Or bison or whatever," he wisecracked, fishing around for his cell. The quality wouldn't be that great, but he wanted a couple of photos of the pumpkins as currently displayed.

Brian snapped a handful of photos, including a couple of gap-toothed Gus smiling proudly while holding Tatanka.

"Okay, finito," he announced once he felt confident that he had at least a few decent shots.

As Gus carefully transported Tatanka back to the table, Justin glanced at Brian. "Get the others for me?"

For appearance's sake, Brian heaved a put-upon sigh. A pithy remark about wasting time moving the gourds off the table only to want them back a minute later hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back. Justin wouldn't fall for that, not after Brian had made a big production of snapping a fuckton of pictures.

While Brian trotted back and forth, Justin took one of the wet wipes and held it over his coffee cup, squeezing it to eliminate excess moisture.

"Too bad your cup's empty," Brian muttered, returning a third pumpkin to the table. "It might've improved the taste."

Justin chuckled as he used the wipe to clean a couple of faint crayon marks and pumpkin residue off the face of the bison gourd. "You wanna check to make sure we got everything out of the inside?" he asked Gus. "Tatanka'll last longer if there's nothing moist inside him."

"Sure!" Gus peered through the giant hole left by the bison and then through the top of the pumpkin. Sticking his arm through the opening at the top, he used the shovel-spoon to scoop out a few minuscule bits.

Brian frowned, not having considered how long the gourds would last. He didn't want his tipi to collapse anytime soon, and he'd developed a fondness for Tatanka. "They'll be good for at least a week, right?" he questioned.

They had to be. Who'd want to go through all that work carving a masterpiece otherwise?

"'fraid not," came Justin's reply as he wiped off Brian's pumpkin and passed it over to Gus to check, before proceeding to the two he'd carved. "Pumpkins usually start to rot in three to five days, unless it's really cold."

They would be having an unusually warm November, Brian thought irritably.

Gus interjected, "Mommy kept teashin' Mama 'bout falling off her broom."

It took Brian a second to realize the boy must be talking about the Halloween witch Linds had carved, using Mel as a model. Although what that had to do with falling off a broom-

"But it was kinda cool when the pumpkins, like-" Dropping the plastic scraper, he put his hands together and curled them into fists. "-clapshed."

Brian chuckled, imagining the Wicked Witch of Pittsburgh getting even witchier looking and losing her ride.

"I don' want Tatanka to clapsh though," Gus said mournfully. "And get all stinky. Mommy shaid the pumpkins hadda go when they started to smell."

"There are a couple of things we can do to extend the pumpkins' life expectancy," Justin offered.

"Like what?" Brian practically barked. He was willing to do just about anything to preserve the gourds. He wasn't about to confess to getting attached to the darned things, but he was kinda proud of his carving, especially as a first-timer.

"Ideally, if we were really serious about preserving our pumpkins, after we cut the top off and thoroughly scoured out the brains - but before we carved - we'd clean the surface and the interior with a solution of water and bleach. That would sterilize the pumpkins." 

Justin shrugged. "But we'd have to choose the pumpkins ahead of time and allow plenty of time for them to dry. It's a pain and takes the fun out of carving, if you ask me." Justin shrugged again. 

Not only that, Brian thought, but it sounded like a lot of work for what - a gain of a few days? Besides which, who wanted to inhale bleach? The smell couldn't be pleasant.

Brian had thought the pumpkin preservation PSA was done, but apparently not.

"After carving," Justin went on, "you can even give the pumpkins a bleach-water bath, for up to twenty-four hours."

Gus enthused, "Wicked! I could skip-"

"Uh-uh, Sonnyboy," Brian nixed that idea. "Your moms aren't gonna let a bunch of pumpkins take over the bathtub." Never mind that the lezzies' bathroom would stink of bleach for days.

Justin informed them, "If you have the room, you can also put the pumpkins in the fridge overnight to keep them cold."

"Mommy shaid the groshries barely fit inna fridge," Gus piped up.

No shit, thought Brian. Even back in the days when practically all he had in his refrigerator was poppers and guava juice, he still would have had a hard time fitting in one jack-o-lantern, much less four of them.

"Yeah," Justin acknowledged. "Most people don't have the fridge space. Your grandma Jen said she'd buy fake ones if Molly and I tried that."

At least one of the Taylors had their wits about them, Brian thought.

"We just need somewhere dark and cool to put them during the day." Justin looked around the glassed-in porch. "We don't want the sun beating on them out here."

"Maybe the mun- er, girls' garage," Brian put forth, hastily correcting himself. He'd been trying not to call the lezzies what they were - munchers - around his son, and was getting better at it. 

As usual, he had to lead by example. If he didn't want the girls to make nasty comments about him, he had to can some of his own derogatory verbiage. Until recently, he would've said all the nasty remarks about him were spewed out by the bulldyke, but lately, he'd noticed Linds subtly undermining him. He'd put it down to job hunting stress at first, but now he wasn't so sure.

"That's a good spot," Justin noted. "Even if they're taking the car out a couple-"

"They aren't yooshin' it for the car," Gus supplied. "Mama shays the doorsh warped real bad and we needa get shomeone to replaysh it."

Jesus, why was it always up to a fag to take care of everything? Tomorrow, Brian would put Cynthia on tracking down a garage door specialist who could install a decent, non-warping, electric door pronto.

In the meantime, the pumpkin problem remained, and the blond twat had yet to offer any concrete advice. "You got anything we can do for the pumpkins now, Sunshine?"

Justin arched a blond eyebrow - no gray there, Brian thought resentfully - and while Gus finished a scoop-check of the pumpkins, retrieved his messenger bag. Flipping up the flap, he pulled out a can of PAM and plunked it down in front of Brian.

Brian stared at the can in consternation. "What the heck?" he snarked. "You had to bring the kitchen with you? You couldn't just borrow Linds'?"

Justin rolled his eyes. "It's a can of cooking spray, Bri, not an entire kitchen."

That might be true, but it didn't explain the reason for the can. Now it was Brian's turn to arch an eyebrow, one from which he'd recently had to pluck two gray hairs.

"It's for the cut edges," Justin explained. "You can either spray them with PAM or rub them with Vaseline to keep them moisturized and prevent them from drying out." Slanting his eyes at Brian, he teased, "I know you're better acquainted with rubbing, but I thought using PAM would be quicker."

"You are good at spraying," Brian retaliated, waggling his eyebrows at his lover.

The two men grinned at each other, both knowing that who did what was pretty evenly divided these days. 

"We got Vashline if thash bether," Gus piped up, turning a puzzled gaze from one of his fathers to the other. "It's in the medshin cabnet."

"We're good," Justin assured the boy, before asking, "You wanna PAM Tatanka?"

"Yeah!"

Justin had Gus shake the can and showed him how to hold it to spray the cut edges. While Gus sprayed, Justin pressed a couple of folded paper towels against the inside to keep the oil from seeping into the pumpkin. 

"We've just scooped out the brains," he explained, "and the skull isn't entirely dried out yet. We don't want to leave any zombie-producing bacteria behind."

"Shombies!" Gus lurched clumsily from side to side and accidentally sprayed Justin's T-shirt. "S'rry," he lisped.

Justin laughed, his tee not much worse off than before. "We're banishing the zombies to the pumpkin patch till next Halloween."

Once they were done with the bison and the rim at the top of the gourd, Gus asked, "What 'bout the brain... top?"

"Good catch." Justin smiled at the seven-year-old, who beamed at the praise. 

Brian doubted Justin had forgotten about the brain top or blossom end or whatever the fuck it was called, but letting Gus participate and ask questions made the carving process more fun for the seven-year-old.

"We need to spray around the edge of the skullcap-"

Brian's brow furrowed. Hadn't he heard Justin mumble something about skullcaps recently?

"Or brain top." Justin winked at Gus.

It took Brian a moment, but then he remembered where he'd heard it. Not long ago, he'd been lying prostrate on their bed while Justin gave him the most incredible massage. The kid had elected to take an anatomy class at PIFA this semester, and Brian had agreed to help him prepare for his upcoming final exam.

It had proved to be one of his best decisions ever. Justin had kneaded his way slowly up from Brian's toes, naming off the bones in his toes, feet, legs, buttocks, back, neck and head. Brian had been aroused of course - how could he not be with Justin's hands on him? - but mostly he'd just grunted and groaned as his lover eased knots of tension he hadn't even been aware of. 

When Justin completed the massage, his hands digging into the top of Brian's skull more pleasurably than any hairdresser had ever managed, the last thing he'd mumbled was some Latin word and then ‘skullcap.' Other than Brian's name, that is, which Justin chanted repeatedly when Brian had rolled over and fucked him into the mattress.

"Daddy?"

For a moment, Brian stared blankly at the can Gus was holding out. Then, remembering where he was, he shifted uncomfortably and grunted, "Thanks."

Justin reached into Brian's gourd and pressed the paper towel against the underside of the feather, his head drawing close to Brian's.

Really, this was all his blond's fault, Brian mused crankily. If he'd just allowed more time for their usual morning activities, Brian wouldn't be in a semi-aroused state and unable to do anything about it. He could've massaged Brian's-

Brian smirked as he finished spraying the feather and moved on to the tipi. He had the perfect solution, even if he'd have to wait till later to implement it. Justin needed more practice, so he'd just have to hint that his front needed doing...

"I think that's enough," Justin commented dryly.

Brian started and looked down. He'd saturated the wigwam, and the cooking oil was now sliding down the face of the pumpkin.

"Fu-" he growled, the curse hovering on his tongue before he changed it to a lame-sounding, "Fudge." Christ, he sounded like an idiot.

Even though he had to be a little disappointed, Gus giggled, and aping what Justin had said to him just a bit ago, congratulated Brian, "Good catch, Daddy."

Gus' lisp made it sound more like ‘good cash,' which made Brian laugh, his crankiness dissipating. 

Justin laughed too as he removed the paper towel - also saturated, although it'd evidently served to keep the interior of the pumpkin dry. Dropping the oily paper towel on the newsprint, he tore a couple more sheets off the roll, folded them and wiped the excess oil off the front of the pumpkin.

"Here." He passed the folder paper towel over to Brian. "It'll be easier for you to hold it while you spray the rest."

It didn't take Brian long to spray the rim of the pumpkin and then the edge of the lid. Realizing he really would rather be ‘rubbing,' he laughed as he handed off the PAM to Justin and resolved to bring petroleum jelly to next year's carving fest.

As he was finishing up with his own gourds, Justin announced, "The other thing we can do is spray the insides with water mixed with a few drops of bleach once a day. It'll keep them moist and ward off bacteria."

"They'll lash longer?" Gus wanted to know.

Justin estimated, "A couple more days, probably, if we use the bleach spray on them every day and keep them out of the sun." He smiled over at Brian. "We might get a week out of them after all."

The gourds would still decay far sooner than Brian would like, but at least he'd be able to get photographs. He should've brought his Nikon camera with him; then he could get some quality shots of the pumpkins right now. But while he might've gotten a kick out of the Halloween carvings, those had hardly led him to expect to produce something worthy of more than cell phone snapshots.

Brian still should've brought his Nikon to casually take pictures of his boys; a proper camera might keep him from looking like a doting fool, and he'd get higher-quality photos. Speaking of doting fools, this was one time he could have actually made good use of Michael and the camcorder that was practically welded to his friend's hand these days. Mikey must have a thousand hours of his ‘honeybun' drooling, eating, crying and sleeping by now. Some footage of Gus with his dads would be a nice change-up.

Maybe he should call Michael and tell him to get his ass over here. Brian could feed him a line about JR calling for him - it did sound a little like she was wailing ‘Dadada' - and Mikey would be here, vidcam in tow, almost before Brian hung up. 

The issue was whether calling Michael would be worth it. Ever since the girls had returned from their sojourn to Mountie Land, Mikey came over at least three times a day, every single day. It was even worse than when Mel was pregnant, Michael always ready to tell the girls how to ‘do it better' when it came to Jenny.

That meant the bulldyke would be on Brian's case if she found out he was responsible for ruining a rare, so far Michael-free day. 

Gus interrupted his ruminations. "A week's pretty good. Right, Daddy?" He grinned at Brian.

Brian lifted an eyebrow. Something was off. He knew Gus didn't want the pumpkins to spoil any more than he did; the boy should still be fretting about prolonging their life expectancy instead of acting so happy-go-lucky.

When Gus cast a sidelong glance at the ‘pumpkin vault,' he gave away the game. His sonnyboy was trying to provoke a reaction. It had been at least eight minutes since the last one, Brian estimated. He could make his kid wait even longer, but he didn't see any reason for that.

"Hot diggity damn," he cursed on purpose, borrowing an Emmett-ism and saying farewell to another five-spot.

"Ten dollars!" Gus crowed, jumping around and clapping his hands.

Lindsay put an end to the impromptu happy dance when she opened the door to the patio. Her face was flushed and strands of blonde hair that had come loose from her updo were plastered against the left side of her face.

"Mommy!" Gus greeted her with a wide smile. "You gotta-"

A curl to her lip, Linds said stiffly, "That's not proper English, Gus."

Brian's eyes narrowed, but he held his peace - for now. He'd find out later what had crawled up Lindsay's ass.

The seven-year-old's smile dimmed, but he gamely tried again, enunciating carefully, "You got to see what-"

"Later," his mother replied curtly. "Lunch is ready." She cast a dismissive glance at both Justin and Brian. "There's enough for the two of you." With that, she backed up and closed the door.

That had to be the coldest invitation Brian had ever heard from his blonde friend. If it even was an invitation. He honestly wasn't sure. Linds had never sounded this pissed off, not even when he'd stood her up for dinner after promising to be there that one time. Heck, she usually begged him to stay, giving him flirtatious looks from under blonde eyelashes, coyly flipping her hair over her shoulder.

He didn't really mind. It was just Lindsay being insecure. Back in their college days, Linds would sometimes hit him up to be her escort and ask his advice on how to be a lesbian - like that was something Brian would have firsthand knowledge of. 

Even once Linds hooked up with Mel, she'd still used Brian as arm candy, primarily to piss off the brunette when the lezzies had one of their all-too-frequent tiffs. Brian hadn't minded that either. Sending Melanie through the roof was fun to do; she was so patently jealous of Brian's freedom to do whatever and whomever he wanted whenever he wanted.

Why the fuck the girls had stayed together was beyond him. Brian had long since recognized that getting them back together during the Gui episode might not have been best for either Linds or Mel. But he'd hated the Frog with a passion, and deep inside, he'd also been scared that he might lose access to his son. Most of all, he'd wanted Gus to have a good, solid, happy home with two loving parents. Which, most of the time, the girls did a pretty decent job of being.

What he'd always minded however was when they vented their anger about what-the-fuck-ever - usually him - in front of the kids. Even worse were the rare occasions, like just now, when Lindsay took out her frustrations on Gus.

"Maybe we should-" Justin murmured as he stood.

Gus was around the table in a flash, clinging to Justin. "Don't leave, Papa!"

"Justin's not leaving," came a cool voice from the doorway, where Melanie now stood. "Are you?"

Justin held out orange-stained hands, either as an indication that he planned to wash up or in self-defense.

The bulldyke eyed him up and down. "He's staying. Schmatte and all."

Finally, Brian thought, someone else got what he had to deal with - every fucking day. The trousers were tolerable given how they cupped Justin's ass, but the baggy, torn, paint-splotched shirt needed to go.

Justin bestowed a dazzling smile on Melanie. "What?" he protested. He clambered over the bench and pirouetted, not particularly hindered by having Gus attached to him like a limpet. "These are my best rags."

Mel and Brian both snorted.

"I like your clothes, Jushun." Gus beamed up at the blond.

Brian sighed. At seven years of age, it was already clear that his son wasn't going to be a fashionista.

Gesturing behind her, the bulldyke ordered, "Just leave everything and get in here."

The two men obeyed, Gus grabbing their hands and skipping along happily between them. So the boy didn't have to let go, Melanie unlatched the other side of the French doors for them to walk through.

Inside, Linds was banging dishes down on the dining table. She glared at her wife. "I don't know why you couldn't help."

Melanie glared right back. "I spent time - time I didn't have - to make the pies. That's enough."

"Your time?" Lindsay shrieked. "What about mine? I was researching!"

A muscle ticked in Mel's jaw. "You need to do more than just skim the want ads!"

That prompted Lindsay to send a dark look Brian's way. "If someone would just give me some piecemeal work, then I could look around till I find the right job."

Mel hissed, "Someone is already doing more than enough for us - more than they should." 

Lindsay blinked at her through suddenly watery brown eyes, which Brian suspected was a ploy. Fuck knew, she'd used that look on him - successfully - often enough.

Brian gritted his teeth. He'd explained to Linds that she had no training in commercial art, never mind that she hadn't drawn or painted anything in years. If he did have something she could help with, he'd elaborated, Linds would have to adhere to strict deadlines and might have to put in long hours. She'd left his office in a huff a week ago and didn't speak to him for a good three days. He almost wished the silent treatment had lasted longer.

The bulldyke softened. "Babe, look, I want you to find something you like, but-"

Brian heard a soft whine and glanced down to see that his son's face had acquired a pinched, worried look. 

"Let's go wash our hands, huh?" Justin intervened. "Gotta get rid of the pumpkin brains, or we're gonna turn into zzzombies!" He staggered from side to side in the worst imitation of an undead creature that Brian had ever seen, but it worked to distract Gus. Giggling a little, the boy dropped his father's hand and led the way to the downstairs bathroom.

Pissed that they were fighting in front of his son, Brian growled, "This had better not turn into the unhappy, unfun house again," before following his boys to the bathroom.

"Sorry," Mel was the one to apologize. "We'll rein it in."

Linds directed another searing look at her wife and stomped off to the kitchen.

When had it become Melanie who made an effort to act responsibly? Brian wondered as he strode to the bathroom.

Brian stepped into the downstairs half bath to find Gus' hands covered in suds, a bar of soap clasped between his fingers. A gamine grin on his face, the boy turned toward Brian, losing his grip on the soap in the process. "Oops!" Gus yelled out.

The slippery bar shot out of his hands and hit Brian's Metallica T-shirt - right in James Hetfield's face - before sliding downward.

Justin grabbed for the soap right as it reached Brian's crotch but didn't get a good grip on it, the bar springing out of his fingers and onto the floor.

The two men bumped heads when they both reached for the soap, making Gus giggle madly.

Brian got his fingers on the soap, but then it squirted away from him and landed in the toilet bowl, which had a suspiciously yellow tint.

"S'rry," Gus lisped, giggling some more. "I forgotta flush."

"Unless you wanna reach in there" - Justin motioned at the toilet with his chin - "this should do the trick." Grinning impishly at his wording, he took Brian's right hand and rubbed it with his soapy fingers, before repeating the process with his left hand.

Good enough, Brian thought. If the lesbians wanted the soap, they could fish it out.

Hands more or less clean, he guided his boys out of the bathroom and back to the dining room. The argument between the girls appeared to have ended, although Lindsay didn't look particularly happy. Her lips pressed together, she went back into the kitchen as they approached the table.

"Where's Jenny?" asked Justin, looking around for the toddler.

His lover was almost as enamored of the junior she-devil as Michael, Brian thought in bemusement. He sat down at the table, snatched the coffee pot and poured himself a cup, relieved to see that this batch of joe didn't look nearly as dark and murky as the one Melanie had brought out to the porch. 

Stirring in his usual miserly amount of sugar, he took a swallow and thought some more about Justin's fascination with Jenny. Michael's absorption with his daughter made sense. He came by the mother hen gene naturally, and going on four years later, he was still puffed up about being a dad. You'd almost think he'd given birth to JR all by himself.

But Justin? Brian was still flummoxed by how much he liked kids. The occasional spat with Molly aside, he got along well with his younger sibling too. Which was a miracle considering she was a fourteen-year-old, hormone-driven hoyden.

Fortunately, any latent desire Justin might have for a kid of his own seemed to be satisfied by all the time he spent with Gus, as well as occasionally babysitting JR. Not that the notion of a kid with curly blond hair and bright blue eyes was completely unappealing... Brian shook his head, banishing the image. Where had that come from?

"She wore herself out crying, poor tyke," Melanie answered Justin's question, yawing as she spoke. "Me too."

"What about me?" Linds asked, also yawning as she came back to the table, carrying a large pot between oven mitts. Placing the pot on a trivet, she smiled tiredly at her wife, not sounding as snappish as she had a few minutes ago.

Right behind his moms with a wide yawn, Gus threw in, "JR, like, screams all night."

Melanie rebutted, "She's not-" 

"Isho!" Gus cried, his ‘is so' coming out as one slurred word.

Lindsay chided, "Gus," but it emerged too softly to be much of a reprimand.

"Okay," the bulldyke allowed, cracking another yawn, "she's awful, but she's had the worst time teething."

"Michael was just saying how he doesn't get enough time with JR," Justin observed.

Which of the ten times that Mikey had said that yesterday was Justin talking about? Brian wondered. He'd brought it up a record eight times during lunch at the diner and twice afterward.

One elbow on the table, chin propped on her hand, Mel appraised Justin. "Your point?"

Justin shrugged. "Ben's gone to that three-day conference, so why not have Michael stay here and watch Jenny?"

"Michael 24/7?" The bulldyke shuddered.

"You could let Michael take JR home for the night," Brian suggested an alternative.

"No," Mel shot down that idea. "When Jenny starts wailing and he can't calm her down, he'll just call us."

"At two in the morning," Linds noted sourly. "And then every half hour after that."

Justin shrugged again. "From the way Michael talks, he's over here all the time anyway."

No shit, Brian thought, snorting and flooding his nasal passages with caffeine. He couldn't talk with his childhood friend for a full minute without him bringing his ‘prodigy' of a daughter into the conversation.

"But I was really thinking of tonight, after Red Cape closes for the day" Justin followed up. "Just till Ben gets back from Harrisburg."

Lindsay looked over at Melanie. "You know, that might help. We could get some sleep. One of us will have to get up if he knocks on our door-"

"Which he will," Mel interrupted.

"Yeah, but it should only be once," Lindsay observed. "We get Jenny, and Michael, settled and then we can go back to sleep."

"We can have Michael stay overnight," Mel conceded. "It just goes to show..."

Linds eyed her wife warily.

"...that once we're both working-" The bulldyke paused.

That was surprisingly tactful, Brian thought. It made it sound like they were both looking for jobs.

"-we should get someone to help out," Mel stated firmly. "I don't want you wearing yourself out, babe."

Brian usually thought of Mel as using a steel fist to get her way, but she was proving that she could use an indirect, softer approach just as well. It would obviously benefit both of them, but Lindsay couldn't get her back up when Melanie couched it as looking out for her.

Linds half smiled and shrugged in acquiescence. "Okay," she agreed. "We can't do it all."

There'd been a little bit of a dig in there, Brian suspected, but not a particularly biting one given the way Melanie chuckled. "Apparently, you can teach a lawyer new tricks," the butch woman commented amicably.

Her smile becoming more genuine, Lindsay motioned at the three men. "Have a seat. I'll just get the bread and the salad, and then we can eat."

Gus clambered onto a chair between two others. "You here, Daddy," he demanded, patting the seat to his left, "an' you here, Papa." He drummed his fingers against the chair on his right.

Melanie shook her head at her child. "Don't tell, Gus. Ask."

Brian and Justin laughed, Mel joining in a moment later. "Whatever. At least it's not as bad as the retarded policy the military uses."

Fucking DADT, Brian thought, sitting down next to his son.

"You shaid nodda call anyone that, Mama," Gus piped up.

"I'm talking about a bad rule, not a person, kiddo," Melanie explained.

Gus still looked perplexed, but he sat back with a shrug, accepting the answer - for now.

Justin redirected everyone's attention as he sat down, leaning over and taking a whiff of whatever was in the pot. "That smells really good," he said happily. "What is it?"

A round metal tin in one hand and a wooden bowl, presumably containing the salad, in the other, Linds answered as she came back from the kitchen. "Pumpkin chili. Made with fresh pumpkin," she clarified. "It's a new recipe I've been wanting to try. It should go well with this cornbread."

There were vinegar and oil cruets on the table, so Brian didn't have to worry about the salad being slathered in dressing. The cornbread would be full of carbs however, and the chili was doubtless a vegetarian dish. Brian stifled a sigh; he'd had just about enough pumpkin in any shape or form for the day. Justin was right though; it did smell good, so maybe it would taste okay, even without any meat. Besides, he could always eat-

For someone who'd gone on and off - mostly on - a vegetarian kick ever since college, Linds directed a surprisingly sympathetic look at him. "It's got chicken, Brian."

"Eat the meat," Melanie deadpanned, side-eyeing him and admitting, "I always did think that was one of your best slogans."

It scared Brian a little when the bulldyke read his mind like that. And to admit to liking one of his catchphrases, especially the one about meat?

"Frawley's is still using those commercials," Justin chipped in. "One of them aired during the Channel 5 news last night."

Brian laughed. "Probably gave them-"

"-a cow," Justin and Mel chimed in with him, seeming just as satisfied as Brian.

The way the Channel 5 crew had desexualized Emmett, making him into a glorified queer flunky - and then fired him after Drew found his balls and kissed him on air - had rankled for years. Honeycutt had thought Brian didn't care, just because he'd forced Em to see how the straights viewed him: a safe, sexless gay man, who performed on command.

Brian did care however. He respected Emmett, and had wanted the man to rediscover his self-respect. 

Drew fucking Boyd, on the other hand, could take care of himself as far as Brian was concerned. He'd made money hand over fist for years, so his ‘woe is me' act fell flat for Brian. Drew might've made Emmett believe he was hard done by because Brown Athletics had dropped him, but that was a crock of shit. Drew knew the price of coming out; he just didn't want to pay it. In the end, he got lucky when the Ironmen tanked without him and he was reinstated. He'd lost very little. Except for Emmett, who he didn't deserve.

Brian hadn't been able to get Honeycutt to see that, no matter how hard he tried. His southern friend still got a wistful look on his face when Boyd made the news - nowadays as much for whatever guy he'd been glimpsed with as for his football prowess. 

Although Em had proclaimed himself satisfied with the ‘kiss off' they'd given Channel 5, he'd scowl when their latest queer guy - they were on their fourth since firing Emmett - would pop up on screen. If Brian had thought Honeycutt and the first three successors were sexless, this guy outdid them all, displaying the worst stereotypes, making homophobic jokes and tittering like a complete idiot at his own ‘wit.' Unfortunately, unlike the first three, who'd come and gone in quick succession, the current queer guy had a large following and was still with the news team, almost two years after being hired.

Eight months ago however, the perfect opportunity to get a little payback had arisen. To celebrate a third banner year for Kinnetik, Emmett had organized a gala, going with scantily clad drag queens and trannies as the servers. Both Channel 5 and Channel 7 had been there, competing for the best footage and soundbites.

McGruder, who liked to style himself as a real-life MacGyver - you'd think that was actually his name - had ended up having to fill in for one of his reporters who took ill. He'd swanned around, acting like hot shit, and getting on everyone's nerves. Then, spotting Dick Frawley of Frawley's Open Fire steakhouses, and doubtless recognizing him from Brian's brilliant advertising, he'd horned in on the conversation Dick was having with a dolled-up Kiki, on loan from the diner. He'd blundered badly, making some off-color remark like, ‘Oh, it's one of those,' to Frawley.

Dick - really the guy should've instantly embraced the ‘eat the meat' slogan with a first name like that - had stared at the producer blankly and uttered, "Huh?"

MacGyver had stuck his foot in deeper, motioning at Kiki and muttering something disparaging about her being a man in disguise.

The good old boy from Louisville - with a wife and a passel of kids at home - had surprised Brian. "I think the lady's lovely," he'd countered. "Unlike your manners."

Brian, who'd just finished easing his way through the crowd of guests, Emmett and Justin right behind him, sneered, "Yeah, Angie. Or is it Angus?" Brian paused as if trying to figure it out.

McGruder had stood there with his mouth open, looking thoroughly pissed off.

"If your queer guy hasn't taught you better," Brian had delivered the coup de grâce, "maybe you should look for a new one."

"Not me," Honeycutt had singsonged. "I'm taken."

A flash of panic had then crossed Emmett's face - he wasn't there with anyone - but Justin had seized the moment. He'd dipped Em backward - how he'd managed that when he was so fucking short, Brian still wasn't certain - and planted a big wet one on him.

Brian had never been prouder of his lover.

Mel had stepped up, clasped Kiki by the arm and handed Angie one of her cards. "Defamation of character," she'd crisply stated. "You'll be hearing from us."

The Channel 7 news team had caught the whole thing on camera and aired clips for weeks.

"God," Mel said now, eerily in sync with Brian as she pulled out a chair and sat down, "that MacGyver guy paid through the nose for his stupidity."

"I don't get why Kiki keeps working at the diner," Lindsay observed, flags of red across her cheekbones. "She's set for life."

It wasn't exactly a secret that Linds was jealous of the tranny's ‘good fortune,' not with the way she periodically harped about it.

"Hon, Kiki wouldn't know what to do without the diner. It's a part of her - just like Deb."

Gus provided his opinion, "Kiksh cool. I like the green in 'er hair."

"Yep, she's pretty hip," Mel agreed. "So are you, Kinney."

Suspicious, Brian narrowed his eyes at the tough-as-nails lawyer. What was she talking about?

"Nice orange streak," Melanie expounded.

He didn't have- A giggle from his son and a smothered noise from the blond on Gus' other side had Brian reevaluating and examining how he could've acquired an ‘orange streak.'

He glared at Justin, growling, "You-"

Mel almost, but not quite, drowned out the "little shit" with laughter.

Brian outstretched a hand and flicked Justin on the back of the head. This was all the brat's fault.

Justin stuck his tongue out at him, making Brian chuckle. Danged kid.

"It adds some fuckin' class," Melanie teased.

Gus bounced in his chair and looked expectantly at his father. Resigned to his role as the ‘vakey fun' piggy bank, Brian pulled out his wallet and counted out three more twenties.

"Brian-"

Unsurprised that the only protest came from Mel, Brian raised an eyebrow at her, daring her to say more.

"Forty," Gus chirped, tucking the fresh wad of twenties under plate. "Thanks, Daddy. Thanks, Mama."

The bulldyke shook her head at her son but then subsided, muttering, "Fu- fudging vakey fun."

Gus' stomach growled, distracting him from his obvious disappointment at his mother's save. Standing, the boy reached for the ladle sticking out of the pot in the middle of the table.

Lindsay, who'd been silent during the byplay about the vacation fund, chided, "Hold on, lambskin."

Gus gave his mother a long-suffering look.

That pet name might've been okay when Gus was three, but for a seven-year-old? 

"It's hot. Let Mommy get it for you."

That wasn't much better, Brian thought, mentally rolling his eyes. It sounded like she was talking to a two-year-old. She was clueless when it came to young boys. Although it probably wouldn't go over much better with JR...

Justin stepped in, saving Gus from more embarrassment. "We'll do it together. We make a good team. Right, partner?"

Gus nodded enthusiastically.

"If it drips on our clothes, it'll just improve our schmatte," Justin joked.

Brian was amused that Justin had to stand up to reach the pot of chili. Shrimp, he thought fondly.

Gus' bowl filled, Justin asked, "Wanna do the rest?"

Bright-eyed, Gus nodded again. "Gimme-" He hastily amended what he'd been going to say when his mommy gave him an admonishing, pursed-lip look. "Pleash gif me your bowl, Mama."

Melanie replied, "Do your daddy's first, Gus."

"No, yours." Brian held out a hand for her bowl.

"No, you first," the dyke insisted.

His arm outstretched, Brian wiggled his fingers in a signal to hand it over.

Gus giggled. "Yinz're silly."

"Since your mama and daddy are being childish," Lindsay noted, "you can fill mine." She passed her bowl to Justin, who set it in front of the pot to be filled.

Christ, he couldn't believe he'd been caught engaging in such a dumb game of one-upmanship with the bulldyke. Brian flushed and locked eyes with Melanie, who appeared to be equally embarrassed, a red hue staining her cheeks and chin.

His hand over Gus', Justin snorted as he helped the boy ladle chili into everyone's bowls, serving himself last.

 

A little while later, Brian was feeling pleasantly full - not stuffed, just satisfied. He mopped up the remainder of the pumpkin chili with a smidgen of cornbread and then washed it down with a swallow of coffee.

"No more?" Gus asked, a wistful look on his face as he rattled the empty cornbread tin.

"Your daddy got the last piece," Lindsay informed him.

That was weird. How could he have had the last piece when he'd cut one of the slices in half at the beginning of the meal and made it stretch till the end? Whatever. Brian decided to be polite and shrugged off his friend's confusion.

"God, that was so good." Justin gave his wiped-clean bowl - Brian couldn't see a speck of the chili left inside - a wistful look identical to the one on Gus' face. "Can I get the recipe?"

Brian didn't have any objection to Justin occasionally making the pumpkin chili. While the orange squash was in season, he could trade out the pumpkin chili for the jambalaya that Brian had become accustomed to eating.

"Of course." Lindsay smiled, justifiably pleased to have her culinary endeavors praised. "I substituted apple cider for the hard cider, so none of us would get inebriated. You might want to try it with the hard stuff instead."

He'd have to stock up on hard cider, Brian reckoned, so it would be ready to hand.

"Now, how about some pumpkin pie made with more fresh pumpkin for dessert?" Linds asked as she stood up.

Gus promptly voted for a piece. "Me, Mommy." As an afterthought, he tacked on, "Pleash."

Justin got up as well and collected Gus, Brian, Melanie's and his own dishes, stacking the empty cornbread tin on top of everything else. "I'll help clear in exchange for a piece of the pie."

Brian groaned. Where in the heck did his boys put it? They were both bottomless pits.

Lindsay led the way to the kitchen. "Thanks, Justin. You're always a big help." 

Showing no sign of movement, the butch woman remarked, "That told us, didn't it?"

"Brian?" Justin's voice floated from the kitchen. "Could you bring the pot?"

The sarcasm would carry over better if he had a blond boy ass to grope as he answered, but Brian nevertheless called back, "Yes, dear."

"I'll help, Daddy." Gus grabbed the salad bowl, in which only a couple lonely bits of lettuce remained.

Brian set the pot next to the sink and then ran a hand over Justin's ass, giving one cheek a good squeeze. Leaning down, he nuzzled the skin behind one ear and breathed in his lover's scent.

"Mmm," Justin hmmed, turning his head and giving Brian a kiss on the lips.

"Can't that wait-"

"No," both Brian and Justin responded in unison, cutting Lindsay off.

Justin shrugged. "Can I help it if he keeps getting hotter?"

That should be his line, Brian figured. These days, all the clubbers were panting after Justin, watching every move the blond made. At twenty-four, he'd filled out, put on muscle and was sexy as fuck.

"Pie?" Gus asked, focusing on dessert.

"Just a minute, sweetie," Lindsay said. "Let me get the dishwasher going and start a fresh pot of coffee."

Justin winked at Gus. "I'm all for pie as soon as possible. How about I finish up here and you start the coffee?"

Lindsay laughed. "Where do the two of you put it?" she unwittingly echoed Brian's question. "Especially you, Justin."

"Good genes."

"Daddy says you don' have any good zheans," Gus spoke up, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

Brian was saved from having to explain that one when Melanie came into the kitchen, carrying a fretful JR.

The tyke whimpered in distress.

"Let me have her." Justin plucked Jenny out of Mel's arms and began crooning to her, rocking from side to side.

"Zhush." JR smiled as Justin swung her around, everyone getting a good look at the teeth that were causing so much trouble.

"No fair." Gus looked at the floor, stubbing a sneaker against the linoleum. "JR's got teef."

The adults couldn't help laughing, which had Gus' bottom lip sticking out big time.

Brian crouched down. "I've got some old photos from when I was your age. I was totally toothless - even worse than you. But a few weeks later, presto! My teeth came in."

"Promish?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die." Brian suited the motion to the words. "I'll even show you the photos, okay?" God, the things he did for his son.

"'kay." His usual happy self again, Gus grabbed hold of Brian's hand. "Can we show Mama and Mommy the pumpkins before we have pie?"

"We should get them out of the sun anyhow," Justin noted. "I'll help you bring them in." Bussing JR on the forehead, he lowered her down to the floor.

She clung to the leg of Justin's cargo pants until Mel took her hand. "Come on, sweetie. Let's draw the curtains in the living room so we can see the pumpkins all lit up."

"Zhush," Jenny reiterated, presumably in agreement.

Moments later, out on the patio, Justin cautioned, "Careful," as he set the bison pumpkin in Gus' arms.

His face a mask of concentration, Gus made his way back inside, Brian following with his pumpkin and then Justin with one of his gourds, his messenger bag looped over one shoulder.

For several long moments, the seven-year-old examined the placemat that had held his lunch dishes, and then, apparently satisfied nothing there could harm Tatanka, placed the pumpkin on the mat.

"I got the last one," he proclaimed, giving his dads a gummy smile. 

With a nod of permission, Brian opened his mouth, but before he could issue a cautionary injunction, Gus beat him to it.

Giggling, he said, "Be careful. I know."

Just like his Jushun, Brian thought, turning to watch the other boy arrange the pumpkins on the table, leaving space for the turkey.

After Gus vanished onto the porch, Melanie came out of the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee in her hands. Setting it down on the table, she looked around, her brow furrowed. 

Not finding whatever she was looking for, she peered through the open French doors. Then, her eyes widening in horror, she shouted, "Jenny, no!"

Brian and Justin crowded into the doorway behind Mel, their jaws dropping as they watched JR pop up from beside the picnic table, hands full of raw pumpkin. She shrieked in glee and threw a handful at Gus.

"Jenny!" Gus yelled, ropes of orange gunk in his hair and more goop slipping down his face. "I'm gonna kill you!"

Brian was impressed that his son had the presence of mind to set down the pumpkin he'd picked up before taking a threatening step toward his bratty little sister.

JR shrieked again, raised her other hand, which was full of more carroty sludge, and aimed at her brother.

Brian stepped through the doors, intent on stopping the little demon from wreaking more havoc.

He was too late to stop the she-devil's get, although he did succeed in distracting her. Her aim wild, Jenny sent the pumpkin sailing - right at Brian.

"Oh, no!" Brian heard someone gasp from behind him. That was followed by a guffaw, which he recognized as coming from Justin.

Turning around halfway, he scowled at his lover.

Justin gave him a half-hearted shrug of apology and tried - not very successfully - to contain his laughter.

"Say ‘pumpkin,'" Lindsay chirped and began snapping photos in rapid succession, while Brian watched, too stunned by her effrontery to do anything.

A series of unladylike snorts came from Mel but then she groaned, "Shit," her amusement suddenly cut off.

Brian swiveled around, concerned that the witch in training was going to pelt him with more squashy effluvium.

It wasn't her hands that JR now had in the pumpkin, but rather a foot, which was mired in one of the metal pie tins. She must've knocked over the tin when she was grabbing for the orange glop, Brian surmised.

Jenny howled, not happy to have her foot trapped.

Mel sighed and went to free her offspring. Her efforts earned her orange handprints all over her clothes. "I only took my eyes off her for a second-"

"I tol' you she was fash!" Gus exclaimed, shooting an accusing glare at both of his moms.

Lindsay snapped a couple more pictures before holding out a hand. "Let's get you cleaned up, lambskin."

"No!" Gus yelled, understandably upset, the juvenile nickname only making matters worse.

"Your daddy needs to change too," Justin noted. "Why don't you take him upstairs while I get his gym bag?"

That was a good idea, Brian thought, feeling ever so slightly mollified.

 

A little while later, they all reconvened in the dining room, everyone except Justin in fresh attire. Justin had helped Gus wash the squash out of his hair and somehow got the boy giggling madly about how ridiculous his ‘pumpkin monster' of a sister had looked.

Brian didn't say it out loud, but he could admit that the whole thing might have been funny - if it had happened to someone else. Someone who didn't care about their clothes. A clean pair of sweats and a fresh A-shirt had improved his mood considerably though, enough that he was willing to be in the same room as the devil spawn - as long as Jenny didn't splatter him with something else.

Since he didn't have another spare in his gym bag, Brian didn't want anything getting on his wife beater. The way Linds kept eyeing his biceps and running a tongue over her lips was disconcerting enough. God knew how she'd react if he went shirtless and she got a gander at his abs.

"JR got me too," Lindsay provided an unasked explanation for her change of clothes.

"Sheesh, babe, all she did was touch your pants, after I scrubbed her hands."

Linds dragged a finger down the neckline of her plunging, V-neck blouse. "I didn't know that."

Brian had to physically restrain himself from running to get the dirty T-shirt out of his bag. Lindsay knew their fling - if drunk, desperate fucking on four different occasions even qualified as a fling - was over by their sophomore year at university. Her current behavior left him wondering what the fuck she was up to and looking anywhere but at the blonde.

Maybe she was trying to make her wife jealous? In his opinion, the tightness around Melanie's eyes spoke more of being pissed off, but he could be wrong. He didn't speak ‘bulldyke' and didn't intend to learn.

"Let's see those pumpkins," Mel said a little stiffly, although the smile she gave Gus seemed genuine enough.

"Hang on," Justin requested. "There's one more pumpkin."

He double-timed it out the door, returning quickly with the pumpkin.

Lindsay pulled the drapes across the French doors and then produced a pack of tea light candles from the tableside hutch. "Here."

"Can't use those," Justin declined the candles. "The PAM we put on the cut edges is flammable." He dug around in his messenger bag and fished out a box. "These LED tea lights are safer anyhow," he elaborated. "They look like real flames and even come with a remote; if you turn them off at night, the batteries will last longer."

The kid had to be some kind of ‘pumpkin whisperer.' Brian'd had no idea that his lover knew so much about carving, preserving and lighting the gourds. While he'd stealthily put up Christmas decorations the last couple of years - like if they magically appeared Brian couldn't object - there'd never been anything to mark Halloween. No pumpkins. Not even a dish of the tooth-rotting candy that popped up everywhere during the month of October.

The Christmas decorations had been tasteful, so a pumpkin or two for Halloween and Thanksgiving might not be too awful, Brian reasoned. Roasted pumpkin seeds too - those had his stamp of approval.

While Brian was mulling over granting a limited license for Halloween decorations and goodies, Justin inserted the LED candles in the pumpkins, each gourd getting two or three of the tea lights. He then pressed a button on the remote, and artificial flames sprang to life.

The flames really did look realistic, flickering away inside the pumpkins. The two-story house looked ready to welcome visitors for Thanksgiving; steam was rising from the turkey; a fire was flickering inside the wigwam; but best of all was the bison. A fire was burning inside his belly, and it looked like he might be about to charge.

Oohs and aahs came from the girls, and Jenny cried out, "Zhush!"

"The bison..." Lindsay breathed out in awe.

"Holy shit," Melanie gasped, equally admiring.

"Tatanka's mine!" Gus was hopping from foot to foot, thrilled with the reception his pumpkin was getting. 

"Tatanka?" Linds asked.

"It's Laktsha..." Stumbling over the unfamiliar word, Gus looked to Justin for assistance.

"Lakota - Sioux - for bison," Justin clarified.

Melanie lauded the choice, "What a great name for a bison."

"Zhush!" JR cried out, seeming to approve just as much as her mother.

Gus smiled so broadly that his incoming tooth was visible.

Mel placed the wriggling toddler on her booster seat with a stern admonition. "Look but don't touch."

"You know." Lindsay wrapped an arm around Melanie. "I wouldn't mind snuggling in that tipi with you."

Brian took a closer look at the tipi, only realizing now that it was lit from within, that what he'd taken for slits beneath the tipi were actually decorative horizontal stripes in the hide covering. "Not too shabby," he murmured.

"Is that the new ‘not bad'?" quipped Justin.

Brian flicked Justin's ear. "Brat. See if I share the wigwam with you."

Unsurprisingly, Gus took Justin's side. "Don' worry, Jushun. I'll share wif you."

Justin's eyes danced with amusement as he looked at Brian. "Guess you'll have to sleep outside."

Like that would ever happen. One or the other of his boys, probably both, would cave and let him in before he got his sleeping bag unrolled. Then again, maybe he should apologize anyway. Brian could still vividly remember how he'd frozen his balls off in that damned tent during the Liberty Ride and had no desire to repeat that experience.

"These are all amazing," gushed Lindsay. "Where'd you find the designs?"

Justin stared at the blonde, apparently rendered mute by the stupid question.

A couple long beats dragged past.

"Jushun drew 'em, Mommy!"

"Oh! Of course," Linds said, her face going bright pink.

Justin not mentioning that he'd freehand drawn the patterns on two pumpkins spared Lindsay further embarrassment.

"Next year," Justin informed his fellow carvers, "if we choose the stencils ahead of time, we can eliminate one of the steps. The day before we're gonna carve the pumpkins, after we've prepped them, we can spread a thin layer of Elmer's glue over the back of the templates and mold them to the pumpkin faces. Then, the next day, we can just cut along the stencils, instead of taping them down."

"What 'bout the paper?" Gus asked the logical question. "It'll be schtuck."

"Nope. A little bit of warm water and it'll rinse away."

"Now you tell me," Brian grouched, although he wasn't really upset. That sounded pretty neat, besides which he was in favor of anything that would make the carving process easier.

Lindsay sighed. "I wish I'd known about that method back when I was teaching. My high schoolers would've loved it."

"It's not too late," Brian observed. "You could go back to teaching. Maybe even at CAPA." He wasn't sure what had possessed him to say that, but fuck, he was tired of everyone pussyfooting around Linds and avoiding any mention of her ongoing unemployment.

"God, I, like, would've killed to go to CAPA," Justin said. "It's the best. But Craig wouldn't hear of it. ‘My son at a public school!'" he mimicked Craig's sneering, superior attitude.

Melanie commented, "You loved teaching, babe, and your students loved you."

Lindsay got a thoughtful look on her face. "I don't know," she said uncertainly. "Teenagers - especially teenage boys - can be quite a handful."

"I'm no expert," Justin admitted. "But I bet the straight boys would do anything for ‘a hot chick' like you."

Lindsay preened.

Good one, Sunshine, thought Brian. "And it's not like you lack experience in dealing with queens," he noted dryly.

Melanie bit her lip, probably to keep from asking, ‘Like you?'

"I do have a pretty good record," Lindsay agreed, batting her eyelashes at Brian. "I'll think about it," she allowed, still wearing a contemplative look. "Now, how about pumpkin pie?"

 

Brian was feeling logy when he followed Justin to the front door a little later. He'd ended up eating a large wedge of the pie because Justin claimed he'd taken too much - and Brian had for some reason felt compelled to help out. Never mind that the little twat had turned around and helped himself to another portion as soon as Brian started noshing on the ‘too much' piece.

"Hey, Kinney," came Mel's voice from behind him.

"Yeah?" One foot already over the sill, Brian turned slowly. Damned pie was weighing him down.

Melanie smiled as she glanced over at Gus, who was bouncing on his chair, pointing at the pumpkins and talking excitedly with Lindsay.

"Just... you done good, Brian."

Brian's gaze lingered on his son for a moment before he looked down at the bulldyke. "We done good," he corrected her.

Mel was still gaping at him, flabbergasted, when he shut the door.

 

 

A rapping of knuckles on the door frame was followed by, "Yo, Bri," as Theodore sauntered into his office.

Brian looked up, his eyes traveling along the slender, toned body, which was encased in a pinstriped Corneliani suit. Ted had been hitting the gym religiously for several months, and it showed; in addition to putting on muscle, he'd shed at least twelve pounds, Brian estimated. Of course, it wasn't just the frequent workouts, but also because he'd cut back on the-

"Carbs," his friend groaned, plucking the word right out of Brian's head. "I can feel them glomming onto me now. I can't decide whether I should give in to the inevitable and wear my old size 34 Levis tomorrow, or if I should risk Debbie's wrath and turn down second helpings."

It was a valid concern. Brian still hadn't found a satisfactory means for coping with the overload of food that was shoved at him during Sunday dinners at his surrogate mother's house, never mind the Thanksgiving feast they'd be faced with on the morrow. Probably best to just succumb to a tryptophan-induced daze, he was thinking when Cynthia poked her head into the office.

Good timing, Brian mused. Before Ted got him worrying about a tryptophan overload, Brian had been thinking about starting off the holiday with a shot or two of Beam and inviting both Theodore and Cynthia to-

"Leo's on the line, boss," she cheerfully informed him. 

Rather perfunctorily, he snarked, "You do know how to patch a call through, right?" Brian was in too good a mood - mainly because of the fuckin' brilliant television ad they'd put together for Brown Athletics - to truly sound aggravated with his assistant. 

Again almost disturbingly in sync with him, Theodore guessed, "Brown probably wants to congratulate us again on the bang-up job we did." Dollar signs danced in his eyes as he gleefully rubbed his hands together. "This advertising campaign is gonna net us one heckuva bonus."

Blowing out an exasperated sigh, Cynthia drummed her fingers on the base of Brian's executive phone. "It doesn't work when you've muted the ringer."

Brian glanced down at his phone, where he could indeed see the mute indicator glowing a steady orange. Right, he hadn't wanted anyone to bother him as he got ready to leave for the long Thanksgiving weekend. With everything in order, he'd told his staff they could take off early, and most of them had already vanished, jabbering excitedly about their plans... which he wasn't the least bit interested in.

His only acknowledgement that Cynthia was correct, however, was a negligent wave of one hand and a grunted, "You can put him through now." As soon as the blonde's back was turned, Brian pressed the button to take the phone off mute. A quick glare at his CFO was enough to get Ted to tone down his sniggering at the first ring of his phone mere seconds later.

Brian let it ring once more - it wouldn't do to appear too eager, despite Brown being on hold for the last few minutes - before pressing the buttons to accept the call and place the phone in speaker mode. He might as well let Theodore listen in as a small reward for all his number crunching; the man really had come through for him during this insanely busy month.

"Leo," he jovially greeted the CEO of Brown Athletics. "What-"

Brown cut in before Brian could get anything else out. "It's a fucking disaster!" the usually phlegmatic man yelled. "We've got to pull that commercial. Stat!"

Brian stomach sank. He couldn't recall ever hearing Brown curse before, not even during the dust-up after Drew Boyd came out. Shit. Something truly major must have gone wrong. 

When all he heard from the other end of the line was heavy breathing, he repeated, "What-" only to be cut off again.

"That cocky little shit," Brown growled before trailing off into a string of unintelligible profanity. 

Ted jolted upright as they listened to the incoherent rant from one of their major account holders. Then he raised his right hand to his mouth and started to chew on his fingernails. 

Brian stared in horror. His own nails still had a slight orange tint, despite all Manuela's efforts to fix them following yesterday's pumpkin trepanning. Brian'd nixed Manuela's suggestion about polishing his nails to hide the orange - that was further than he was willing to go - but he'd still been subjected to a lecture from the manicurist, in a thick German accent, about treating his hands better.

He'd never do something as awful as bite his nails, not even to get rid of the hideous orange tint. Fucking nasty habit, the adman thought in disgust, and it was gonna ruin the expensive manicure Theodore had just gotten.

When Ted looked at him, Brian made a slashing motion across his neck. 

An abashed look on his face, Ted shoved both hands behind his back.

While he waited for Brown to get it together and explain just what the problem was, Brian opened a browser on his Mac and entered the name of the up-and-coming forward for the Penguins they had used for Brown's new campaign. The kid really was a ‘cocky little shit' and had been a pain in the ass to work with while they shot the commercial that would air during NHL and NFL games over the Thanksgiving weekend. The annoying prima donna was the one Leo had insisted on though, because he was the leading scorer for the NHL and popular with the fans. Ice hockey rivaled football for the most popular sport in the Midwest, and with a lot of fans tuning in for both NHL and NFL games, it meant more exposure for Brown Athletics.

Penguins Star Forward Involved in Hit and Run blared the top result, a press release from ABC News. It was only the first in a long list of new entries - the next headline, Murphy's Latest Hat Trick, had a more ominous ring to it as a result.

The hockey-playing prick would have Murphy as his last name, Brian mused sourly. Fucking Murphy's law was in overdrive.

"Shit," Ted muttered over his shoulder, the puff of garlic-laden breath - a side effect of the man's lunch - flattening the fine hair on Brian's neck in completely the wrong way. "We're screwed."

"Back off," Brian whisper-growled.

Instantly, Brown, who shouldn't have been able to hear the terse, low-voiced exchange, queried sharply, "What was that?"

"I just googled Kevin Murphy," Brian replied honestly.

There was silence for a beat, and then Leo exploded, "It's already on the Internet? Murph told me he'd just been taken to the police station! How in blue blazes can it be on the Internet?"

Brian rolled his eyes, catching Theodore, who was still lurking behind him, doing the same. The Brown Athletics CEO couldn't quite get his head around the technological advances in the last decade. Seemingly instantaneous reporting happened all the time. Depending on what cell phone you had, you could even take video now, although the quality was likely to be crap.

Leo abruptly seesawed to a sort of shaky optimism. "Maybe it's not all that bad? We can't use that snot-nosed kid as the model for our new line of underwear, but if it's like Murphy said, maybe the damage can be contained. According to what the twat-"

Brian quickly slapped a hand over his mouth and coughed into his palm, doing his best to disguise the laugh that had welled up when he heard that word coming out of Brown's mouth. It was the first time he'd ever heard a straight guy use the ‘twat' slur for another straight guy. The adman couldn't help suspecting that Leo was just aping something he'd overheard Brian say, most likely in regard to Justin, although the affection that would've been clear in Brian's tone was most definitely missing in this case.

Ted added to the chorus of poorly disguised laughs, his shoulder shaking against Brian's as Brown went on.

"Murphy apologized for driving after having a second glass of wine - he knew he shouldn't have done that - but he was going really slow when he lost control of the wheel for a second and bumped into some old geezer. That guy knocked into someone else according to the kid."

That Murphy was a lying sack of shit went without saying, Brian figured, clicking on and perusing the Hat Trick news article while Leo spouted secondhand the bullshit he'd gotten from Kevin Murphy.

"He wanted me to get a corporate lawyer over there stat. I think he said he's at the Zone Three station, wherever that is-" 

Brian had no clue. He did his best to avoid police stations, only ending up there under duress, like when Mikey had mouthed off to a cop years ago or when he delivered Reichert's spunk to Horvath. Nothing good had come out of either of those encounters, and he couldn't imagine a trip to the police station ever being worthwhile.

"-so the cops won't try to railroad him," Brown wound up.

Interesting that Murphy had called Brown in search of an attorney instead of contacting the Penguins, with whom he was under contract. Sure, he had a contract with Kinnetik - not Brown Athletics, for fuck's sake - but that only spelled out his modeling obligations and the salary for a two-day photo and film shoot. If Leo Brown wasn't an ice hockey fanatic and hadn't insisted on meeting Kevin Murphy, the hockey player might not have even realized who he was doing the commercial for. He sure as shit wouldn't have cared; he'd stated more than once, always out of Brown's earshot, that he would never wear such second-rate underwear.

Ted cleared his throat, and before Brian could stop him, addressed Brown. "Er, Mr. Brown? This is Ted Schmidt. I, uh, happened to be in Bri- uh, Mr. Kinney's office when you-"

"Theodore, I've told you before to call me Leo," Brown chided, his voice calming and acquiring a teasing lilt.

Brian shook his head, baffled again at how well his CFO got along with Leo Brown. They'd evidently developed a rapport when Theodore fielded a call or two in Brian's absence, and their friendship was cemented when they met in person for the first time. Leo even called Ted by his full first name, which he'd never known anyone else except himself to do. Not even Blake.

If Brian hadn't been rattled by Leo's frantic call so late in the afternoon on Blackout Wednesday, he would've remembered how bizarrely well the two of them got along and just told Brown that Ted was in the office and that he was putting the call on speakerphone. Instead, yanked out of thoughts of how smoothly a shot of Beam would slide down his throat and fretting about too much tryptophan, he'd mishandled the matter.

Ted stuttered a little. "Uh, Leo. It's not like you could help from Chicago even if Murphy actually did work for you. Did you tell him that he should call the Penguins' coach? Not that they're responsible for him driving drunk, but they're bound to have an attorney on retainer for incidents like this."

"The punk hung up on me before I could tell him a damned thing," Brown commented testily.

Brian, who'd just refreshed the Safari browser, caught a new headline, Strip District Carnage. He began skimming the article, Ted reading over his shoulder. "Leo," he bit out, "this looks really bad. That little fucker must've been lying through his teeth. It says here that a suspect who fled the scene after driving up onto the sidewalk and hitting several people has been arrested," Brian read. "Witnesses say the Ferrari came flying down Penn Avenue, weaving all over the road. According to a source in the police department, the patrol cars had difficulty getting the driver to pull over."

"That was after he bumped into the pedestrian?"

"Yeah, it was a hit and run," Brian confirmed. "He didn't just ‘bump' into someone either. According to one of the witnesses, his Ferrari came barreling around a busy corner in the heart of the Strip District. He cut it too close-"

"Either he miscalculated the distance, or more likely, he was so fucking sloshed that he lost control of his car," Ted interjected.

Brian grunted in agreement. 

"The upshot," Ted somberly noted, "is that his Ferrari jumped the curb, mowing down people in the middle of the sidewalk."

"Jesus," Brown breathed out. "Are those people okay?"

"'Fraid not," Brian replied, a tension headache building at the base of his skull. Kinnetik might be on the edge of the Strip, but the gentrification of the onetime industrial area hadn't reached this far, stopping well short of the gayborhood. He hadn't heard any screaming sirens or seen flashing police lights, so the scene of the accident must be closer to downtown.

"All of them were transported to the hospital," Brian reported. "But according to that same witness, one of them-" He broke off, unable to relate the rest, the print on the computer screen blurring in front of his eyes.

He felt Theodore's hands come to rest on his shoulders, his friend lightly massaging through his suit jacket. Ted's voice was hoarse as he took over. "Leo, it sounds like one of them was just a little kid... and was hurt pretty bad."

"He wasn't moving," Brian choked out. "That's what one of the witnesses said." That could've been Gus, Brian couldn't help thinking. 

Brian violently pushed his chair away from his desk, knocking Ted out of the way. He had to call now and check that his sonnyboy was all right. It didn't matter that he didn't know whether it was a boy or a girl who'd been hurt or how old they were. It also didn't matter that Brian would surely have been contacted if it had been Gus... The need to hear his son's voice clawed at his throat and overwhelmed everything else.

When he stood up, digging his cell out of his pocket, Theodore reached over and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze before sitting down in Brian's chair. He took up the slack in the conversation with Leo, giving Brian privacy for his phone call.

Brian pressed the speed dial button for the munchers' house and paced back and forth on the far side of his office, listening to the phone ring on the other end. C'mon, pick up the damned phone, he silently urged as it rang a seventh time.

"Hello?" came a breathless voice when the phone was finally picked up midway through the eighth ring.

Although he'd intended to sound calm and unconcerned and simply ask to speak to his son, Brian instead barked into the phone, "Where's Gus?"

"Brian?" Melanie sounded bewildered and a little peeved by his brusqueness. "Um, he's with his friend Timmy. I think Corinne was going to take them for ice cream. Only a kid," she added wryly "would want ice cream when it's all of fifty-three degrees-"

Not Gus, not Gus, not Gus, the prayer drummed in his brain. "Where'd they go for the ice cream?" Brian cut the bulldyke off.

"Fuck, Brian. Was I supposed to interrogate Corinne about it?"

"Yes!" Brian shouted before reining himself in and asking as reasonably as he could manage, "Look, Mel, just do me a favor and call Corinne, okay?"

Melanie's voice rose an octave, worry tinging it. "Brian, what's going on?"

"Just call Corinne on your cell and check that they're eating the fucking ice cream. Please. I'll hold."

The ‘please' galvanized the lesbian into action. She could probably count the number of times he'd said please on one finger. "Just let me grab my cell," she grumbled before setting the receiver down with a clunk.

"Take the damned phone with you!" Brian shouted into his cell, but it did no good since Mel couldn't hear him. It was only as Brian switched his cell phone to his other hand so he could wipe his sweaty palm off on his Zegna trousers, uncaring if he stained the fine wool, that he recalled the munchers' landline wasn't cordless. Lindsay had wanted a chic, retro phone with a curly cord that she claimed went with their kitchen decor. Brian had thought it stupid at the time - cordless phones in all shapes and sizes were available, for fuck's sake - but now it had him fuming. The next time he was over at the lesbians' house, he was going to tear it out of the wall and replace it with a proper, cordless handset. Unless it involved nuts and bolts of any kind; in that case he'd hand it over to the bull-

The inane thoughts with which he was distracting himself came to a halt when he heard Melanie muttering impatiently, "Come on, Corinne. Pick up already."

The dyke must've brought her cell back to the kitchen, where he was waiting on the landline. That was sensible, Brian thought approvingly. Considerate as well, he acknowledged more begrudgingly. 

"Marie?" he heard Melanie ask. "Did I dial the wrong-"

One dyke was just as good as another, Brian thought snarkily.

"What?"

Brian clenched his cell phone so hard that the case creaked in warning. It took all he had not to scream down the line to find out if Gus was all right or not. Let his Sonnyboy be in the ice cream parlor, he wished fervently. Gus could have all the fuckin' ice cream he'd ever want as long as he was okay.

There was silence for fuck knew how long as Melanie listened to her friend. "Where are you now?" After a brief pause came, "Okay, we'll go there. Tell Corinne we'll meet her in ten."

"Brian?" Melanie spoke into the receiver a beat later, her voice clipped. "Everyone's okay, just shaken up. Corinne apparently had to do some fancy driving - first to evade a drunken asshole driving a sports car and then to keep from crashing into other vehicles." 

Jesus, that fucking piss-poor excuse for a human being had really almost taken out his son. "Gus?" he choked out.

"He's okay. He and Timmy got jostled around, but everyone had their seat belts on and Corinne wasn't going very fast since she was looking for a parking place. But-" The hard-as-nails lawyer let out a sob, which made Brian's gut knot up even more.

"Mel?" he prompted.

"Gus, uh, Gus saw the drunk driver jump the curb and plow into a bunch of people."

Even though he didn't know what Gus had actually seen or what had happened, all Brian could see for a moment was a bat swinging at Justin's head and blood spraying everywhere.

"Brian?" came the tinny sound of Melanie's voice calling his name. "Kinney! You there?"

"Yeah," he husked, clearing his throat and doing his best to will away the awful memory. "Yeah, I'm here. Where are you meeting your dyke friend?"

"The diner. They're on their way now. I'm gonna-" There was a brief pause before she swore tiredly. "Shit, Linds has the car. I'll call a taxi-"

"No you won't," Brian cut in. "I'll pick you up. I'm leaving the office now and will be there in a few."

"Thanks, Brian. Um, we'll have to take JR with us. Her car seat's in our car, though-"

"Fuck." Brian spun around and paced the other direction. This was one of the rare times when he regretted buying the Corvette. It was just about the worst vehicle imaginable for transporting kids. "We'll strap her in on top of you in the passenger seat and I'll drive slowly."

"Yeah, okay, that'll work," Mel agreed shakily. "I'll try and get Linds in the meant-"

Brian hung up while Mel was still speaking, strode over to his desk and interrupted the discussion between Brown and Ted. 

"Leo," he said heavily, "it seems my son witnessed the accident that prick Murphy caused."

Ted's eyes were wide with shock and concern as he stared at Brian.

"Jesus, Brian, I'm so sorry," came the instant response from Brown. "Is your son okay?"

"He's shaken up but apparently okay - physically." Brian's fists clenched as he thought about strangling the fucking hockey player. He didn't want Gus to have lasting nightmares from this. "I'm going to go check on him."

Melanie? Ted scribbled on a piece of paper.

Theodore must've caught bits of what Brian'd said to Mel, all while holding a conversation with Brown. Not bad multitasking, noted Brian absently. "Linds has the car," he mouthed at his friend.

"Leo, can you hold on a sec?" Ted asked.

"Of course. Brian, your man and I can hash things out. You go take care of-" Leo paused, obviously trying to dredge up a name he'd likely never heard.

"Gus. He's seven," Brian divulged.

The Brown Athletics CEO knew he was queer - Brian had never hidden it. In fact, after he secured the account when he was still with Vangard, he'd been upfront about it; better that than have Vance possibly use the information to undermine him, Brian had figured. It had paid off, Leo Brown sticking with him when he started Kinnetik.

If Brown was curious as to how Brian had come to have a son, he refrained from asking.

"Gus," Leo repeated, his voice warm with concern. "Go take care of him. Theodore and I will work out what to do about the commercial."

"Leo, I'll be right back," Ted informed him before muting the phone. He then stood up and fished around in his trouser pocket with one hand, coming out with a set of keys which he pressed into Brian's fingers. "Take the Benz," he urged. "There's no car seat, but Mel can sit in the back with JR, and they'll be safer than in your Corvette. My car is built like a tank."

Dammit, Brian thought, sighing. This meant he'd have to lend Ted his Corvette. Since Mikey's mission to evade Hunter's mom and the police, he hadn't let anyone other than Justin get behind the steering wheel.

Theodore chuckled at whatever he saw on Brian's face. "I can take a taxi to meet you, Bri."

"No." Brian sighed again as he took out his keys and handed them over. "Just don't wreck my car. If you do, you're-"

The older man preempted him. "Fired, I know. Don't worry; I'll deliver your ‘baby' safe and sound."

Brian grimaced, still embarrassed about the time Theodore had overheard him calling the damned car baby when it was being temperamental about starting.

Another laugh escaped his friend before he clapped a hand on Brian's arm. "Now go take care of my nephew," he ordered.

A fond smile stole across Brian's lips. Theodore, he remembered, had been pleased as punch when Gus recently called him ‘Uncle Teddy' for the first time. Brian didn't say anything, but he was still smiling slightly as he exited his office.

He arched an eyebrow at his assistant, who was just smoothing her skirt as she sat down in her chair. "You get all of that?"

Unflustered, Cynthia replied, "Every word, boss. The door was open," she added innocently.

As if she hadn't been the one to leave it cracked, Brian thought, halting in front of his able secretary's desk. He needed to get going but-

"Don't worry, Brian. I'm on it." Cynthia gestured at her computer screen, where Brian could see tabs open for several windows. "I'm checking whether there's anyone we could use to replace Kevin Murphy. If I find someone, I'll consult with Ted."

The woman was worth her weight in gold, which was just about how much Brian paid her.

Ordering, "Update me by email," he turned away from Cynthia's desk and strode out to the parking lot.

 

 

It took all Brian's control not to burn rubber on the way to the girls' house, but he didn't want to have to replace Ted's tires before he could return the Benz and reclaim his Vette. 

He turned into the driveway, the Mercedes jouncing a little, but didn't have to tap the horn before Melanie came out of the house with a howling JR in her arms, a large bag looped over one shoulder. Shit, thought Brian, who could hear the tyke's howls from inside the car. Jenny must be having more teething troubles.

The glaringly hot pink teething ring he noted Mel clenching in one hand as she neared the Benz confirmed his suspicion. Brian looked over his shoulder as Melanie opened the back door, vaguely worried that the kid was going to snot and slobber all over. Not that he'd have any trouble placing blame where it belong-

"Sorry," the frazzled bulldyke muttered, cutting into his thoughts. The apologetic shrug of one shoulder was abbreviated by her daughter's squirming.

"Doesn't help that I'm in a state over Gus," she observed. "I must be giving off bad vibes."

Maybe. Or it could just be JR taking after her father. According to Debbie, Michael had also started teething late, took forever for his teeth to grow in and was a ‘handful.' It was a strange thing to boast about, but Debbie and Mikey wouldn't shut up about it.

With a dismissive "Whatever," Brian turned his head back around to look out the windshield, a wary eye on the rearview mirror, through which he watched Melanie contend with the bawling, red-faced toddler.

He couldn't help - thank fuck - nor did he want to.

Brian was jonesing for a cigarette, but it wasn't worth the shit fit Theodore would throw to light up in the Mercedes.

"Fuck, I could use a fag," Melanie groused, wrestling with JR, who now had both feet firmly planted on the seat and refused to sit down.

Brian choked on nonexistent nicotine.

"Fug!" Jenny Rebecca screeched in imitation of her mom before emitting another wordless wail.

Lifting an eyebrow, Brian locked eyes with Mel in the rearview mirror.

Melanie's lips twisted in a wry smile. "I'm not even sure which F-word that's supposed to be."

"F-a-g isn't a curse word - it's who you call when the going gets tough."

That earned Brian an eye-roll from the bulldyke.

"But I'll put ten dollars in the ‘vakey fun' for you," Brian offered. "It'll make Sonnyboy happy."

"It will," Melanie agreed. "I'll have to ask the newbie at JKL to stop calling cigarettes f-a-g-s. I'm picking up bad habits."

Sweeping JR's legs out from under her, Mel at last got the toddler to sit down, and with one last hiccupping cry, Jenny went blessedly silent. She then gave Brian a gummy smile - startlingly similar to Gus' smile, if a bit toothier - and scooted over to sit behind him.

Mel looked at him in question, but Brian wasn't bothered. He didn't care where the junior she-wolf sat as long as the earsplitting wails stopped.

His untroubled attitude didn't even last till Brian had backed out of the girls' driveway. Right as the rear tires rolled over the edge of the cement apron and onto the pavement, something made Brian lurch.

Brian had just been thinking that the girls needed to have the driveway graded to decrease the drop, and for a split second, he was concerned that there was something wrong with the shock absorbers. Fuck, Ted was going to subject him to the mother of all tirades for dinging his car.

Then, right before the front wheels bumped over the curb, another kick banged into the seat and Brian recognized the cause of the first jolt. The kick didn't hurt, of course - Jenny wasn't even four yet - but it was annoying.

"JR!" Melanie remonstrated, placing an arm over the girl's legs.

Fat lot of good that did. The demon child just kept kicking. All the way to the fucking diner. 

An interminable, agonizingly long time later, Brian parked the Benz and turned off the engine. He almost slumped against the steering wheel, never so relieved to reach the familiar eatery. Not only would Gus be inside, but he'd be rid of Jenny. So to say. At least she wouldn't be sitting behind him anymore.

"Let's go see Gus, Jenny Rebecca," Melanie chirped, plainly trying to cajole JR into cooperating. Mel undid both their seat belts and started sliding across the back seat so they could get out on the side closest to the sidewalk.

"Noooo!" Jenny treated them to one of her Herculean wails when her mother tugged gently on her arm.

"Shit," Mel cursed under her breath. Brian blocked it out. In the last day and a half, he'd already underwritten the vacation fund to the tune of a couple hundred dollars; enough was enough.

"Uh, Brian, could you-"

Against his better judgment, Brian glanced in the rearview mirror again. Looking totally put out to have to ask for his assistance, the bulldyke gestured at the passenger door behind Brian.

"If you push and I pull?" Melanie suggested as she got out of the car.

Brian sighed and cast a weather eye at the traffic on Liberty Avenue. It was getting close to rush hour, and he didn't want some yahoo to remove the back door while he had it open. Taking advantage of a brief break in traffic, he got out of the car and shut the door behind him before opening the rear door.

Jenny glared at him and shot a foot into his midriff, leaving a footprint on his designer wear. "Noooo!" she shrieked again. "Noooo!"

Gritting his teeth, Brian shoved the ungrateful brat toward Mel, who grabbed hold of her daughter and pulled her out of the Mercedes. Melanie popped the fugly teething ring into JR's mouth, growling, "Don't you dare," when the girl tried to spit out the frilly pink thing.

Brian hastily shut the back door and plastered himself against the Benz as a Ford pickup with Barden Bumpers came tearing past, way too close to the parked vehicles on the side of the road. The fortyish driver had an exultant look on his face, like revving his car along Liberty Avenue was the best thing ever.

"Fucking cops are never around when you need them," Melanie groused when Brian joined her on the sidewalk. Jiggling JR, who was screaming around the teething ring, Mel coughed. She was probably trying to expel a lungful of the exhaust the Ford had left in its wake. 

"Case of arrested development," Brian informed her. "The jackass shouldn't be allowed behind the wheel."

"At least he didn't gouge Teddy's car," Melanie observed. "I can't believe Ted let you drive his baby."

Brian stared at her in disbelief as he pressed the fob to lock the doors. "I traded him my Vette."

Her angry cries tapering off to whimpers, a madly wriggling Jenny stretched out her arms to Brian. Tightening her hold, Melanie frowned. "Yeah, but Ted worked years for this car. He saved practically every penny." 

All he did, Brian thought a trifle sourly, was rescue the GLC from a fucking failure of a Carnivale. They weren't grateful, but it did fund his purchase of the Corvette.

Smirking at how he'd put one over on Tannis and Philip, while also raising desperately needed funds for the AIDS hospice and a homeless shelter for teens, Brian lifted JR out of Melanie's arms. The tot had good taste, wanting to be with him.

Jenny promptly spit out the teething ring, which bounced off Brian and landed on the Mercedes' front passenger window, from where it gradually oozed its way down the door. It left a gross brownish-red streak behind, which, Brian noticed, matched the stain on his tailored Gieves and Hawkes shirt.

"Your spawn," accused Brian. "You explain it to Theodore." Jenny was quiet now, probably because she'd gotten rid of the pacifier, which had dropped into the gutter. Good riddance, thought Brian; the street sweeper could deal with the pink thing. Making sure the demon child was cradled securely in his arms, he stomped over to the diner's front entrance and shouldered open the door.

"Daddy!" a shrill cry greeted him. Brian didn't see Gus anywhere at the front of the diner, which was surprisingly uncrowded, so he strode toward the back in search of his offspring. He finally spied Gus, who'd stood up on a banquette so Brian could spot him. Clambering down, the boy slammed into Brian.

"Daddy!" Gus repeated, clasping Brian's leg tightly.

"Here," Mel said, "let me have her." She took JR, and despite her own anxiety, let Brian have a moment with the boy.

Brian absently thought that they really had come a long way; just a couple years ago and the bulldyke wouldn't have given way to him like that, no matter how much Gus wanted his father.

He hefted Gus up in his arms and buried his face in the hair that was so like his own.

"I wushn't scared," Gus mumbled into Brian's neck.

That patently wasn't true, but Brian wasn't about to call him on it.

"Jesus, Mel, it was awful," he heard the woman standing next to the booth say as she set down her cell phone and shrugged off her coat. "This car came hurtling out of nowhere, heading right up our rear. I thought we were goners."

"You done good, Corinne," Melanie responded, wrapping her free arm around her shaken friend.

"Mom was like a race-car driver!" the other little boy shouted, moving an arm in what was doubtless meant to imitate evasive maneuvers.

Over Gus' head, Brian studied his son's playmate. The freckled carrot-top had a couple of teeth missing in the front but not next to each other. Unlike Gus, he didn't have a lisp. What was his name? Tommy? Or maybe Jimmy? Whatever the kid's name, Brian didn't think he was as unaffected as he was trying to appear. There was an unnatural pallor to his skin and a frenetic edge to his speech that Brian would bet came from more than just a simple sugar high. If the boys had even gotten the ice cream they were craving, Brian just now realizing he didn't know if that had ever happened.

"Best part." Corinne summoned a wobbly smile. "Timmy's started calling me mom."

That was it: Timmy. Brian made a mental note of the name.

"Vroom!" Timmy yelled. "Mom went left and then right and then left again!"

Corinne laughed weakly, visibly rattled. "There was no ‘vrooming.' I was looking for parking, so I wasn't going very fast. I didn't have to swerve that many times either."

"How many then?" Melanie asked the question on Brian's mind.

"Once or twice," Corinne admitted, shrugging one shoulder.

"Christ," Mel breathed out, drawing back just far enough so that she could stare into her friend's eyes. "Thanks for keeping my son safe, 'Rinne. You're my hero."

Melanie planted a kiss on Corinne's lips.

That was one thing he liked about Mel, thought Brian. The bulldyke wasn't shy about giving another woman a kiss. Unlike most munchers, who acted like kissing any woman besides their lover on the mouth was tantamount to sacrilege. Gay men generally knew better than to get emotional about something that was just a greeting or a farewell, which set them apart from dykes.

Since Corinne was a former beau, kissing could be a bit dicey. But it wasn't like Linds was around to observe the kiss, and besides, Brian had a feeling his blonde friend might plant one on Corinne herself after the way she'd safeguarded Gus. Hell, Brian was almost tempted to kiss her.

Her face pinkening, Corinne demurred, "It was my kid too."

"Yeah," Melanie agreed, glancing across the table at Timmy. "But I know you weren't just worried about him."

Brian watched as Timmy climbed up on the seat, grabbed the Heinz ketchup bottle, flipped open the cap and held it upside down. "Gus? Wanna make catsup art?" he asked. "We can draw us in Mom's car."

A muffled sound from Gus indicated his interest. Stirring, he loosened his clasp on Brian's neck and rubbed his face against the neck and the collar of his dad's shirt.

It wasn't like his sonnyboy could add much to JR's damage, Brian mused wryly. Regardless of his dry cleaner's claim that they could ‘refresh anything and make it look new,' he suspected his Gieves and Hawkes dress shirt, if not his entire suit, was destined for the trash.

"You can put me down, Daddy," Gus informed Brian. "'kay?"

Brian wasn't ready to let go - he wanted to hold his son for the rest of the afternoon - but after murmuring a quiet, "Love you," into soft brunet strands, he set Gus on his feet.

Gus gave him a gap-toothed smile. "Love you, Daddy."

Brian didn't care if Gus ruined every single one of his designer suits. As long as he was okay. That was all that mattered.

Brian's eyebrows rose when, after scrambling up on the banquette next to his friend, Gus squeezed the bottle and began drawing something on the table. It made sense that ‘catsup art' would involve ketchup, but who in the heck had taught the boys to draw directly on the tabletop?

Neither of the women was watching what the boys were doing, Corinne swiping at the tears welling up in her eyes, while Mel patted her on the back. "I held it together with the cops," Corinne explained, "and I even got through talking to Marie, but now..." 

She trailed off, shrugging helplessly, before resuming, "I downplayed everything with Marie because I didn't want her to go ballistic."

The woman had every right to fall apart, thought Brian. He wanted to himself - by yelling at inept staff and then fucking someone, but he wasn't at the office and there was no one in sight who was remotely fuckable. Where was his blond when Brian needed him?

Shit. He hadn't called Justin. His partner would go insane with worry if he heard about this from someone else.

Brian had just stuck his hand in his trouser pocket, his fingers closing around his cell phone, when the bell over the diner door jingled. The tinny noise was followed by an unmistakable voice announcing, "I figured a lemon bar would be just the thing, you know?"

"What I wouldn't give for a metabolism like yours, Sunshine," another distinctive voice responded. 

Brian turned to see Debbie patting her midsection as she headed toward the counter, where the cake stand with the lemon bars was prominently placed.

The redhead shook her head regretfully. "Once I had Michael, everything traveled south. All I have to do nowadays is look at food, and it gloms right on to me."

"I like you just as you are," Justin tactfully noted. "And, uh, so does Carl." 

He said the last bit a little warily, doubtless concerned about being subjected to tales of hetero shenanigans. Debbie had never quite cottoned on to no one wanting to hear about parental figures going at it. Or she just ignored the gritted teeth and sighs of disgust; that would be more like Deb.

Justin looked up right then, a smile spreading across his face when he saw Brian.

Brian smiled in return but before he could take a step toward his blond, Gus raced past him and caromed into Justin.

"Papa!"

The enthusiastic greeting and the frantic edge to it had obviously caught Justin by surprise. Brian's sonnyboys were always glad to see each other, but they'd just spent most of the previous day together.

Justin glanced over at him but it was too late for Brian to discreetly fill him in.

The blond crouched down to bring his face level with Gus', and despite all the shit going down this afternoon, Brian had to smile. Gus was shooting up like a weed, so Justin didn't have to lower himself very far. Whenever Brian ragged Justin about being short, it generated the desired protest: ‘I have the inches where it counts!' Brian would then egg Justin on to prove it, to both their satisfaction.

"Hey, buddy, what's going on?" Justin asked. He passed his sleeve across Gus' countenance, removing fresh tear tracks and allowing the boy to pretend he hadn't been crying.

Justin's effort was in vain.

More tears started rolling down Gus' cheeks when Debbie squatted down and asked, "Gussy, honey, what's wrong?" 

Gus had been stoic about his grandma calling him Gussy up till now, but Brian suspected he'd object one of these days. This time the nickname seemed to be what Gus needed to hear, the boy immediately wrapping his arms around Debbie and burying his head in her capacious bosom.

"It was scary," admitted Timmy, who was now standing next to Gus, looking like he wanted to launch himself at Debbie as well.

"Scary?" Deb freed one arm from Gus and held it out in invitation. 

Timmy burrowed in right next to Gus.

Debbie had the biggest heart, Brian mused fondly. She always had time for another ‘boy,' no matter what age.

"We almost got creamed," Corinne muttered in a shaky voice. She moved closer and stopped next to Brian, Mel unobtrusively supporting her friend with a hand under her arm.

His head whipping toward Brian, Justin mouthed, "Creamed?"

The motherly waitress' head also shot up, but then JR let out a piercing shriek and distracted her. "Gamma!" the little girl screamed.

Her eyelids at half mast and her head resting on Mel's shoulder, it had appeared Jenny was worn out from her teething tantrum. Now she suddenly was wide awake and focused on getting to her ‘gamma.' The girl was going through a possessive stage and didn't like it when anyone else got her grandmother's attention, especially when it was her brother.

"Gamma!" JR screamed again, wriggling madly, like a wind-up doll that just got its crank turned.

"Jenny Rebecca!" Melanie remonstrated. "You can wait a minute for your grandmother's attention."

Unfortunately, Debbie undermined Mel's efforts to teach JR acceptable behavior. "I've always got time for my granddaughter," she claimed, standing and outstretching her arms.

"Gamma!" the child yelled again, this time happily.

A big heart, Brian reminded himself, but one that had a definite bias toward her biological grandchild. 

Gus obviously recognized that too. Swiping at tear-stained cheeks, he stepped back, tugging Timmy along with him so that Debbie could get to Jenny. A hurt expression flickered across Gus' face, but then he shrugged in resignation.

"Jenny'll get over this soon," Debbie assured the two seven-year-olds, proving she wasn't quite as oblivious as Brian had assumed. "She's just a little needy right now."

That caused Brian to raise an eyebrow. Needier than the grandson who'd nearly been sideswiped?

"I would've been scared too." Justin put one arm around Gus and the other around Timmy. He might not have much to go on - only Corinne's ‘almost creamed' - but he somehow knew what to say.

"You would?" asked Gus doubtfully. "Mommy and Mama are alwaysh saying how brave you are."

"I'll let you in on a secret," said Justin in a conspiratorial tone. Both boys leaned closer. "You can be brave and scared at the same time."

Timmy frowned. "That doesn't make sense."

"Being brave doesn't mean you're not scared," Justin elaborated. "It just means you keep going anyway."

"Keep goin'? Whaddaya mean?" Gus asked, brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"Well." Justin paused for a moment. "You didn't run and hide, did you?"

Both boys shook their heads.

"Did you scream your heads off? Make it hard on" - he shot a glance at Corinne - "your mom, Timmy?"

"Nuh-uh," Timmy replied. "Mom was busy keepin' us safe."

"Yeah," Gus chimed in. "We didn't wanna dishtrack her."

"That's what keeping going is." Justin smiled at Gus and Timmy. "Doing the best you can. Just like Timmy's mom." He turned his smile on Corinne, mouthing, "Thank you."

Redirecting his attention to the two boys, he stood, asking, "How about I get us a game or a couple sketch pads from the break room?"

"Um." Timmy scuffed a shoe against the lino.

"We're doin' cashup art," Gus supplied for his friend.

He'd been able to ignore the mispronunciation when Timmy said ‘catsup' - while holding a Heinz bottle! - but Brian couldn't hide a wince this time. What yinzer would say ‘catsup'? No one from the Burgh should pronounce the name for the condiment like that. Chasing an account with one of the big three condiment makers or their parent companies didn't make Brian biased. It was just... this was a Heinz town, and sure as shootin', the diner would never stock a rival catsup product.

It was only when Brian looked again at his sonnyboy, the gap between his teeth on display as Gus smiled, that it dawned on him. It was the lisp that was turning ‘ketchup' into ‘cashup.' Once his son's permanent teeth came in, the problem would disappear. Thank fuck. 

"Yeah?" Justin's face lit up at the mention of ketchup art.

Brian's eyes narrowed. Was Justin the one who'd started Gus and Timmy's ketchup fetish?

"Did you get an old newspaper from Kiki?" 

Maybe he should cut his partner a break, Brian mused. Justin had apparently taught the boys to draw on something disposable.

His nose wrinkling in distaste, Justin added, "Or some of the brown paper towels from the bathroom?"

Huh. Brian lifted an eyebrow. Who would have guessed the cheap-ass paper towels might actually have a use?

"Um... no?" Gus' eyes shifted to one side.

"No?" A blond eyebrow arched in question.

"We didn't have any kinda towels," Timmy confided, "so we did what you told us to."

Flummoxed, Justin echoed, "What I..."

"We made do," Gus seconded his friend's assertion. 

"Yeah. Come see." Timmy scampered over to the booth, Gus at his heels.

"When did they have time to draw anything?" Corinne wanted to know as she followed after the boys, Melanie at her side.

"Dunno." Mel sounded equally puzzled.

Brian snorted, amused. The bulldyke should've figured out by now that although Gus was basically a good kid, he had a streak of deviltry. The good news was that Gus appeared to be recovering from this afternoon's trauma.

"That-" Corinne gasped as she looked at the boys' artwork. She wavered, leaning heavily against Mel, who'd gone a chalky white.

He was wrong, Brian thought, also turning pale as he took in Gus and Timmy's drawing. He hadn't paid attention before, other than to briefly consider calling the boys out for using the tabletop as their easel.

The ketchup stood out starkly against the off-white, gray-speckled formica. Those must be splotches of blood, he realized, next to a crumpled figure, which had an arm and leg bent in the wrong direction. Christ, could that be the kid Murphy had hit? The one that could have been Gus? Brian groped for the wooden divider between the booths, needing something to brace himself against.

Brian looked around for his blond - he could use Justin's help to deal with the grisly scene - and discovered he'd gotten boxed in. Mel and Corinne were blocking him to the front and left, while Debbie, holding JR, was on his right. He could back up and move around to the other side of the booth, where Justin was standing next to Gus, but that would hardly be inconspicuous. Or in accord with Brian usual smoothness.

"Honeybun, that's not for your eyes," Debbie declared, turning Jenny's head away from the table.

"Wanna see!" the little girl demanded, squirming in Debbie's hold. Not that she got anywhere with Deb in full-on grandmother mode. Debbie cupped her fingers over the eye that wasn't pressed into her shoulder, preventing JR from seeing anything.

Gus looked at the drawing with a critical eye. "We need mushard for the big ye- yerro- uh, car."

Brian wasn't sure if the grimace on Gus' face was from his inability to correctly say ‘yellow' or from a memory associated with the drawing.

"It wouldn't be the right yellow," Timmy noted morosely. "The car was like a-" 

"Bumblebee," Gus filled in for his friend, enunciating carefully.

Timmy nodded in agreement.

Justin looked almost as shaky as Brian felt, but he kept it together. "That what you saw?" he asked. "Did somebody get hit?"

"Yeah," Timmy answered. "Some guy in a sports car, a bright yellow one. He, like, wiped out a buncha people. He almost took us out too. Right, Mom?" He looked up at Corinne for corroboration.

"Bumblebee," Corinne repeated what Gus had just said. "Zooming right at me."

"He didn't get you though," Melanie told her friend, running her hand soothingly down her back. "'Cause you were so quick to respond."

"Those other people though..." Corinne trailed off, looking at the ketchup rendition of the incident. "They weren't so lucky." Side-eyeing the drawing, she whispered, "Timmy, I wish you hadn't done that."

"I agree," Mel chimed in. "Gus, no one wants to see-"

Justin cut her off. "I know it's hard for you to look at, but it's a normal reaction. After the ba-"

His voice cracking, Justin paused. Not because he was trying to avoid the word ‘bashing,' Brian was certain. The girls had made the decision years ago not to hide the bashing or other acts of violence from Gus and Jenny. They rarely spoke of it, and they didn't go into detail around the kids, but they didn't hide that it had happened.

Justin tried again. "After the bashing, art really helped me... cope. Not right away because I couldn't draw for a long time, but later. Prom and the bombing still show up in my art, you know?" 

Corinne nodded. She might not have known Justin at the time, but the bashing had rocked the gay community. Not that violence against fags had been anything new, but the bashing of a seventeen-year-old white kid from an exclusive private school at his prom made the news in a big way. Unlike other crimes with gay victims. Even after Deekins became mayor, other acts of violence against gays hadn't rated more than a brief mention, until the bombing.

"Assholes," Debbie muttered.

Brian grunted. If they didn't have Horvath in their corner, the bombing probably would have turned into a cold case by now. Carl made sure that it wasn't dead-filed, periodically pushing his team of investigators to take another look.

Gus turned away from the tomatoey artwork and wrapped his arms around Justin. "Love you," he mumbled into the denim of Justin's jeans.

"Thanks, buddy." Looking a little misty-eyed, Justin swallowed hard. "Love you too."

Weird, they must have the heater set wrong, Brian thought, blinking to clear his eyes. The forced air didn't usually affect his vision.

"Anyway," said Justin, looking over at Corinne and Melanie, "I don't think you should be worried about the ketchup art. Gus and Timmy are just processing what they experienced." Glancing down at Gus who was still attached to him like a limpet, he suggested, "Maybe we could clear it away though, huh?"

Gus nodded against Justin's waist, but Timmy screwed up his mouth, not quite objecting but also not acquiescing.

"If we clear off the table, you can get the ice cream you wanted," Melanie jumped in.

Timmy's moue slowly morphed into a smile.

"It may not be Klavon's, but the diner makes a good sundae," Corinne wheedled.

So that was where they'd been headed. Fucking carb city. "The banana split's not bad," Brian nudged the boys toward something marginally healthier than a sundae. The bananas didn't add that much healthy content, but a split would still be better than just ice cream smothered in chocolate syrup.

Justin licked his lips, which made Brian want to kiss and shake him at the same time. His partner was likely contemplating switching from lemon bars to a banana split. No matter what calorie-laden food he consumed, Justin didn't put on weight. He didn't even have to work out regularly to maintain his trim figure, which Brian thought was deeply unfair. Never mind fucking annoying.

He wasn't surprised to hear Justin say, "I could go for one of those. But I prefer a banana split with fresh strawberries-"

"Me too," Gus piped up.

"-so I'll wait till strawberry season."

Gus nodded. Based on past experience, Brian expected his son to go for whatever his Jushun did.

"A slice of warm apple pie with a dollop of vanilla ice cream on top" - Justin smiled at Gus and Timmy - "would hit the spot, I reckon." He rubbed his stomach right as it let out a gurgle.

"Thash what I want!" spoke up Gus, his stomach also rumbling.

"Yeah, pie!" Timmy thirded the pie plan.

How'd he end up partnered with a bottomless pit? Apple pie did sound good though. Maybe he'd eat a couple of bites - ones that weren't covered in ice cream - to save Justin from all those calories.

"Hold that thought," said Justin, backing away from the booth. For a second Brian thought Justin had read his mind, but then he realized Justin must be speaking to Gus and Timmy.

"Pie!" JR shrieked as Justin drew abreast of her and Debbie. "Wif ice cream!"

Justin winced, undoubtedly half-deafened like the rest of them.

Shaking his head in what Brian took as an effort to restore his hearing, Justin trotted over to the pass-through and stuck his head into the kitchen.

Gus gave Jenny a narrow-eyed look, although Brian suspected it had little to do with the decibel the girl had reached; the boy had to be used to his sister's high-pitched shrieks by now.

Gus relaxed after a moment, leaving Brian clueless as to why he'd been upset with JR. "Yeah," Gus agreed, shrugging at Jenny. "Pie."

Justin slid in between the two dykes and Gus and wiped up the ketchup art with a damp rag before drying off the tabletop with another cloth.

"How about signing back on, Sunshine?" Debbie asked, smiling at the blond.

"Huh?" Justin replied.

"You'd make good tips. You always did better than the rest of us," the redheaded waitress went on persuasively. "It'd only be for a few days, until I can find a new busboy."

"No can do, Deb," Brian answered for Justin. "I need Justin's help." He avoided specifying the kind of help he had in mind.

Although he looked surprised, Justin didn't gainsay Brian.

"Oh, well." Debbie sighed. "It was worth a try. If fuckin' Betty wasn't on vacation, it wouldn't be so bad."

Melanie chuckled. "Stay here over going to Palm Springs? Soak up some sun instead of this shit..." The bulldyke cast a disparaging glance out the window at the overcast sky.

"Mama!" Gus held out a hand, palm up.

Brian smirked. His sonnyboy must be recovering from the trauma if he was back to demanding money.

Clearly happy to see Gus regaining his ebullience, Mel shook her head and told the boy, "I'll put five bucks in the ‘vakey fun' later, okay?"

"Ten," Gus countered. "For Grandma too."

"What?" asked a baffled Deb.

"Don't ask," Mel said on a sigh. "Okay, ten," she told Gus. "But that's it, hear?"

Satisfied, Gus nodded before elbowing Timmy and then scooting into the booth next to his friend.

When Brian heard Timmy whisper, "You're so lucky," he figured Gus must have clued his friend in about the vacation fund. But not Debbie, although that hadn't stopped Gus from milking Mel for his grandma's curse. Considering the stream of ‘fucks' that tended to fall out of Deb's mouth, Brian suspected Gus would regret settling for a measly ten dollars.

"Anyway," Melanie picked up where she'd left off, "the Dinah party is normally just for a weekend in the spring, but this is a weeklong, once-in-a-lifetime, autumn extravaganza. Who wouldn't want to go?"

Me, thought Brian, and going by his paler than usual face and the carefully neutral expression, Justin didn't seem entranced either.

"I'll stick with Carl," Debbie announced, which, honestly, wasn't much more palatable than the idea of attending California's muncher fest.

"Hey!" shouted an irate customer from the front of the diner. "I've been waiting for forty minutes. Where the fuck are my pork chops?"

"The chops'll go on the grill as soon as Pete catches the porker. Last I saw," Deb cackled, "they were heading south on Sixth."

Justin clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes dancing with mirth as he glanced at Brian.

Brian was left to speculate where the pork chops might come from.

"Why the fuck do I come here?" the hangry man muttered.

Moron, thought Brian. He'd be lucky to get his chops before dinner time.

Her back to the irate customer, Deb gave Jenny a lipsticky smooch on one cheek before handing her off to Melanie. Then, picking up the rags Justin had used to clean the table, she whirled around and trotted toward the kitchen. "Pie and ice cream coming right up."

Typical. Debbie had decided everyone was going to have pie and ice cream, whether they wanted it or not. Everyone except him, that is. Deb knew better than to bring him a slice of pie topped with empty calories.

What Brian was desperately short of and could use right now was caffeine. Fucking intern that picked up coffee on the way into Kinnetik had called in sick this morning, causing everyone who did show to gripe that the kid was already suffering from ‘Drinksgiving' syndrome. To top it all off, the fancy cappuccino maker that Cynthia had insisted was a necessity for the office had gone on the fritz - some kind of bizarre coffee machine solidarity with Brian's kaput DeLonghi? - leaving him caffeine deprived. 

Lauren, a former intern who'd just graduated from Pitt and was hired as a junior copywriter, had gone on a coffee run, but one latte didn't go very fucking far. No one else had been interested in going out in the inclement weather, so Brian'd had to suffer for the rest of the day.

"Coffee!" Brian called out a moment after Deb vanished from sight. Shit. His timing was off.

"I could use a jolt," Corinne muttered wearily.

Justin headed off again, and the next thing Brian knew, the blond was setting a tray with glasses of milk as well as cups, saucers, spoons and a creamer on the coffee table. 

"Revisiting your glory days after all?" Brian snarked as Justin began filling cups with the all-important elixir.

Setting the milk in front of Gus, Timmy and JR, Justin then placed cups and saucers in front of the lesbians, who'd sat down opposite the boys, Melanie bouncing a fretful JR.

With a cheeky smile, Justin informed Brian, "I work for tips."

Brian smirked. He had just the ‘tip' to satisfy his blond.

This time Justin did read his mind. His smile broadening into his trademark grin, Justin murmured, "That would be acceptable... if you're being versatile."

Brian was instantly on board. "Tonight," he husked. Once they got Brown Athletics sorted, he was gonna need the stress relief that only a good fuck could provide.

The sludge the diner passed off as coffee would have to keep him going until then. Brian started to reach for the sugar canister, but then backed off when he saw that the lesbians were trading it back and forth. Rather than battle them for it, he snatched the one from the next booth over and poured a smidge into his joe. Way less than either Mel or Corinne had dumped into their coffee, Brian was sure. But then, dykes needed sweetening.

His satisfaction abruptly vanished. Justin clearly intended to claim the spot next to Gus - he was currently pouring coffee into a cup he'd placed there - which left only one open seat. Right next to the bulldyke and her now squirming offspring. No way was Brian gonna serve as a kickboxing target for Jenny again this afternoon.

Fortunately, two skinny seven-year-olds and one slender blond didn't take up much space. "Shove over," Brian ordered, nudging Justin with his hip.

Quickly lifting the carafe away from his partly filled cup, Justin objected, "I've gotta-"

"Deb'll take care of it," Brian dismissed Justin's protest. Tugging his partner down to sit next to him, he took the carafe and added more java to Justin's cup. He quirked an eyebrow at the younger man, filling it all the way to the brim when Justin didn't indicate he wanted to add cream.

Unlike at the munchers' house yesterday, Justin didn't usually add cream, claiming it diluted the coffee too much - a point on which he and Brian were in agreement. Where they disagreed was in regard to the minuscule amount of sugar Brian put in his coffee - the only thing that made the diner's swill palatable. He put even less into a good cup of joe, only adding enough to reduce the acidity.

Brian watched in horrified fascination as Justin raised the cup to his lips, blew on the liquid and then took a sip. "Ah," Justin sighed, sitting back in his seat, his eyes closed in bliss as he took another swallow.

Maybe the coffee hadn't been made for long? Hopeful, Brian took a cautious sip from his own cup. "Gross," he growled, sending an accusing look at his partner.

"Geez, what is this?" the bulldyke seconded Brian's assessment, lowering the cup she was holding. Her face screwed up in distaste, Melanie demanded, "Someone siphon that out of their gas tank?"

"It's not so bad," Corinne asserted, looking almost as blissed out as Justin as she quaffed from her cup.

Brian and Melanie stared in disbelief.

"I reckon working here as a busboy killed Sunshine's taste buds, but what's your excu-" Mel stopped speaking mid-word. "Uh, never mind," she stuttered.

Corinne smiled at her erstwhile girlfriend. "I worked at Starbucks back in college."

Melanie's stared blankly at Corinne. "You did?"

Corinne nodded. "Yep. Saw me all the way through grad school."

No wonder the woman's taste buds were dead. The ubiquitous coffee store chain produced worse slop than the diner, even considering the bitter brew Brian was currently swilling. Brian couldn't imagine inhaling it 24/7.

"Pie à la mode!" Debbie's booming voice thankfully cut short further discussion of unpalatable coffee.

Deb distributed plates loaded with pie and ice cream, the one she plunked down in front of Justin containing extra-large portions and two spoons.

Brian raised an eyebrow and sardonically inquired, "You got something to share, Sunshine? You eating for two?"

Justin snorted.

"I thought for sure you'd knocked Sunshine up," Debbie threw in, grinning broadly.

"Right." Brian rolled his eyes. "And when did my super sperm perform this miracle?"

"It's what made you propose," the redhead elaborated, going all misty-eyed. "I read that wedding invitation and was sure you musta impregnated Sunshine."

A beet-red Justin sputtered helplessly as he dug into the pie with one of the spoons.

Thank fuck Gus was engrossed in talking to Timmy, or his sonnyboy would doubtless insist right now was the right time for a wedding. It was Brian's fault for fobbing his son off with something vague about ‘waiting for the right time' when Gus wanted to know why he didn't ask his Jushun to marry him again.

Brian still wasn't sure where that verbal sleight of hand had come from. He should've just told Gus his daddies weren't the marrying kind. 

"Anyways, I thought you might like your own spoon - for a change," Deb snarked.

Brian covered his lover's mouth with his and curled his tongue around the spoonful of pie and ice cream Justin had just placed on his tongue. Sucking the pie into his mouth, Brian slurped it down, ran his tongue across Justin's lower lip and gave Deb a sweet smile. 

"What for?"

Before the redhead could retort, the bad-tempered customer yelled, "Where's the salt? Someone forgot to salt these cutlets. What kind of eatery is this anyway?"

Kiki clomped over to the aggrieved man in her size twelve pumps, snatching a salt shaker from another table.

Looking mollified, the man outstretched a hand for the shaker. Kiki, however, deftly evaded him and upended the salt over his pork, a white shower cascading down.

"What the fuck?" shouted the man, looking at the now salt-encrusted meat in dismay.

"You've been coming here for years," Kiki growled, a menacing glare pinning the jerk to his seat.

The guy did look vaguely familiar, but he also had an unmemorable face and build. He could be anywhere from forty to fifty, Brian estimated. He'd better lose the paunch he was developing if he ever wanted to score; being overweight was the death knell for a gay man. Unless he was Theodore, mused Brian, remembering the fat phase his friend had gone through. Maybe he should have Ted put a word in the ear of that freakin' weird former trick who went for older fat dudes.

"You could've gotten up and taken the salt from the next table," Kiki lectured the pork lover. "Or at least asked politely. But no, you had to act like a jerk. You wanted salt? You got salt."

And a heart attack on the way, mused Brian. How anyone could consider a diner meal to be under-salted was beyond him.

"Now shut the fuck up and eat," Kiki finished up.

Brian was surprised when the man did shut up. Clearly abashed, cheeks burning, Mr. Pork Chop smeared ketchup over his meat, muttering, "I would've salted the sauce anyway."

Deb pulled a chair over to their booth, wooden legs squealing against the lino. Laughing, she noted, "Michael likes to salt his ketchup too."

Mikey's gastronomical habits weren't part of what Brian loved about his friend.

Justin made a gagging sound, looking a little sickly when Brian glanced at him. "Pie went down the wrong pipe," he professed, his expression pained and pitiful when Debbie looked at him, eyebrows raised in challenge.

"Better to just let Brian nick all of it," Deb stated knowingly. "Then you won't choke on it."

Jesus, what Brian wouldn't give to be able to pull off that ‘butter wouldn't melt in my mouth' innocence. He'd have to be blond to carry it off though, and Brian's lone foray into bleaching his hair years ago hadn't gone well. He'd sworn off blonds, and except for his already-established friendship with Lindsay, he'd stuck with it. Until he came along.

Fucking twink.

As she sat down, Debbie glanced at the two seven-year-olds, who were busy shoveling ice cream and pie into their mouths while talking excitedly about something.

Brian only caught one word - Tatanka - but that was enough to clue him in. He and Justin smiled at one another, Brian thinking proudly that both he and Gus had done a pretty fuckin' bang-up job during yesterday's pumpkin-carving experiment.

Deb nodded, and apparently satisfied that Gus and his friend were occupied with their own conversation, planted her elbows on the table and fixed Corinne with a piercing gaze. "How the fu-" she started when she was forestalled by JR.

"Gamma!" squealed Jenny, squirming madly in an effort to reach her grandmother. "Sceam!"

Ice cream was like a lodestone for the toddler, who scarfed down anything sweet that she could get her hands on. Just like her dad. 

"Of course you get ice cream, honeybun," Debbie cooed, removing her elbows from the table and relieving Mel of the wriggling child. "Pie too."

Two dimples appeared in JR's chubby cheeks. "Pie," she agreed with a smile, her brown eyes lighting up.

And that was how the girl far too often ended up overindulged, Brian thought. That smile was fucking irresistible. 

Not that there was anything wrong with her having a child-sized portion of ice cream and pie along with everyone else. But knowing Deb, she'd feed the entire oversized serving that she'd dished onto her plate to Jenny, and then the little girl would be on a sugar high for hours.

That'd be the munchers' problem, thank God.

JR ensconced on her lap, Debbie scooped up pie and ice cream and raised the spoon to her granddaughter's mouth. To no one's surprise, the girl managed to get her mouth around the large spoonful. 

"Now," Deb asked in her blunt manner, "How the fuck did you almost end up being roadkill?"

Even Brian wouldn't have asked so crudely, whether or not he knew the people involved.

"Jesus," muttered Melanie, scowling, presumably at Debbie's tactlessness.

Long seconds ticked past with no one saying anything.

"Well?" the redhead demanded.

"I was looking for a parking place," Corinne related, "while Timmy and Gus jabbered about what kind of ice cream they wanted. They kept changing their minds." She smiled over at her son, who looked up and grinned in return.

"It was really crowded along the Strip, so I was about to check out one of the side streets near Klavon's for a parking spot. Then, out of nowhere, this yellow car appeared in my rear view, getting closer really fast."

"Mom was mad about the ‘asshole speeder,'" Timmy piped up.

Corinne nodded her agreement. "I thought it must be an out-of-towner who wasn't familiar with the area and hadn't taken note of the speed limit. I wanted to give them a piece of my mind. I mean, they were flying down the road, not paying any attention to all the people wandering around."

That was business as usual in the revitalized, increasingly popular Strip District. Most drivers had the sense to go slowly and keep a wary eye out for pedestrians.

"Then..." Corrine paused, shuddering.

Mel set down the spoonful of pie and ice cream she'd just scooped up, wrapped an arm around Corinne and made soothing noises.

"Honey, it's okay if you don't want to talk about it now," Deb backed off from pushing for the details.

"No." Corinne shook her head. "You're Gus' family. I'd want to know what happened if it had been Marie ferrying the kids around instead of me." A guilty look flashed across her face. "Marie doesn't know the details yet. Suzy's got an ear infection, so she's home with her and the other kids. I didn't want Marie trying to figure out how to get to us or go nuts worrying. Maybe I should've headed home, but I was just so distraught that I figured it was better to come here once the cops let us leave. Get the boys ice cream and get it together before I see Marie. I don't want her having flashbacks, you know?"

Dusty, thought Brian with a mental grimace. She'd been an even butcher dyke than Mel and got on his nerves, but he never would have wished for her to be killed in the Babylon bombing. 

And Marie... Christ, if Corinne or Timmy had been critically injured or killed, the woman might never recover. Brian silently approved of Corinne's decision-making in the midst of a crisis. Better to wait to tell Marie everything that had occurred.

"I'll go with you to tell Marie the full story," Mel consoled Corinne. "The main thing is that you and Timmy are okay. Marie'll understand."

"You're right." Corinne took a deep breath, let it out slowly and then resumed her story. "Suddenly that yellow car was pulling up alongside me, and I thought the crazy bast-" When Timmy's eyes widened, Corinne abruptly stopped speaking.

Gus looked disappointed, probably wishing it was one of his parents, so there'd be a chance of having the vacation fund topped up again. Surprisingly, he hadn't clamored for payment for Mel's ‘Jesus' or Deb's ‘fucks,' but Brian was positive his sonnyboy was mentally toting up every curse, probably hoping that Mel's ‘that's it' warning had expired by now.

Changing what she'd been about to say, Corinne went on "-jerk wanted to pass me. The guy behind the wheel didn't even seem to see the oncoming traffic. He grinned at me - like he was out for a joyride - and then, he was veering into me. I- I don't know if he turned the wheel in the wrong direction or just lost control or what."

"Mom was way cool!" Timmy reported. "She turned the wheel all the way around and got us away from Big Yellow."

Fucking Murphy. Brian stifled a growl as he pictured the arrogant rookie forward.

"I almost kissed the oncoming car," Corinne disclosed, her hand shaking so much as she tried to lift a bite of the dessert to her mouth that she had to set it down again. "There can't have been more than a centimeter between us."

"Big Yellow got that car. Right?" Timmy tacked on uncertainly.

"It did look like Big Yellow tapped it with his fender," Corinne agreed, adopting her son's name for Murphy's car. "It all happened so fast that I'm not sure. The driver of the oncoming vehicle pulled over, just like everyone else in the vicinity, but they'd been trying to swerve out of the way too and ended up on the other side of the road a ways down from me.

"The bad part was what happened next." Corinne started shaking again and buried her face in Mel's shoulder. "I didn't even see it clearly 'cause I was concentrating on getting over to the curb, but-" she mumbled into Mel's sweater.

"It was kinda cool at firsh," Gus joined in. "Like it was a movie or shomeshin."

That wasn't an unreasonable assumption, Brian mused. Pittsburgh was a surprisingly popular filming location. Should've made Rage here, the thought flitted through his brain, not for the first time. Maybe they could've stopped the studio honchos from getting cold feet and backing out.

"Yeah, like Die Hard," Timmy enthusiastically supported what Gus had said. "There was blood everywhere and a bad guy mowin' down people. But-" He broke off, looking ill.

"But John McClane didn't show up." Gus paled and shifted closer to Justin, who wrapped an arm around the boy, his hand coming to rest on Timmy's shoulder, who also looked in need of comfort.

Weren't the boys a little young for Die Hard? Deciding he was being hypocritical, Brian opted not to say anything. He'd have wanted to see the movie when he was seven and would've sneaked around behind his parents' backs. Not that Jack would have given a shit; he'd have had the movie blaring at full volume in the living room and invited Brian to watch, commenting constantly about how McClane was a ‘real' man. Brian wanted a different upbringing for Gus, but Die Hard wasn't worth making a fuss about. It wasn't like any of Gus' family expected the kid to prove he was a man. His sonnyboy could be whoever he wanted to be.

Brian glanced at Melanie, who had her mouth open. Shooting a look at Brian, she shook her head as if bewildered before snapping her mouth shut. Brian ruefully guessed she might've applied similar logic.

His brow furrowed and a muscle ticking in his jaw, Justin eyed the spot on the table where he'd wiped away the ketchup rendering of a small body. Brian scooted closer to his partner and inhaled the homey scents of paint and turpentine, reaching around Justin to muss Gus' hair.

Gus turned his head toward Brian. "There was a little kid on the ground, Daddy, and his arm was pointin' the wrong way."

"But not like Distorto," observed Timmy, "'cause it didn't go back in place."

Gus nodded vigorously in agreement.

Melanie winced, doubtless recalling the unnatural way Liberty Avenue's contortionist moved his limbs.

Corinne lifted her head, her eyes red-rimmed and wet. "It was really gruesome. There were bodies on the ground, people screaming and crying, blood everywhere.

"The Strip was a total madhouse. Ambulances pulled up, EMTs jumping out, and then a bunch of cop cars roared past, sirens blaring. They must've been chasing Big Yellow. The car just... disappeared." Corinne shook her head in anguished bewilderment. "How could the driver leave like that? All those hurt people."

"That's what a hit and run is," Melanie stated matter-of-factly, although to Brian's eye, the hard-bitten legal eagle looked almost as stunned as Corinne. Like this level of callousness was beyond her.

"Oh, hon, I'm sorry." Debbie reached across Mel to pat Corinne on the hand, blue eyes filled with sympathy. "What a godawful thing to witness."

"Yeah." Corinne managed a tremulous smile.

"Sceam?" warbled Jenny, sticking her spoon out at Corinne, vanilla ice cream dripping onto the Formica. 

Brian blinked, startled and a little squicked out. He hadn't been looking directly at JR, but he suspected she'd just taken that drippy spoonful out of her mouth. Maybe it had just touched her lips; that wouldn't be quite as bad.

"Jenny?" Gus gasped in shock. He lost his grip on his spoon, which clinked against his plate.

An understandable reaction, thought Brian. JR was normally completely self-centered, which wasn't unusual for a toddler.

Melanie beamed at her daughter, her brown eyes shining with pride.

"You're just like your daddy!" exclaimed Debbie. "You've got the biggest heart, honeybun!"

That was taking things a bit far. Brian coughed, pretending the pie he'd just snitched from Justin's spoon went down the wrong pipe. 

"That's generous of you, Jenny," Justin complimented the little girl. "But Corinne's got plenty of ice cream. You eat that spoonful."

Corinne blew out what Brian took to be a relieved sigh. Even if Jenny hadn't removed the spoon from her mouth, the drippy, pie crumb-dotted spoonful of ice cream didn't look at all appetizing.

Mel seconded Justin, directing, "Go on-"

She hadn't quite gotten out the ‘on' when JR wolfed it down, vanilla ice cream dribbling down her chin.

"-Jenny. It's yours," Melanie finished lamely. "You have such a sweet tooth." She chuckled, reaching out with a napkin to dab at her daughter's chin.

JR wasn't the only one, thought Brian, noting the inroads Gus, Timmy and of course Justin had made in their desserts. 

"Next thing I knew," Corinne picked up where she'd left off, "the cops were swarming the area, asking what people saw. They wanted a sworn statement from me, but I asked if it could wait since I had the boys in the car."

"You didn't do anything wrong." A thundercloud was gathering on Debbie's brow, and her jaw thrust forward pugnaciously, the redhead looked ready to take on Pittsburgh's finest. It wouldn't be the first time, thought Brian.

Corinne darted a nervous glance at Deb. "The policeman who was questioning me-

"We helped," Timmy piped up, looking offended to be left out.

Gus nodded a vigorous agreement.

Corinne smiled at the boys. "Us," she amended. "He motioned over one of his superiors, a Detective O'Neill, and asked if it was okay for me to leave. I, uh, told him Gus was Lieutenant Horvath's grandson."

"Good." A broad smile on her face, Deb nodded in approval. She was pleased as punch about her boyfriend's promotion from detective and was still boasting about it a year later. "Carl can fill us in on what's happening with the slimeball who was driving that sports car."

Corinne essayed a smile in return, clearly relieved that it was okay to have invoked Horvath's name. "The detective said I was free to leave, and told the uniform to go question one of the other witnesses. There were a ton of people who saw what happened," Corinne explained. "Detective O'Neill told me there was no sense in going in on Thanksgiving and asked me, really politely, to swing by the station on Friday to make a statement."

"Good," Debbie reiterated. "Maybe Carl can be there."

"I wanted to get out of there, so I started the car, but then-" Corinne paused, her lips pressed together as she looked at Gus and Timmy.

Gus' ears turned red, a sure sign of embarrassment. "I didn' mean to shout," the boy mumbled, his face turning scarlet to match the tips of his ears.

Timmy giggled. "The detective was lookin' all around and askin', ‘What big arrow?'"

"I didn' shay it right." Gus ducked his head, his lisp worsening as it tended to do when he was embarrassed, overexcited or stressed out.

"So I yelled, ‘Big Yellow! We wanna know what happened to Big Yellow!'" Timmy explained.

Corinne shook her head at the two seven-year-olds. "Lieutenant's grandson or not, I was sure they were gonna keep us for more questions, but then someone yelled something about a fire hydrant bursting, and Detective O'Neill waved us on our way."

Timmy bounced in his seat. "Some guy shouted, ‘What'd you call that car, son?' so me 'n Gus yelled back."

"‘Big Yellow!'" Gus joined Timmy in blaring the answer they must've given the bystander, which made it nearly indecipherable.

"The name stuck in my head," Corinne revealed. "I called Marie from the Strip, and the first thing out of my mouth was that Big Yellow had cut me off.

"Marie wanted to know if I was stuck in a Beatles' song." Corinne gave Justin a lopsided grin.

By now, the entirety of Liberty Avenue must know about Justin's addiction to The Yellow Submarine, Brian figured, rolling his eyes.

"After I explained Big Yellow was a sports car, Marie realized I'd almost been in an accident. She started to hyperventilate - I could hear her wheezing - and only calmed down after I told her over and over that I was okay. Which I was. Mostly," Corinne assured everyone. "Just shaken up, and like I said before, Marie couldn't do anything from home. Except worry.

"Since I'd just gotten a new phone and hadn't entered my contacts yet" - Corinne shook her head, obviously irritated with herself for the oversight - "Marie said she'd call Mel and Linds and let them know everyone was okay and that we were heading to the diner."

"I must've called Marie right when she was about to call me," Melanie said.

"Probably." Corinne nodded at her friend. "Anyway, if Timmy and Gus still wanted ice cream - on a chilly November day - it couldn't be anything too serious, right?" Corinne smiled wryly. "That did more to convince Marie that nothing was majorly wrong than anything else I could have said.

"Here." Corinne pushed her plate over to the two seven-year-olds, whose dishes had been scraped so clean that it was hard to tell there'd ever been pie and ice cream on them.

"Finish this off for me? I don't have much of an appetite right now."

Timmy and Gus didn't need to be asked twice, both of them immediately digging in.

"No!" JR vehemently objected, banging her spoon against Deb's plate and splattering ice cream in all directions.

Brian didn't so much as twitch as droplets landed on his suit. The dry cleaner was gonna be worth every penny if they could get the stains out of his Zegna, never mind his Gieves and Hawkes shirt.

He did take a sort of malicious satisfaction in watching the gooey stuff attach itself to Melanie's clothing as well; it was only fair. 

"Honeybun," Debbie attempted to appease the little tyrant, "there's lots of pie and ice cream for you to eat." She removed the spoon from Jenny's grip, scooped up some of the dessert and placed it in front of the girl's mouth.

"Mm-mm!" a red-faced JR refused to be placated, her lips pressed firmly together.

Debbie laughed boisterously. "You're just like your daddy."

What that meant, Brian had no clue. It wasn't like Michael'd had any kind of sibling rivalry going on when he was little.

Moving the spoon towards her own mouth, Deb acted like she was going to swallow the tidbit.

"Me!" screeched Jenny.

"Jenny Rebecca!" Mel wearily chided as she rifled through her handbag.

Debbie merely chuckled again and fed the spoonful to her granddaughter.

Focusing in on the bag in Melanie's lap, Brian realized with horror it was the same one she'd unearthed the oddest items from a few weeks ago.

Just like then, a sewing kit came out and the ubiquitous packet of wet wipes. Her putrid green Michael Kors wallet then made an appearance and Brian breathed a little easier. That must be what she was after.

Contrary to his expectations, Melanie kept digging, setting a pair of Pull-Ups on the table. "No!" came JR's adamant response to the Pull-Ups.

"They're just in case," Mel told her daughter, still searching in the depths of her bag.

Brian couldn't help being skeptical. This was the she-devil and Mikey's daughter, after all, so she'd take longer to train. He'd bet Jenny still wore Pull-Ups most of the time.

Debbie laughed indulgently. "Michael didn't like wearing trainers either."

Brian was surprised when Deb didn't go on about how Mikey had still needed training pants at four years old; fuck knew, she'd embarrassed Michael with that often enough.

"Hmm," Melanie hmmed, her gaze riveted on the insides of her oversized handbag.

Brian hoped she wouldn't lose her cool, not that he'd blame Mel if she did. Debbie's constant ‘Michael this' and ‘Michael that' in regard to Jenny's development would get on anyone's nerves, much less the bulldyke's.

"There it is," Melanie muttered, extracting her cell phone. It came out with a lacy red brassiere trailing behind, one strap caught on the antenna. 

Jesus, thought Brian, exchanging a ‘what the fuck' look with Justin. Did she carry that damned bra everywhere?

Mel gave the bra a perplexed frown and stuffed it back in the bag before turning on her phone.

"Oh, there's a message from Marie," Mel said in surprise. "I didn't realize Marie had called before I rang her. I was doing jazzercise with Jane and had the volume cranked up on the TV."

Brian neither knew nor cared who Jane was, although he'd off himself before he did something as ridiculous as jazzercise.

"Four years," Mel sighed, "and I'm still trying to lose the baby weight I put on."

"You?" scoffed Debbie. "You're skinny as a rail. Not like me." She patted her ample middle.

Unlike Deb, Brian got it. Extra weight was a bitch to get rid of. Thank fuck he didn't have to worry about losing baby weight.

"Can we get some service over here?" someone called out from a table of new arrivals.

"Give a girl a hand?" pled Kiki, her heels making sharp staccato sounds as she came up to their booth. "We're getting a midafternoon rush."

"Yeah, sure," Deb agreed, slowly pushing back her chair, her reluctance to miss out on a single, solitary word written across her face.

"No!" JR complained loudly as her grandmother lifted from her lap.

"C'mere." Melanie smiled at Jenny, patting the seat next to her. "You can have some of my dessert."

"'kay," the brat quickly agreed. With her grandmother's help, she'd decimated the pie and ice cream on her plate and was now avidly eyeing the serving that Melanie had barely touched.

As Debbie walked over to the pass-through, Melanie relayed, "Marie tried Linds' cell and our landline but couldn't leave a message on either. We've gotta clear some of the messages off the landline; it's full. Mainly 'cause Lindsay's sister left some long-winded message about how she and Duncan are reaffirming their vows. Five years after they got married." The dyke rolled her eyes. "Who does that?"

Fucked if he knew. If Brian ever said his vows, that would be it. One and done.

"Lynette wouldn't be so uptight if she was getting some," Melanie declared.

"Linds refuses to delete Lynette's message until she can come up with the appropriate gift." Mel rolled her eyes again, so hard it looked like they might pop out of her head. Then she bared her teeth in a grin. "Personally, I think we should get them a sex swing."

A guffaw burst out of Brian, although he was as much appalled as amused. Since when did he and the Wicked Witch have the same taste in party favors?

"Wush a sex swing?" Gus wanted to know.

"It's a toy for old married couples who need to spice things up," Brian answered facetiously.

Justin snorted. "Old married couples?" he threw out innocently.

Mel saved Brian from having to answer. Her brow furrowed, she looked at Brian. "By the way, how'd you know to call me?"

 

 

Shit. Brian didn't want to tell Melanie what had prompted him to call her. Murphy's shenanigans might've already hit the news, but the whole thing was more horrific than Mel suspected at this point.

The bulldog of a lawyer was doubtless already preparing to sue the pants off the crazed driver who'd plowed his way through the Strip, terrorizing Gus, Timmy and Corinne and injuring fuck knew how many people. 

Once Brian revealed that it was the person hired for the latest Brown Athletics Thanksgiving commercial, she'd probably blow a gasket - at him.

Brian had no desire to protect Murphy. He wanted the hockey player to rot in jail. Or fry in the electric chair. Unfortunately, death by lethal injection, Pennsylvania's current method of execution, was unlikely, even if you were a serial killer. Murphy would hire a fucking phalanx of lawyers who'd do their damnedest to get him off completely. They'd argue that the hockey player had simply drunk too much, insinuating that was something everybody did, and lost his better judgment. Hell, he'd probably end up with a slap on the wrist and community service. That was the way the criminal justice system worked.

What Brian did care about was preventing negative splashback for Leo Brown and Kinnetik. If - and it was a big if - Kinnetik could throw together something to replace the no longer usable commercial, it would have to be free of any association with the hockey-playing shithead.

Corinne shivered and rubbed at the gooseflesh that had sprung up on her arms. "Has it hit the news already?" she asked.

"Jesus. Has it?" Melanie echoed her friend's question.

"Probably," Corinne reasoned out the answer. "That idiot hollering at the boys about ‘Big Yellow' had to be a newshound. Plus, a bunch of people were holding up their phones and taking pictures."

"Yeah," Brian corroborated. "It made the Internet right away."

"What?" Mel quipped. "Were you online surfing porn and a news window popped up?"

Not a bad sally, considering how shaken up they all were. "That's Theodore's MO," Brian retorted. When Brian looked at porn, he was usually at home, with Justin either right next to him or on the other end of the phone line.

Deciding it was better to just spit it out, Brian admitted, "It was Leo Brown. He called me because the asswipe behind the wheel was Kevin Murphy."

"The star forward for the Penguins?" Corinne interjected, her voice rising in shock.

"The Murph?" Timmy yelled. "No!" He vehemently shook his head in denial. "He wouldn't do that! He's great!"

"Dunno." Gus shrugged when his friend looked at him in outrage. "'member how he pushed that li'l kid outta the way when he jush wanted an autograph?"

"Oh." Timmy deflated, sinking down, his brow furrowed.

"It really was Kevin Murphy?" Corinne muttered.

"Yeah," Brian sighed. "He was in a commercial Kinnetik just shot. It was supposed to start airing tomorrow."

"What a fucking mess," Justin summed up the situation, giving Brian a worried look.

"Jesus," Mel said again, staring at Brian.

Her expression was surprisingly compassionate, thought Brian. He'd been expecting Melanie to be pissed off at him. Fuck knew, he was mad at himself; he should've done a better job of vetting the hockey-playing asshole.

Brow furrowing, the bulldyke questioned, "But how'd Leo Brown know about the accident?"

"Can you believe the scumbag called Leo from the lockup, expecting him to provide legal representation?" Brian scoffed.

"What?" Melanie gasped. "There's no way Leo's responsible for Murphy's fuckup."

Brian breathed a little easier. Melanie wasn't blaming him. Really, she hadn't done that for quite a while, but Brian had yet to adjust to the change.

"Can I see your phone?" Mel asked Corinne in a seeming non-sequitur.

"Uh, sure?" Despite the confusion written across her face, Corinne handed over her cell.

After pressing a couple of buttons, Melanie muttered, "That's what I thought." She then started rapidly pressing the keys, inputting something or other.

It almost made Brian dizzy. How the heck could she do that so fast? It took him for-fucking-ever to enter anything on his cell.

"There," Mel declared in satisfaction. "Now you've got all of Brian's numbers: loft, cell and his direct line at Kinnetik."

Brian's jaw dropped. The bulldyke knew all of those? By heart?

"Careful, you're gonna catch flies," Mel snarked, brown eyes sparkling with amusement.

As Brian snapped his mouth shut, the bulldyke added, "You're Gus' daddy. Of course I've got your number."

Brian chuckled, ruminating on how odd it was that Mel, not Linds, had his number nowadays. And that it had nothing to do with his nine and a half inches.

 

A little later, all three of the boys' plates, and the one Corinne had passed over to Timmy and Gus, were sparkling clean. Jenny had also done double duty, polishing off most of what Melanie'd had on her plate. Kid was gonna have a helluva stomachache, thought Brian. Not that he cared, as long as she didn't barf up her pie on him.

"Carl, honey," squealed Debbie, alerting everyone in the booth to the veteran cop's arrival.

Deb forgot all about making a new pot of coffee. Dropping the measuring scoop into the giant can of Yuban, she trotted around the counter and planted a big kiss on Horvath, which clearly pleased the man to no end.

Carl gathered Deb up in his arms and deepened the kiss.

Jesus, was that tongue? Brian quickly looked away, feeling nauseated.

"Ew," muttered Justin, burying his face in the crook of Brian's neck.

"Jesus fuck." Melanie whipped her head back around, looking like she'd bitten into a lemon.

"Ten dollars!" caroled Gus, his lisp once more no impediment when it came to money.

"Gus," Melanie said warningly. "Didn't I just agree to put a ten-spot in the jar?"

"But... but that was a long time ago!" Gus objected. "Right?" He turned beseeching eyes on Brian.

Shit. Brian didn't want to be caught between his son and the bulldyke.

Fortunately, before Brian could say anything, Timmy piped up, "I want a ‘vakey fun' too!"

"You don't need one," Mel replied, confusing everyone at the table. Except, Brian thought, for Corinne, who was smirking as if privy to a secret no one else knew.

"Huh?" asked Timmy.

Melanie chuckled. "You've already got one. You'll be coming on vacation with the Peterson-Marcus clan."

Four lesbians and fuck knew how many screaming kids all on vacation together. Brian shuddered. Thank fuck he wasn't a muncher.

"Who's going on vacation?" rumbled a deep voice.

"Me and Gus!" Timmy shouted at Horvath, who was standing next to the booth, an arm around Debbie's waist. "We're goin' together." He slung an arm around Gus' shoulders, the wide grin on his face making his freckles stand out.

"First I've heard of this," observed Debbie, manifestly put out not to have been consulted.

"We haven't made any real plans." Melanie smiled at the redhead, ameliorating any hurt feelings. "So far, we're just saving up for next summer."

"I wanna go to Dishyland," Gus voted, speaking too fast and mangling the name of one of his favorite places.

"Mmm," Justin whispered sotto voce into Brian's ear, "Dishyland." He nipped at Brian's lobe, making it clear what he had in mind.

Brian, already half-hard from being next to Justin, sprang a boner. "Stop that," he hissed and then wanted to kick himself. When did he become the responsible adult?

"Dontcha mean Disneyworld?" Deb inquired. "It's way-"

"Closher. I know." Gus heaved a world-weary sigh. "But I've been to Florida. I wanna go to Cali."

Smart, Brian thought, shortening the name of the Golden State like that. It allowed Gus to get out a couple of sentences without lisping; he knew the boy was sick of sounding like a ‘baby.'

"It's gonna take losh and losh of cuss words," Gus noted mournfully before turning a speculative eye on his grandmother.

Debbie's "What the-" clashed with another stern "Gus!" from Melanie.

Carl smirked, looking like he'd already sussed it out. "Horvath's not a detective for nothing," Brian murmured in Justin's ear, making the blond giggle.

"I hear you had to do some fancy drivin'," Horvath remarked, his mien going from jovial to serious as he looked at Corinne.

Corinne nodded, her eyes shadowed with the horror of what had nearly happened.

"There better be a good prosecutor on the case," growled Melanie.

"No way will the perp get off scot-free," Horvath assured everyone. "There's too much footage of him ki- uh-" He stumbled to a halt, plainly not wanting to talk about the casualties in front of Gus and Timmy. Brian reckoned Carl also had to be careful not to say anything that might affect the case against Murphy.

"There's dead people, right?" Timmy muttered, much more subdued that he had been a little while ago. "The little boy on the ground in front of Klavon's... He wasn't moving."

The veteran detective appeared at a loss for what to say. Same for Debbie, who opened her mouth and then closed it. A rare occasion when his surrogate mother was speechless, and Brian couldn't even tease her about it. 

Melanie and Corinne traded glances, leaving Brian certain that he was gonna have to step in and play the heavy. Fuck. All because he was known for being honest.

But then Justin spoke up. "You're right, Timmy. Sadly, some of the people Murphy hit were killed."

How did Justin know that? The Internet hadn't confirmed anything, and Carl hadn't either... yet.

"Cedro, don't you have a son that works at Klavon's?" Brian heard someone ask from a neighboring booth.

"Yeah, why?" came the response.

"'Cause some drunk guy plowed through a buncha pedestrians down on the Strip, right by Klavon's," his friend stated. "Look, it's on TV."

"Jesús!" Cedro exclaimed. "I've gotta call Juan. Make sure he wasn't hurt."

That explained it, thought Brian, looking up at the television that had been installed on the wall behind the bar. The volume was muted, but a chyron was scrolling across the bottom of the screen. As the text scrolled, details jumped out at Brian: 2 confirmed dead, at least 6 more injured in ‘Big Yellow' Strip District carnage. Kevin Murphy, Penguins' star forward, arrested for fleeing the scene and DUI.

Fucker. Brian's hand curled into a fist that he wished he could smash into Murphy's face. Total him like the bastard had totaled the people outside Klavon's.

"They're yooshin' our name!" Gus nudged Timmy, directing his attention to the television.

The two boys beamed at each other, bouncing on the seat in excitement.

"Yeah!" Timmy pumped a fist in the air and then high-fived Gus.

"You two must take after Sunshine. He's always naming things." Parking herself next to the lesbians, so it was next to impossible to see past her to the TV, Debbie tilted her chin at Gus. "Like you, for instance."

"It's a popular name," Melanie threw in, going along with Deb's unsubtle effort to distract the two seven-year-olds. "For teddy bears as well as newborns. Or so I've heard." She smirked at Justin.

Justin pinkened, leaving Brian curious. What was that about? "Teddy bears?" he breathed into Justin's ear.

"Later," Justin hissed, his flush deepening.

Debbie blew a bubble with her gum, the youngsters watching in awe as it grew and grew. Slurping it back into her mouth, arms akimbo, the redhead inquired, "So where else you thinking of goin' on vacation? And what's a coupla F-bombs got to do with it?"

While most of the table was looking at Debbie, Horvath placed a meaty hand on Brian's shoulder. "You okay?" he asked.

Brian reckoned he must look like his comic book alter ego, like he was gonna fly into a rage. Or fly apart.

"I've only been that fuckin' scared two other times," Brian replied quietly. His hand in Justin's hair, he ran his thumb under the hairline and over the ridged scar, remembering bats and bombs. He didn't know what he'd do without his sonnyboys.

Carl patted him on the shoulder, and Brian gave him a lopsided shrug in response. At least the longtime detective knew better than to spout useless platitudes.

What helped was Justin squeezing his thigh and smiling reassuringly, letting Brian know he was here, warm, alive. And so was Gus.

Sliding his fingers down Justin's arm until he found the hand on top of his thigh, Brian laced their fingers together and smiled softly, allowing himself to relax against his partner and forget everything else for a moment. He didn't hear the bell above the door jingle, and if not for the draft of air that sent chilly fingers all the way to the back of the diner, he wouldn't have registered the door opening.

His druthers aside - Brian'd didn't give a fuck about who'd arrived or departed - he wasn't left in suspense. There was no mistaking the ebullient voice that announced, "Oh my goodness. Doesn't everyone look cozy."

A couple beats later, Honeycutt nudged Brian over, forcing him closer to Justin, and had one butt cheek firmly planted on the banquette. "Just the person I wanted to see," Emmett said, smiling at Brian. 

He then looked around Brian, his smile widening. "Halloo, Baby," Emmett drawled, leaning across Brian to peck the blond on the lips.

"Hands off, Honeycutt," commanded Brian brusquely.

Emmett lifted his eyebrows and batted his lashes, ostentatiously holding up his hands.

Fucking queen. "And lips," Brian growled, raising his voice to be heard over Justin's giggling.

"Yeah, yeah." Emmett flapped a hand. "Whatever you say, Bri."

Horvath chuckled. "Emmett," he warmly acknowledged the southerner.

Weirdest fucking thing ever, how well the two of them got along, Brian mused. Talk about totally mismatched peas in a pod. Brian shook his head, trying to get rid of the Carl and Emmett earwig before it got stuck in his brain.

He was rescued by Theodore. "I thought you were going to wait for me," said Brian's CFO as he reached the booth, quirking an eyebrow at Emmett.

"Pish." Honeycutt flicked a dismissive hand. "I didn't know how long it would take you to find parking, so I came in here to warm my buns." Emmett flashed his trademark gap-toothed smile.

Fuck, that had to be Brian's Vette Honeycutt was talking about so casually.

"Uh-huh." Ted knew Emmett too well to be distracted by that smile. "You already asked-"

"No!" Em hurried out in response, interrupting his friend. "I haven't had a chance yet." He turned his disarming smile on Brian.

Shit. Honeycutt wanted something. Although for the life of him, Brian couldn't think what. Everyone in the family was fine and dandy: no arrests; no tarnished reputations; no hindrances to wedded bliss.

Emmett had just opened his mouth when Ted looked around the booth, taking in Justin and the two seven-year-old boys before noticing a pale, clearly exhausted Corinne. "Corinne?" he asked, preempting Honeycutt. "What're you-" Theodore abruptly stopped speaking, smacking himself on the forehead. 

Brian blinked, puzzled not by his CFO's antics - those were hardly unusual - but by his warmth toward Corinne. How did Theodore know her? He could've met her at the munchers', Brian supposed, but it still seemed odd. Even odder was that Mel looked a little envious.

"I didn't make the connection," Ted continued in an apologetic tone.

He reached behind Mel and placed a hand on Corinne's shoulder. "You were driving? Are you okay?"

"Thanks, Ted." Corinne gave him a weary smile. "Yeah, we're all okay." She glanced over at the boys. "Despite Murphy's efforts to the contrary."

The frown line between Melanie's brows disappeared while Corinne was talking. Maybe he'd imagined the whole thing, thought Brian. If there was something going on, it more than likely had nothing to do with Ted.

Gus, who was looking a little dejected, asked, "Uncle Emmy, could I have one of your extra-speshul hugs?"

"Of course you can, sweety!" Gus clambered up on the seat, and Emmett stood, stretched out long arms, scooped the boy up and hugged him.

Sniffling, Gus buried his head in the crook of Emmett's neck.

Em blinked back tears of his own. "I- I never knew I'd like being called ‘uncle' more than ‘aunt.'"

"Don't get moist," muttered Brian under his breath.

"I heard that, Bri," the flamboyant man retorted, sniffing disdainfully.

Gus let out a watery giggle, and Brian gave himself a mental pat on the back. A snarky exchange between himself and Honeycutt, and his sonnyboy was feeling better.

Confirmation that Gus truly was doing better came when the boy squirmed out of Emmett's hold and clambered over Brian and Justin to get back to his spot next to Timmy.

"Gus," Mel chided, shaking her head, although she didn't sound very perturbed. Really, if anyone should be upset, it was Brian. His designer duds kept taking a beating.

A frown gathered on the bulldyke's forhead, making Brian wonder if he'd been wrong in his assessment. Could Mel actually be upset with Gus for acting like a seven-year-old boy? Sonnyboy's behavior might be a little rambunctious, but it wasn't that out of line.

Melanie suddenly blurted, "Wait, what about bail?" allaying one concern and raising another. She shot a worried look at Carl. "Murphy's got money, unless he's blown it all on toys like his car."

"No bail," Horvath replied, a cold smile on his face. "The judge said he's too much of a flight risk."

Mel's smile matched Carl's. "Good. Who'd he go in front of?"

"Uh." Carl pulled out his ubiquitous notebook and flipped it open. "Something with an ‘R'. I jotted it down." His eyes skimmed over a page. "There it is. Russo."

Everyone froze.

Then Debbie shrieked, "Russo? The homophobic prick who let Hobbs off with a slap on the hand?"

Brian's head swung to the left. From his expression, you'd think Justin was unaffected, but the fingernails digging into Brian's thigh told a different story. Then a deadly gleam entered Justin's blue eyes and his fingers relaxed, his hand lying limp on Brian's Zegna trousers. Justin's gaze flicked toward him and then away, confusing Brian. What the fuck did Justin have to feel guilty about? He'd better not be feeling guilty for not appearing in court years ago when Hobbs was sentenced; Brian was sure he'd allayed Justin's concerns about being a pathetic little faggot. Until Darren's bashing, which had had Justin rehashing everything and-

Before Brian could follow the thread that was teasing at him, Mel reached out and patted Justin's hand. "Don't worry. Russo won't be trying Murphy. In fact-" The legal eagle stopped speaking, her brows rising in surprise.

"In fact?" prompted Justin hoarsely. In an obvious bid to clear his throat, he picked up his coffee and took a sip.

"H- how did Russo end up as an MDJ?" Mel stuttered, shock written across her features.

"A what?" asked Ted.

"A magisterial district judge," Melanie replied slowly. "That's, like, a huge step backward."

"Um, still clueless," Ted interjected. "MDJ or magisterial district judge: I still don't know what that is. Or why it's a step backward."

Sometimes it was good to have Theodore around. He'd saved Brian from having to ask.

"Well, you know how judges are elected, right?" Melanie glanced around at everyone.

"Sure," Ted agreed with a wry smile. "Seeing as how, every election, you tell me who I should vote for."

That broke the tension, the adults smiling and Carl outright chuckling.

Brian noticed that JR had gotten hold of one of the plates and was licking it clean, while Gus and Timmy watched in fascination. He elected not to say anything; really, what could it hurt at this point?

Apparently sated at last, Jenny shoved away the spotless plate and leaned against her mother, eyelids drooping.

"I knew you were my friend for a reason," Mel quipped, smiling at Ted. "You let a wiser head decide for you."

Had there been the slightest emphasis on ‘head'? Brian wondered. He wouldn't put it past the bulldyke, even if she was more likely to hit you over the head with a mallet rather than go for subtlety.

"Russo has a reputation for being tough on crime-"

Brian snorted at that, earning a nod of acknowledgement from Melanie, who went on without pausing.

"-deserved or not, and it's no secret that he was aiming for an appointment to the superior court. It would be a real letdown to go from hearing criminal cases to setting bail and judging minor offenses." Mel rubbed her hands together, her face alight with glee. "I've gotta find out what happened. It doesn't make sense that Russo would step down from his position in the Court of Common Pleas and then run to be an MDJ."

"Say what?" asked Deb, looking completely bewildered. "Isn't the whatsit, the Court of Common Fleas-"

Chuckles greeted the malapropism, and Debbie broke off, looking pissed. Then, what she'd said dawned on her, and she joined in the laughter.

"You're not wrong, Deb," Ted observed. "Most of us are fleas to assholes like Russo."

Theodore had that right, Brian mused sourly.

Nodding vigorously, Debbie amended, "You know what I meant. The place everyone goes."

Melanie acknowledged, "It does sound that way. But Common Pleas is actually where the serious cases are heard."

"Huh." Debbie shook her head, red curls flying.

"Is it really better?" Emmett asked, "That bastard Russo can't do as much damage now?"

Justin fisted his hand on the table. "Long as he doesn't know you're gay," he scoffed. 

That looked far too much like Justin's hand cramping. Without thinking twice, Brian placed Justin's hand between his and began massaging it.

"Otherwise he'd screw you over on bail," Justin finished bitterly.

"Roy's prejudiced toward all sorts of people," Melanie noted. "He generally likes to screw people over. It's regular."

Her brow furrowing, Debbie thoughtfully tapped a pen against her order pad. "Um, this all just happened a few hours ago?"

Nods came from around the table.

"So how'd he get denied bail so fast? Hell, the two times Vic was arrested, he didn't get arraigned for, like, a day or longer. Second time, they didn't even care that he needed his meds," Deb complained, her indignation growing. "There's never a fuckin' cop around when you need 'em."

While the logic of Debbie's diatribe escaped Brian, the irony didn't. He knew better than to say anything though. A movement to his right had him glancing over at Ted, who had laughter dancing in his eyes.

Shit. Biting back a smile, Brian turned his gaze away. 

It didn't exactly help when Justin huffed out a weird-sounding breath, like he was suppressing a giggle.

Carl guffawed. "Red, honey," he gasped.

"Oh, c'mon." Deb whapped him on the arm. "You know you're the exception."

"To what?" Carl asked. Faced with a now glowering redhead, hand raised and threatening real damage, he quailed. 

Lowering his voice just enough that no one at the neighboring booths would overhear, a smart precaution even if everyone was glued to the TV, Horvath explained, "The perp kept insisting on his rights, so we gave them to him. No get outta jail card."

The burly detective exchanged a shark-like grin with Mel. "Still," she said, her expression turning puzzled. "I'm surprised Russo denied bail. He fuckin' loves the Penguins." Not even looking at Gus, she lifted a warning finger at him, and the lad, who'd half stood, an eager look on his face, subsided.

Melanie asserted, "He wouldn't care if Murphy took out half of Pennsylvania Avenue, so long as he could still play in the big game tomorrow."

"Yeah." Horvath heaved a mighty sigh. "The Penguins' chances just went down the toilet."

Brian was a little embarrassed. He'd all but forgotten about the NHL Thanksgiving showdown - part of the reason for airing the new Brown Athletics ad this holiday weekend.

He might live in a city with a sports-mad populace, but Brian himself had never given a damn about any of it. Other than for advertising - sports were a fucking goldmine - and of course to ogle hunky men in tight-fitting clothing. He'd been doing that since well before consciously realizing he was gay.

"You got any idea why Roy was so hard on the little shit?" Mel asked, cocking her head inquisitively.

"Dunno." Horvath shrugged. "But O'Neill heard a rumor that Russo doesn't like drunks."

Melanie snorted. "That's new."

No shit, thought Brian. Roy had decided that Chris Hobbs' justifiable outrage at a fag flaunting himself mattered more than any undue influence alcohol might've had on him taking a bat to Justin's head.

"I don't know if it's true or not, but Danny figured it couldn't hurt to put it to the test." Carl smiled maliciously. "Murphy kept saying he was sober, that he hadn't been driving drunk and insisted on seeing a judge. Danny asked if he didn't want to wait for legal counsel, but Murph said no, that he'd get a lawyer after he was out on bail. So Danny hauled Murphy in front of a judge, just like he wanted."

"Russo was underwhelmed." Horvath's smile grew. "Murphy apparently didn't look too good and smelled even worse."

Carl shrugged. "According to Danny, the judge gave the perp a once-over and cut off the BS he was spouting. Russo denied bail, remanded him to custody until he can be tried for vehicular homicide, banged his gavel, shouted, ‘Recess for ten minutes!' and stood up and left."

"That sounds like Roy's MO," Mel noted. Then, glancing at her watch thoughtfully, she went on, "Must've been later than 12:15 though, right? Weird."

"What does that matter?" Carl asked.

The bulldyke pressed, "What time was it when he announced the recess?"

"It was 3:45," Carl informed everyone. "On the dot. I thought it was weird that Danny made a note of the time, but he said Russo's regular as clockwork. He always calls a recess then, no matter what."

"Huh. He must've really been rattled," commented Mel, smirking. "His daily dump got moved three and a half hours."

"Daily dump?" Carl's eyebrows rose up to his receding hairline.

"Yeah." Mel nodded. "His routine's off by three and a half hours."

Brian smirked. His prank had had a bigger impact than he ever would have thought.

Shaking off what he obviously thought was a strange remark, Carl finished up, "Anyway, Russo denied bail and left the courtroom. Murphy never knew what hit him."

Brian wished he could've seen it for himself.

"Bri, you got a sec?" Ted shrugged in apology. "I really need to update you."

Emmett rocked back and forth on his feet, looking eager, like this somehow concerned him.

"That's my cue," Carl rumbled, pecking Debbie on the cheek. "I need to get back to the precinct anyway."

"Lemme just get you fresh coffee and apple fritters to take with." Deb paused for a beat. "Lieutenant Horvath." She bestowed a sickeningly sweet smile on her cop before trotting over to the counter, Carl right behind her.

"Donuts." Emmett shook his head. "Never fails."

"Em!" Ted hissed, tilting his head at Jenny.

The flamboyant queen's eyes rounded and he clapped a hand over his mouth, his gaze fixed on JR.

Everyone waited with bated breath as Jenny snuffled in Mel's arms, almost like she scented a donut. A collective sigh of relief could be heard when the little girl settled back down.

"Sorry," an abashed Emmett whispered. "She was so quiet, I forgot she was there."

"Takes after her father," Melanie deadpanned.

Ted waited a beat for the laughter to die down. "Er," he said, his eyes flicking around the booth.

"Go on." Brian gestured for Theodore to get on with it. No point drawing out the bad news. "Everyone knows about the commercial."

"Okay. I talked to the guys over at NBC. They've pulled the footage but are holding the time slot for us. For now. We have to come up with something really fast though, or we're gonna lose the slot... and the money we paid for it."

Ted looked at Brian like he was waiting for him to pull a rabbit out of a hat. Even the best adman on the East Coast couldn't fix this however.

"So much for having the next Wayne Gretsky." Brian scrubbed a hand over his face, wondering what the fuck he was going to do.

"We could use last year's commercial?" Ted suggested tentatively.

Brian sighed, shrugging off Honeycutt, who was plucking at his jacket.

Last year's ad was better than nothing, but a repeat would hardly be cutting edge or any kind of a surprise. The sex appeal would be minimized too since they'd milked that commercial for all it was worth, running it well into this year.

"I should have kept that other guy on retainer." Instead of getting a blowjob and sending whatshisname away.

"You couldn't have known-" 

"That's why it's called a backup," Brian noted caustically, not caring about bruising Ted's feelings. Which was hardly fair, but-

"Brian." Emmett tugged harder at his jacket. Brian shrugged him off again. What was Honeycutt doing, searching for poppers?

"Does it need to be a hockey player?" Justin asked, looking thoughtful.

"Not necessarily," Brian replied. "Who've you got in mind?"

"How about Bent?"

Brian shook his head. "Everyone knows the Scuttler's gay. Leo Brown won't like that."

"So?" Justin arched a blond eyebrow at Brian. "Better to lose a few straight customers-"

"-and gain a gaggle of queens," Ted jumped in. Stan's got a huge fan base."

Who the fuck? Brian did a double take before remembering that Stan was the contortionist's first name.

The eager spate continued to pour out of Theodore. "Maybe we can use some of what we filmed, just insert pieces with-"

"Teddy!" squawked Emmett. "What about my suggestion? You promised!"

"That was before we had another option, Em," Ted replied. "A better one."

"Better!" the nelly queen exploded. 

Oh fuck. Brian mentally crossed his fingers, hoping his sudden suspicion about who might be back in contact with Honeycutt was wrong.

"Since when is a scrawny little acrobat better than-" His face suffused a deep red, so upset that he apparently couldn't get out another word, Emmett flapped both hands ineffectually.

Brian stared in amazement. Honeycutt's hands were moving so fast that he could barely follow the motion. It was like watching a hummingbird - one with extra-large wings.

The flapping gradually slowed, Emmett's hands coming to rest on his waist. Nose in the air, he snootily proclaimed, "There is simply no one better than Drew Boyd. Everyone admires him. And as long as you're willing to sign a contract and stand by it-"

Before Brian could blow his lid, Ted stepped in. "You're not being fair, Emmett. Kinnetik didn't have anything to do with Drew coming out."

"But-" Em spluttered.

Theodore held up a hand, which had Emmett subsiding, albeit with ill grace. Now that was a superpower Brian would like to possess.

"If Boyd wanted to out himself on live TV, that was his choice," Ted continued. "But he had to know there would be repercussions."

"There was no need for you to fire him!"

"We didn't ‘fire' him," Theodore observed in a measured, reasonable tone. "We have a contract with Brown Athletics; all campaigns have to be approved by Leo Brown. Brown Athletics reserves the right to pull an advertisement if they think it will negatively affect their bottom line."

"You could've gone to bat for Drew," Emmett huffed.

Brian felt Justin tensing up next to him. Even now, sometimes all it took was the mention of a bat to throw Justin back to the aftermath of the bashing. Brian too, if he was being honest.

"Fuck. I'm sorry, sweetie," Honeycutt immediately apologized. "I should think before I speak."

"Maybe about Boyd too?" Brian suggested, his tone gentler than usual. He knew Emmett was still carrying a torch for the quarterback, although in Brian's opinion, Boyd wasn't worth it.

"Meaning what exactly?" Em wanted to know. "Drew's a positive role model; he's not a sot like Murphy."

Brian filed away the tidbit that Murphy had apparently had a reputation for drinking too much before his murderous spree through the Strip. He wished he'd sought Emmett's opinion to start with; the flamboyant southerner had his finger on the pulse of the gay district and always knew the latest goss.

While Honeycutt was right that Boyd would be a better role model than the Irish asshole, Brian still had reservations. It went beyond Drew being a prima donna and dumb about the way he'd handled coming out.

"Boyd over his pity party?" he sneered.

Naturally, that got Emmett's back up even more. Sitting up, he proclaimed, "Drew didn't send me to beg you to do something back then, Brian. And it wasn't because of the money. He felt like he was being erased."

"Uh-huh." Brian ran his hand through Justin's hair and across the hidden scar. Boyd didn't fucking know what being ‘erased' meant.

Justin gave him a reassuring smile, like he knew where Brian's mind had gone.

"Em, honey, Drew's not a chump," Mel asserted. "He was the one who approached the Channel 5 sports guy-"

"Bud Lockwood," Emmett supplied.

"Whatever." Melanie waved the name off. "Ted's right."

The accountant preened, as he tended to do whenever someone agreed with him.

"Drew must've considered the consequences of coming out on TV like that," Mel persisted. "Both to his pocketbook and his reputation."

"Never mind what he did to you," Ted observed. "Costing you your job, Emmylou."

Trust Theodore to hold a grudge, Brian thought. Not that he disagreed with him. What Boyd did was shitty.

Emmett shouted, "I didn't care!"

Brian knew that wasn't true.

"It was romantic," Emmett insisted.

Brian thought he might barf. Romantic, his ass. No matter how exciting it might have been to be kissed by Drew on the Channel 5 set, the euphoria didn't last. Even if Emmett did hide it under concern for his ‘woe is me' boyfriend.

"He told the whole world he loved me." Emmett clasped his hands over his heart in true drama queen fashion. "Little old Emmett Lafayette Honeycutt from Hazlehurst, Mississippi."

Ted blinked at his friend. "Lafayette's your middle name? How didn't I know that?"

Emmett shrugged. "You never asked, Ted." He placed the slightest emphasis on ‘Ted,' although he really didn't need to. Not calling him Teddy was sign enough that Emmett was peeved.

"Lafish's is a cool middle name, Uncle Em," Gus piped up. "I mean," he tried again, "Lafaysh." The boy's upset over repeatedly butchering the name was written across his countenance.

Gus slumped against Justin, screwing up his mouth like he was stifling a yawn. That was a sure sign that Brian's sonnyboy was getting tired; no wonder after the combined excitement and terror of the day.

Emmett grinned at Gus. "That works. Some of the folks down home preferred Lafitte to Lafayette. A pirate would have fit in better than a marquis in Hazlehurst, you know?"

In return, Honeycutt earned himself a smile far more gap-toothed than his own.

That was well done, thought Brian, making it seem like Gus had meant Lafitte all along. He gave a mental nod of approval before wrangling things back on track.

"Let's say I can get Leo Brown to agree to Drew." If it weren't for the emergency situation, there'd be no way it would happen. Brian might be able to sell sand to the Saudis, but Brown was still majorly pissed off at Boyd.

Emmett perked up, smiling broadly.

"I'm willing to consider him, but I also like Justin's suggestion."

Emmett's eyes narrowed at Justin, who shrugged one shoulder, clearly not wanting to turn it into a competition.

Can't always have what you want, Sunshine, thought Brian. Personally, he reckoned Distorto would be less of a hassle to work with, but if Kinnetik and Brown Athletics could have either, it should be the one who'd be best received by the viewers. On the face of it, since the commercial would be aired during football and hockey games, that should be Drew Boyd. But Distorto was popular outside sports circles and might bring in a new demographic.

Brian glanced around, noting that a couple of families had drifted in, probably wanting an early dinner. Put them with everyone else hanging out in the eatery and he had a good sampling of Pittsburgh's gay population, along with a few straight people. It would do for an impromptu poll.

He just needed to get everyone's attention so he could ask for their help. His finger whistle was for shit unfortunately, and Justin's wasn't much better; besides, he'd suggested Bent. Emmett had a piercing whistle, but Brian didn't want to ask him since he was there on behalf of one of the contenders. Brian had no idea if Ted could whistle anything besides opera, so he was out.

Stumped, Brian glanced around the booth, thinking he might have to ask Honeycutt after all. Then his eyes landed on Mel. "You still do that wolf whistle?" he asked.

Melanie lifted an eyebrow. "The one that had you tripping over your own feet and landing on your keister?"

Not his proudest moment. But he hadn't expected the bulldyke to let loose with that fuckin' horrific sound just as he was strutting off the stage at Woody's after singing a couple songs from Dirty Dancing. He'd been drunk and stoned; otherwise, his balance wouldn't have been impaired, Brian assured himself for the umpteenth time.

"Yeah, that one," he said resignedly.

"Sure." Mel shrugged, like a whistle of that magnitude was no big deal. "Why?"

"Show me," Brian dared her.

Melanie narrowed her eyes at him, but then, with another shrug, she placed her thumb and forefinger in her mouth and let loose.

"Fuck!" shrieked Debbie, the sudden, ear-splitting whistle causing her to stumble and drop the food-laden plates in her hands.

He should've thought that through better, Brian recognized, wincing. If Deb ever found out he was responsible, she'd clout him on the ear.

A baby started wailing at a nearby table, but the noise was cut off when the woman holding the tot fed it her breast.

Gross. Brian looked away, noting the wan complexions of the other men in the booth.

"Good set of pipes," came a hearty commendation.

"Which one?" someone else joked, causing an outburst of laughter.

JR, Brian noted in surprise, had barely stirred in her slumber, apparently unbothered by the wolf whistle.

Gus, who'd been in the midst of another yawn, jumped, startled, and stared slack-jawed at his mother. Timmy's gaze was fastened on Mel, and Brian could see the wheels turning as he tried to figure out how she'd produced that noise. The boys would doubtless be pestering Melanie to teach them, although Gus was gonna need some teeth first.

Before the diner could devolve back into the usual noisy din, Brian half stood, one buttock perched on the top of the banquette and his back braced against the wall behind him.

He nodded at Deb, who was standing with her fists planted on her hips, broken crockery and splattered food at her feet, peering around in an effort to find the culprit.

Debbie narrowed her eyes at Brian, a red-tipped talon rising to point at him. But then her finger wavered, her gaze turning perplexed; she knew his whistle sucked.

"I've got a bit of a situation," Brian understated the matter, pointing at the TV. "That asshole on the news?"

The epithets flew fast and furious, including, "Fucker," "asshole," "dickhead" and "fucking Mick."

"Murphy-"

Brian let the boos that greeted the hockey turd's name die down before continuing, "-was going to be in a new commercial that Kinnetik put together for Brown Athletics. Obviously, we're not going to air that commercial now."

There were nods of understanding from around the room and sounds of approval as well as disappointment. They were disappointed, Brian reckoned, because the airing of a new Brown Athletics commercial during the big game on Thanksgiving was becoming a much-anticipated event. As they branched out beyond NBC's regional coverage, the commercial might even someday rival what Budweiser unveiled during the Super Bowl.

"Unless," Brian resumed speaking, "we can find the right person to replace Murphy and edit the commercial."

"In one night? No way," scoffed a tattooed bear.

"We're gonna try," Brian replied. He gave Ted a nod of approval when he saw that his CFO had produced a headset from somewhere, plugged it into his cell phone and was talking to someone, a finger in his other ear so he could hear better. He must be calling the crew they'd need. Or maybe just Cynthia; she was more than capable of coordinating everything.

The bell over the door jingled and a bevy of drag queens pushed inside, followed by a group of teens.

"What I need from you," Brian addressed the growing crowd, "is to help me decide who will be in the commercial. We've got two candidates." He paused, giving a biker chick, who was seated at the front of the diner, a chance to fill in the newcomers; he assumed that was what she was doing since she gestured repeatedly at him while talking.

He also wanted to build the suspense a little. This was the best it was gonna get for the locals, who, if everything had gone as it should, wouldn't know anything about the commercial before tomorrow.

"Who?" yelled one of the teens, bouncing up and down on her toes.

"Yeah, who?" the question was echoed by other diners, all eyes fixed on Brian.

"Drew Boyd-"

Again, all Brian got out was a name, but in contrast to Murphy, this time the reaction was a hearty round of applause.

"And Stan Marchenko."

Brian had expected the baffled looks he was getting, deliberately waiting a couple beats before adding, "Also known as Distorto."

He was surprised when that earned a considerably louder round of applause along with cries of "the Scuttler," "Pretzel Man," and "Bent."

The last nickname and Brian's personal favorite had been quickly spreading since Justin and Michael had released a sneak peek of the next issue of Rage a couple days ago. No dialogue, just two panels of the comic's newest superhero scuttling down a tree trunk, twisting his body in an improbable manner, and then squeezing the bejeezus out of an unidentified villain with his powerful thighs.

"I wanna learn how to scuttle," Timmy commented excitedly. "That's so cool!"

"Yeah!" Gus lifted a hand, likely for another high-five, but didn't complete the motion, letting his hand drop to his lap. "Hesh bether 'n Spiderman," he slurred.

Brian snorted, amused by his son's assessment. Bent just scurried around; he didn't climb buildings by shooting webbing out of the palms of his hands. Or was it wrists? Brian frowned before shrugging it off; he'd have to ask Mikey.

When Gus sagged against Justin again, Brian could practically see the energy draining out of his sonnyboy. He'd have to wrap this up quickly and get Gus home before the boy crashed.

"I reckon I know who to go with." Brian flashed a smile at everyone.

"That's not fair." Emmett scowled up at him.

Christ, Em looked like Michael and sounded like Debbie. Honeycutt had lived with one Novotny or the other for too long.

"Drew's just as popular as... Bendy Boy." Emmett trailed off uncertainly as he glanced around, taking in the vocal support for the contortionist.

It was possible, Brian acknowledged silently, that if he'd named Bent first and Drew second, that Boyd would've gotten more applause. "Let's have a show of hands," he requested. "Stan Marchenko," he intentionally reversed the order of the two contenders and downplayed the contortionist's popularity by not using any of his aliases.

Almost everyone in the diner raised a hand, some showing their enthusiasm with two hands.

"Drew Boyd."

There was a groundswell in the votes for the quarterback, although Boyd still fell short of the support for Distorto, negating the need to have Theodore count hands.

His decision confirmed, Brian called out, "Thanks. Everyone in here gets a drink on me. If the adults prefer, they can claim their drink at Woody's. Just leave your name with Debbie." He glanced at his surrogate mother and she beamed at him, nodding in agreement.

"You heard the man," Debbie called out. "Kiki and I'll be coming around for your orders. Or taking names," she chuckled.

That got a spate of laughter from most of the diners and nervous looks from a few, one young man sinking down in his seat. If he wanted to remain unseen, it wasn't going to work, as Brian or any of the gang could have told him.

‘Taking names' had little to do with actual names - Deb made it her business to know everyone who came into the diner - but whoever she turned a disapproving gaze on was bound to spill whatever she wanted to know. Fuck knew it had worked on Brian when he was a teenager, and although he'd never admit it, sometimes even now.

Turning his attention away from Debbie and Kiki, who'd started to make the rounds, Brian looked at Emmett. "Gimme Boyd's number."

"Huh?"

Brian smirked at the flustered southern belle. "Was that hard to understand?"

"Uh, no," Honeycutt stuttered. "But, uh, aren't you using Distorto?"

A shrug was all the answer Brian gave him. "You want to call Bent?" he asked Justin.

"Sure." His partner grinned at him. "I'm onto you," he whispered as he took out his cell.

Brian glanced over at Ted, expecting he would have figured it out too.  Apparently not, since Theodore just looked confused. 

In contrast, Melanie smirked and murmured, "Not bad."

Brian was mulling over his plan when the tattooed bear sauntered up to the booth. "You need a cameraman or a sound engineer, let me know." Tattoo placed a business card on the table.

Brian was about to question him as to whether he could do both, when Gus said, "Daddy?"

"Yeah, Sonnyboy?" Brian smiled at Gus, reaching around Justin to ruffle the boy's hair.

Gus didn't protest - he was normally almost as fussy as Brian about his hair - or even smile back at him. 

Mel lifted an eyebrow but didn't seem unduly concerned. Like Brian, she'd probably decided that Gus had been done in by the trauma of the day.

In a listless voice, Gus mumbled, "My shoulder hursh."

Now looking truly alarmed, Mel sat up straight, an arm around JR to keep the girl from sliding off her lap. "Gus, honey, why didn't you say something sooner?"

"It wushn't that bad till now," their son replied, giving a lopsided shrug with his free shoulder. Gus then grimaced in pain, a soft whine escaping.

"Gus?" asked Timmy, peering at his friend.

"'shokay," Gus slurred, not doing very well at reassuring the other boy, who was starting to look panicked.

Corinne, brow furrowed, guessed, "When I swerved away from Murphy, the harness might've pulled at Gus' shoulder. I wasn't going very fast and both boys were in their booster seats. But I still had to wrench the steering wheel."

"Fucking Murphy," growled Mel, standing up and settling Jenny down on the banquette next to Corinne. "I'm gonna twist his balls off and shove them down his throat."

The hockey player would be singing soprano before he ever went to trial if Brian had his way.

Justin suggested in a calm, soothing voice, "What do you say we get that checked out by a doctor, Gus?"

Gus whined half-heartedly. Brian knew then that his sonnyboy had to be feeling bad. Not only hadn't he gleefully demanded, ‘Five dollars, Mama,' he wasn't fighting going to the doctor. The only thing most kids, Gus included, hated more than a doctor's visit was going to the dentist.

"Here." Corinne handed her car keys to Mel. "Leave Jenny here - I'll keep an eye on her - and take the Volvo."

"But how will you-"

"How about we just move one of the booster seats to my Mercedes?" Ted cut Mel's objection short. "I'll keep the Vette and Brian can drive you to the ER."

"Thanks, 'Rinne." Mel brushed a kiss across Corinne's forehead and hustled out of the diner.

"Thanks, 'Rinne," Ted echoed Melanie, catching the keys Brian tossed to him. "I'll help Mel move the booster seat."

Justin edged slowly off the bench, carefully pulling Gus along with him.

His face pinched, Gus held on tightly to Justin's hand. He moved awkwardly, clearly trying to compensate for the pain in his left shoulder.

"Daddy, it really hursh," he said plaintively.

 

 

Sunlight streaming through the canted slats of the window blind hit Brian's face. "Mmph," he groaned in protest, slitting one hazel eye open before hastily shutting it to block out the bright light.

What the fuck had he done last night? His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool and something disgusting must've died in his mouth. Had he gone on a bender?

"Don' move," came a muffled objection. A muscled thigh shifted against his own before the warm lump curled up against him went immobile again.

Brian tilted his chin down and nuzzled strands of fine blond hair, last night slowly coming back to him. No, he recalled, he hadn't done anything as pleasurable as getting drunk and stoned before falling into bed and fucking his partner into oblivion. 

Late yesterday afternoon, after the ER doctor had assured them that Gus would be okay, Brian and the hastily assembled, makeshift film crew had gone to the Penguins' practice rink and spent hours shooting stills and video. Then they'd reconvened at Kinnetik, where they worked for five more hours, splicing together a revised commercial. By the time he and Justin got to the loft, it had been after three a.m. - not, for a change, after a long night of sucking and fucking - and it took the last of their energy simply to shuck their clothes and fall into bed.

That couldn't have been all that long ago, could it? Brian wondered groggily. He knew the alarm hadn't gone off - there was no way to ignore the police siren sound, which whooped louder and louder until it was finally turned off. You couldn't just press a button on top of the clock to get it to shut up either; you had to reach around to the backside and slide a tiny switch to the ‘off' position.

The alarm clock had been a gag gift from Carl earlier this year, in honor of Brian's thirty-sixth birthday. The detective had feigned concern that Brian's hearing might start to go as he accelerated toward the big four-oh. Just in case he didn't hear the escalating noise, Hovath had informed him, his eyes twinkling, there was a secondary feature that could be engaged - a red light that flashed brighter and brighter until it was turned off.

Brian had never had any intention of using the fucking cop alarm - he'd planned to donate it to the dumpster behind his apartment building - but the stubborn blond twat insisted that they keep it. Justin had reminded him of the times, albeit rare, when his alarm clock failed to rouse Brian, causing him to be late for or miss an important meeting. Brian had a habit of slapping the off button on his alarm before it could properly get going, rolling over and wrapping himself around Justin. That usually led to the best possible start to the day... except for the rare occasions when Brian was so tuckered out that he simply fell back to sleep. Hence the need for a backup alarm.

The first time they'd tried out the siren had been after a late night at Babylon, dancing and sucking and fucking until the wee hours. His twenties sadly well behind him, Brian wouldn't normally have partied that hard midweek, but Kinnetik had just scored a major new account and he wanted to celebrate.

At Justin's urging, he'd set the noisemaker before they went out. When the whoop-de-whoop-whoop had started blaring at dark o'clock, Brian and Justin both bolted out of bed. Panicked and disoriented, thinking the building must be on fire, they'd run onto the landing, setting off the loft alarm, and started making their way down the stairs, stark naked.

They'd almost knocked over the spinster schoolteacher who lived one floor down, Brian screeching to a halt and throwing out an arm to block Justin's headlong flight.

Curlers in her graying hair, dressed in a fuzzy pink bathrobe and floppy bunny slippers, the woman had simply stood and stared at them, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips.

A loud shout from down below, demanding to know the source of all the fucking noise, had startled all three of them out of their frozen state. There was no smoke, no flames - no fucking fire - just a bunch of pissed-off neighbors. Apparently, the two alarms going off in tandem - the police siren and the loft alarm - had caused so much noise that residents on all four floors had been roused.

Brian had really wanted to lambaste Carl - fucking gag gift - but since the detective wasn't around, he'd blamed Justin.

Considering the old maid schoolteacher now ogled Brian every fucking time she saw him, undressing him with her eyes, he still held Justin responsible for the fiasco. The only upside was that the blond twat had agreed the cop alarm would only be used in the direst of situations.

Last night, so exhausted he was stumbling over his own feet, Brian had worried that he might sleep through his alarm and wouldn't make it to the office to give the revamped commercial a final run-through. Grumbling the whole time, he'd dug the siren out of the recesses of his closet and plugged it in.

Now he was worried that the damned thing might've gone kaput. Cautiously cracking his eye open again, he checked the digital readout and groaned in frustration. Seven twenty-five. Too fuckin' early, just like he'd thought; he could sleep for another half hour. 

His cock, Brian noticed, didn't think it was too early for his favorite activity however. It was angled toward Justin - no surprise - and tenting the sheet. There, there, Brian sent mental reassurance to his cock, you'll get what you need once Justin wakes up. Just be good till then, okay?

The silliness of his thoughts had him chuckling, Justin's head rising and falling with the movement of Brian's chest. Leaning down, he took another whiff of Justin's hair. Mmm. A hint of sweat, a tinge of cigarette smoke and a scent that was solely Justin's: best aphrodisiac ever.

Brian cupped a hand around the back of Justin's neck, his fingers sinking into blond strands. Then, abruptly remembering last night's conversation, he clutched the younger man to him.

He'd expected to pass out, even a quick fuck beyond him, but just as Brian's eyes slid shut and he started drifting off, Justin spoke up. He divulged what had happened with Hobbs - how, when he was in the Pink Posse, he'd shoved a pistol into the fucker's mouth and made him suck on it.

Brian had figured Justin must've confronted the shithead at some point during his Posse stint, maybe even waved the pistol around, but this? Christ, Justin had admitted that the gun was actually loaded.

That had been the moment when Brian started shaking. What if the statute of limitations hadn't run out? What if Hobbs went to the police now? He didn't mind the homophobic jock getting some of his own, but how far Justin had gone was another matter.

Not that he could call Justin on it. First of all, it had happened years ago, and second of all, he could hardly talk. Justin knew Brian had slammed a locker door on the fingers of the fucker who'd given him a swirly back in high school. Justin hadn't gotten even that much satisfaction; community service at the AIDS hospice was just a slap on the wrist. Even then, Hobbs had found a way to bully Justin. Some of the hospice residents too, for all Brian knew. Brian had put a bug in the hospice director's ear back then, warning him to keep a close eye on Hobbs, but the damage had already been done where Justin was concerned.

Getting Justin to participate in the Pride parade had helped, and working on Rage with Michael also served as an outlet for Justin's anger and frustration. Brian had even thought it was enough... until the Pink Posse. With that crazy fucker Cody egging him on, Brian hadn't been able to reason with Justin, and truthfully, he hadn't really wanted to. Justin was entitled to be angry about what had happened to him and to deal with it as he saw fit.

He'd breathed a sigh of relief when Justin emerged from his association with Cody and the Posse seemingly unscathed. But now Brian couldn't stop thinking about losing Justin to a life in prison. What if that could still happen?

He'd have to talk to someone. Carl was out. Despite living with Debbie, he was a cop at heart and clung to the idea that the criminal justice system worked like it should.

The best option was the bulldyke. Just like Brian, Mel would want to protect Justin. She knew how skewed against gays the system was, and if it could be done, she'd know how to circumvent whatever statute of limitations might apply.

Justin had tried to soothe him by saying that Hobbs would never do anything. Chris wouldn't want to admit that a fag had gotten the better of him, that Justin had actually scared the shit out of him.

Possibly, Brian conceded to himself. Unlike that time outside Woody's, when he announced that he'd given Hobbs a handjob, Justin hadn't challenged him in front of his friends. It had been years since Justin confronted the former jock, and he didn't physically hurt Chris; he'd just terrified the closeted prick. 

But Brian wasn't sure that Justin was safe from retaliation. Hobbs was a vengeful bully. If he got over his fear, he might come after Justin again. Brian would never forget the moment when the bat had connected with Justin's head, the sound it made.

For long seconds, Brian was lost in that godawful memory, grasping Justin in his arms and crying out, "No, no, no," over and over again.

"Brian," Justin moaned in his arms.

Brian blinked, realizing he wasn't kneeling on the cement floor in a parking garage. He was in his bed, Justin draped over him. Willing his muscles to relax, he loosened his hold a little. Justin, who hadn't really come awake, snuffled and settled back to sleep.

One hand in Justin's hair, the other stroking across warm skin, Brian lay still and listened to Justin breathe.

Last night, Brian had almost feared that Justin would disappear out from under him and wouldn't be there when he woke up. It would all be a dream, Justin long gone, knifed while in prison.

Angry and afraid, he'd attacked Justin, pounding into him and placing savage, biting kisses everywhere. He'd needed to prove to himself that Justin was there and that he wasn't going anywhere.

Justin hadn't objected. He'd met every thrust, nails digging into Brian's back, heels drumming against his buttocks.

Brian couldn't keep up the intense pace as long as he would have liked - forever would barely be long enough - and had finally spent inside his lover, groaning, "I love you."

"I love you," Brian whispered now, pressing a kiss to the crown of Justin's head.

"Mmm," Justin responded. Rolling his head to the side, he looked at Brian out of half-mast, sleepy blue eyes. He pressed his morning hard-on into Brian and lifted his eyebrows.

Like there was any question, thought Brian, peering down the length of his body.

Following his gaze, Justin smiled and reached out a hand to cup heavy balls. He rolled them gently between his fingers, as always paying as much attention to the fake ball as to the real one.

Brian spread his legs wider, enjoying the sensation. After going through surgery and radiation, even once he could get it up again, he hadn't wanted anyone to fondle his balls. Suck him off, yes. Play with his balls, no. Except for Justin. The kid had stuck by him, wanting him even though his body was no longer perfect.

As time passed and his scar faded, Brian had become less skittish, but he still tended to feed tricks his cock or fuck them from behind. A trick examining his body too closely made him uneasy. The news that Brian fucking Kinney'd had testicular cancer and was a one-ball wonder had spread like wildfire, as Brian had known it would. It had been bound to get out eventually. All it would have taken was for someone with loose lips to be overheard talking about it.

"Hey," murmured Justin, drawing Brian's attention back to him.

Brian looked down at Justin, who was eyeing him a bit warily. He was likely worried about how Brian was dealing with his Posse revelations.

"You okay?" Justin asked.

"Yeah." It wasn't an entirely truthful response, but with a plan in place to talk to Melanie, Brian could shelve his concerns for now. Jesus, he thought with a mental shudder, he'd better. He and Mel might have reached a point where they mostly got along, but she didn't belong in his head now, while he was in bed with Justin.

"You sure?" Justin probed.

"Yeah," Brian repeated, this time with more conviction. "You just gonna play with those?"

Justin arched a blond eyebrow, looking mildly puzzled. "You like it when I play with your balls."

The little shit. He knew damned well what Brian wanted. "They're not the only thing you can play with." He arched upward, making sure Justin got the point.

"Hmm." Justin's eyes glinted with mischief and Brian groaned, wondering how long his cock would have to wait for attention.

To his surprise, Justin scooted down on the bed and angled his face toward his groin. A hiss of air escaped Brian, but he managed to hold back the ‘That's it' which hovered on the tip of his tongue. Justin was clearly feeling playful and was all too likely to draw things out if Brian pushed too hard.

C'mon, Brian silently urged as Justin's tongue peeked out from between his teeth.

Justin inhaled deeply as his nose ghosted along the length of Brian's cock, from his balls to the slit at the top.

Brian inhaled too and held his breath, waiting for the tip of Justin's tongue to touch his skin. But then Justin sat back on his haunches, and Brian's breath whooshed out in disappointment. 

What the fuck? He scowled at his lover, about to let loose with a scathing remark, when he heard the snap of a cap, a tube then landing on the bed next to Brian's thigh.

When in the heck had Justin had a chance to grab the lube off the night table? He'd suspect the kid of sleeping with it under his pillow, except that Brian had been his pillow.

Brian dismissed his speculations - it didn't really matter where the lube had come from - and watched avidly as Justin reached behind him, a look of intense concentration on his face. He wished Justin would turn around so Brian could watch him prepare himself, but then he wouldn't be able to see his face. Brian didn't want to miss the small signs of pleasure: the heavy-lidded eyes; his breathing speeding up; his lips parting as he inserted another finger.

All Brian could think about was getting some relief for his dick, which was hard enough to pound nails. 

He reached a hand down to stroke himself, but Justin slapped it away. Heated blue eyes met Brian's, Justin growling, "Mine!"

"It's yours. Fuck yourself on it." Brian's demand came out as more of a plea than an order, but he was getting desperate.

"Yeah," Justin grunted. He tore open a condom, applied a smidgen of lube and sheathed Brian's dick with a speed that came from experience.

Brian was hazily wondering when he'd gotten the condom - it had appeared out of thin air like the lube - when Justin squirted more of the lube on his hand and began massaging Brian's cock with it.

Fuck, that felt good. Even better was having Justin sling a muscled thigh over him and position Brian's dick at his entrance. His gaze glued to where their bodies were about to be joined, Brian watched as his cock slowly disappeared inside Justin.

Justin steadily descended, welcoming Brian into his body. "You like that, huh?" he rasped throatily. 

Brian reluctantly tore his gaze away. His cock might no longer be visible but Justin's was bobbing temptingly in front of him. Looking up into heated blue eyes that also twinkled with mirth, he arched an eyebrow. "Like you don't."

Justin chuckled. "Never said I didn't." He swiveled his hips a little and squeezed his ass around Brian.

"Uh-" His brains scrambled, Brian was at a loss for a retort. 

Justin chuckled again and gave Brian's cock another delicious squeeze.

"You gonna just sit there?" Brian finally asked. Dumb question, he immediately castigated himself. They had plenty of time, and fuck knew, there was nowhere he'd rather be.

His lover just grinned down at him and ground his ass into Brian's pubes, Justin's hips moving in the smallest of circles and his muscles clamping down on Brian's dick.

Jesus Christ. Justin was hardly doing anything, and yet he had Brian on the verge of coming. Fuck. Brian reached out and gripped Justin's hips in an effort to hold him still.

Justin gave him a knowing look and giggled.

Dammit. Brian groaned. The little shit knew what that sound did to him. "Just... slow down," he gritted out. Christ, he was almost begging.

"Okay." Justin exhaled, relaxing around Brian. He didn't even laugh or tease Brian about it being ‘hard' to go slow, making Brian mentally shake his head. If their positions had been reversed, he wouldn't have been able to resist.

Brian drank in the sight of his young lover: mussed blond hair, the lightest of stubble, bright blue eyes and porcelain skin. Skin that was splotched with purplish-red bruises across his neck and chest.

He really had gone at Justin last night, Brian realized. He'd bitten down savagely, needing to claim Justin. To mark Justin as his. To warn him to never again do something so stupidly dangerous as confronting Hobbs with a gun - something that could have taken Justin away from Brian for good.

Now Brian winced at how thoroughly he'd marked Justin. He'd even broken the skin in a couple of spots from what he could see.

"It's okay." Focused on a large, colorful hickey, Brian vaguely registered Justin shrugging one shoulder. "They're just love bites."

Love bites. Christ, he made them sound like a couple of munchers.

"Besides, they won't last long."

Yeah, right. It took forever for bruises to fade from the kid's pale skin. Brian looked up at Justin and rolled his eyes, which only got him a brash giggle.

"You've got hickeys all over," Brian noted, suddenly rather proud of the thorough job he'd done. 

Justin's brows drew together and he looked down, scanning his torso. "It's not that bad." He smiled and gave Brian another lopsided shrug.

"Uh-huh." Brian smirked. "What're you gonna do about the ones on your neck? Wear a turtleneck to hide them?"

"On my neck?" Justin twisted his head from side to side as if that was going to help him spot the ‘love bites.'

Brian nodded, his smirk growing.

"Shit." Justin glared at his lover. "You know it's gonna be, like, a gazillion degrees at Debbie's house. I'll roast if I wear a turtleneck."

Never mind that he'd look like an overdressed blond Eskimo. Brian tapped a hickey that extended from beneath Justin's ear onto his face. "Wouldn't do the trick anyway," he helpfully observed.

"Why'd you bite me there?" Justin scowled. "You have a hissy fit if I go anywhere near your neck."

"You never asked me not to." When Justin opened his mouth, presumably to issue a request Brian had no intention of complying with, he hurriedly suggested, "You could always put a bandage over it." 

It was Justin's turn to roll his eyes. "I might as well wear a sign proclaiming, ‘Look! My boyfriend gave me a hickey!'"

Under his breath, Brian grumbled, "I'm your partner, not your boyfriend." He had a love-hate relationship with the term ‘boyfriend.' On one hand, it was juvenile, but on the other it made him sound young. Right?

"I guess I could try makeup," Justin said doubtfully. "If it's not too bad." He again canted his head to the side in a futile effort to see his neck.

Fuck. What if he asked their southern friend for help? Not only would he have his hands all over Justin, Emmett wouldn't be able to resist gossiping about the hickeys that his ‘baby' was covered in.

"A gazillion degrees, remember? Makeup would just run." Determined to distract Justin - he didn't want Honeycutt invading the loft - Brian freed his right hand from his lover's hip. Reaching up, he smoothed it across the planes of Justin's chest, gently brushing his thumb over the metal hoop that stood out from Justin's nipple, in the middle of a large, colorful hickey.

"Yep," Justin observed playfully. "I knew you liked the new bell for my bicycle."

"Huh?" Ignoring the nonsensical comment, Brian flicked a finger at the nipple ring that Justin had recently reinserted. Damned thing drove him wild.

"‘Every piece of trash has something stuck through their ear or their nose or their belly button,'" Justin stated in a mocking falsetto. 

Oh shit. His face heating at the reminder of Justin prancing up to him in Woody's years ago, Brian shifted uncomfortably beneath Justin. The kid had tongues hanging out when he'd pulled up his shirt, exposing his newly acquired piercing.

"‘Or their cock,'" Justin went on, remorselessly quoting Brian. "‘What makes you think I'm even remotely interested that you have a ring through your tit?'"

Leave it to Justin to remember exactly what he'd said. "I lied," Brian admitted, looking up at Justin.

"I knooow," Justin crowed in a saucy, know-it-all voice, sounding exactly like he had at seventeen. He grinned down at Brian.

Fucking brat. Brian reached up and pinched Justin's nipple.

Justin moaned, his nipple hardening.

Brian tugged on the nipple ring, pulling Justin closer. Their lips met in a deep, sloppy, tongue-filled kiss. After coming up for breath, Brian almost dove in for another kiss, but then he was distracted by the hickey he'd placed under Justin's ear.

Justin wouldn't be able to hide the hickey, so why not make it last a little longer? Decision made - this would warn handsy homos to keep their hands off for days to come - Brian nuzzled the spot beneath Justin's ear and blew warm, moist air across the skin.

"Mmm." Justin pressed himself closer to Brian.

Latching onto the skin, Brian started sucking at the hickey he'd already imprinted on Justin's skin.

"Nngh," his lover moaned, writhing against Brian.

Brian placed his hands on Justin's back and head, holding him firmly in place. He didn't want the kid to jerk and tear his skin.

He wasn't sure how long he labored over the love bite, wanting to get it just right, but Justin's ass clamping down on him eventually had him drawing away.

"Jesus, Bri," Justin gasped as he sat up. "I'm gonna look like I was attacked by a bear."

Offended, Brian glared at him. 

"Yeah, yeah, you're not a bear," Justin dismissed the protest forming on Brian's lips.

Christ, he hadn't gotten out a single word; this was worse than having the little twat finish his sentences - he was outright reading his mind!

Right as he was thinking that, Justin reached back, braced his hands on Brian's thighs and lifted up before lowering himself back down. He swiveled his hips, rocking against Brian before rising up again.

Brian immediately forgot all about everything else. "Fuck," he grunted.

"That's... the... idea," Justin rasped as he descended.

Brian clenched the sheets in his hands, fighting the urge to buck up into Justin.

Up and down. Up and down with the occasional twist of his hips.

When Justin clamped his ass around him with just the head of his dick inside him, Brian almost came. Where had Justin picked up that trick? he wondered dazedly.

"Juuus," he pleaded, his control shredding.

He got an inarticulate groan in reply.

Justin slid back down his length, his ass forming a vise that squeezed tighter and tighter as he came down. His eyes slitted in concentration, like they always did when Brian hit his prostate.

Bending over, Justin claimed his mouth. One hand grasped Brian's on the sheet and the other flew to his dick, which he began frantically stroking. Brian placed his free hand atop Justin's to help him.

Planting his feet flat on the bed, Brian thrust up as Justin ground down on him. Once, twice, and Brian was spilling into the condom.

A beat later, sticky fluid splashed across their hands and chests.

He'd never get enough of this, Brian thought as Justin collapsed against him. Never.

 

"It's a wrap," Brian announced hours later, guzzling a lukewarm cup of coffee as he watched the footage of an underwear-clad Distorto sliding upside down between Boyd's splayed-open legs. The contortionist's hockey stick missed Boyd's groin, covered in the newest Brown Athletics briefs, by a hair's breadth. Still bent backward, hair sweeping across the ice, Distorto caressed the puck with his stick and sent it into the net.

"All you need is a pair of these underoos," drawled Ted from his spot next to Brian, "and you, too, can be bent."

Laughter came from the small crowd gathered on the far side of the room, near the backdrop where they'd shot a couple last-minute stills.

"Nope, there's only one me," objected Stan with a saucy grin at Ted.

Rubbing his backside, Boyd cast a sour glance at the contortionist. "Ice skating's not as easy as you make it look," he muttered.

Brian sympathized with Drew's predicament. The one time he'd gone to the rink with Justin, his lover had skated rings around him. At least he'd been able to maintain a wobbly sort of balance on the thin metal blades, unlike Boyd, who'd fallen over repeatedly.

They'd quickly realized they'd have to go with a stunt double for most of the shots and then edit it to look like Drew. Brian had been resigned to doing the same for the final sequence, but then Cynthia had the idea of placing two rubber mats under Drew's feet. That had worked, Boyd managing to stay upright while Distorto slid between his legs. They'd had to erase the mats from the video but that was easy enough to do.

"Good job," Leo Brown, who'd videoconferenced in to view the final product, said warmly. "Thanks, Brian. You too, Stan. Boyd."

Brian didn't miss the chill in Leo's voice when he thanked Drew or how he addressed the quarterback by his last name. When Brian had called yesterday evening to share his brainstorm about using both Stan and Drew in the commercial, Brown balked. Brian might've thought Leo didn't want a ‘gay' face on his newest products, but the Brown Athletics CFO had been enthusiastic about Distorto, waxing on about how the grandkids loved him.

Theodore, who'd been sitting right next to Brian when he placed the call, had been the one to persuade Leo that it would be a smart move to include Drew, proving Brown Athletics was ‘gay friendly' as well as ‘family friendly' and that the contretemps between them and Boyd was in the past - for both sides. Listening to Ted, Brian had been a little bit in awe of his CFO and a little bit annoyed. Since when did Theodore outsell him?

Brown had been further mollified when Ted promised that Boyd and Marchenko would each receive the same amount. Drew was arguably more famous than Stan, but given Boyd's past behavior, Leo hadn't been keen on paying him more. Once Ted explained that Drew had already agreed to the fee, Brown had calmed down. They all knew Boyd didn't need the million dollars; it was the television exposure that counted. 

When Brown had expressed concern that sales might suffer, Brian finally got a word in edgewise. He'd explained that while some straight males might be offended and opt out, it wouldn't really matter - their wives and girlfriends would buy the athletic wear for them. A lot of women were still swooning over the ‘romantic' way Boyd came out on TV.

As for Distorto, Brian had gone on, it was just like Leo had said: kids loved him. They all wanted to be him when they grew up. Distorto was cool.

"It's on the way, boss," Cynthia announced, coming back into the room with a container of coffee drinks, which she began distributing.

"Sugar?" Brian mouthed when she handed him a nonfat latte, sans the sugar packets that should've come with it.

Cynthia tapped a polished nail against the sugar bowl she'd placed on the conference table hours ago, an obnoxious fuchsia Post-it note with Brian's in all caps affixed to it.

Brian did his best to maintain a bland expression, but it was hard to ignore the titters from his minions. It wasn't like he'd use an entire bowl of sugar for a few cups of coffee, for fuck's sake.

"The film should be there within an hour," Cynthia continued as she moved around the table. "Our guy at NBC will let us know when it arrives and will make sure the local NBC affiliates are set to air it during the big game." In response to Brian's lifted eyebrow, she added, "Don't worry, a copy is on its way over to the Liberty Media office here in Pittsburgh too. It'll be ready for the Penguins' match against the Senators."

"They better get their shit together," muttered Tattoo, who had proven invaluable behind the camera. "They're on a four match losing streak."

"Thanks, Cynthia," Leo Brown thanked the blonde woman, his voice again warm and friendly.

No surprise there, thought Brian wryly. It was a rare straight guy who didn't flirt with his COO, and even though he was happily married, Leo was still susceptible.

"Oh, and be sure to thank your young man for me, Brian," Leo continued. "His suggestion for a PSA about drinking and driving at the end of the commercial was genius."

Ted chuckled. "Not that anyone would normally make a connection between underwear and drinking. But it does show Brown Athletics and Kinnetik are socially conscious. And when the newsies find out we had to retool the commercial because of Murphy-"

Which they inevitably would, Brian knew. After his informal ‘focus group' at the diner yesterday, Brian was just surprised some enterprising reporter hadn't already tracked him down for a comment.

"-we'll look even better for not sweeping it under the rug," Theodore concluded.

Brian exchanged a shark-like grin with his CFO. At the end of the reworked commercial, underwear-clad hockey players - otherwise known as Kinnetik employees - swarmed the ice, joining Stan and Drew for a friendly hockey match. A few beats later, the players were bowled down by a yellow blur that flew across the ice, knocking them left and right. 

The camera immediately shifted away, and condolences from Brown Athletics and Kinnetik for those killed and injured in the Strip District scrolled across the screen. Beneath that, in smaller print, was a message asking viewers not to get behind the wheel if they'd been drinking.

Ted's voice brought Brian back to the present. "My husband agrees," he informed Leo, a silly, infatuated smile on his face. "A PSA that stops just one idiot from driving drunk or high is worth it."

The weird pang that afflicted him whenever Theodore talked about his husband struck Brian again. It was amazing how Ted managed to fit references to his marital status into conversations five to ten times a day. Everyone but Brian excused it, saying Ted and Blake were still in the honeymoon period. Three months later? Really? 

Brian would've mocked his friend, but he doubted Ted would care. Why would he? Theodore and Blake were all over each other. All the time. Blake had even enticed Ted into Babylon's backroom for what Brian would bet was the first time ever. The newly buff Theodore had garnered a lot of attention and wolf whistles, putting on quite the show with his husband. Marriage couldn't be all bad if that was the result.

Gathering his obviously scattered wits, Ted started over. "Blake said the PSA is honest and in your face. He thinks it'll make an impact."

Brian smirked, remembering the ad he'd created for Vangard and then completely revamped, stealing Remsen Pharmaceuticals from right under Gardner's nose. If this commercial had that kind of impact, it was gonna send sales of Brown Athletics gear through the roof.

"You know," Stan interjected, "I really don't need to be paid for doing this. Like I told Justin, I'd have been glad to do it for free. I mean, it's gonna put my name out there even more than it already is, which means more gigs for Distorto" - he grinned impishly - "and maybe an ongoing role for Bent."

A ripple of laughter greeted that announcement.

Brian would have to explain the Bent reference to Leo, who was clearly confused, but he'd give his straight client a break and and not do it in front of a bunch of fags.

"Plus his sidekick, of course," Stan added, his grin getting bigger. "Whacker."

Ted spit his coffee out all over the floor, the liquid lapping at Drew's shoes.

A snort escaped Brian. ‘Bent Whacker.' Only Justin could have come up with that.

"Young man," Brown sternly addressed Stan, "you're getting paid. You and Mr. Boyd came through for me when I was desperate. I would've paid twi-"

Stan interrupted before Leo could finish. "I want to donate what I earned." He gestured at the large screen, which was frozen on the PSA and the carnage behind it. "Maybe keep somebody from fucking up like that. How about the rehab where Blake works?" he asked, looking at Ted.

Patently floored, Theodore stared at Stan. "Uh- I, uh-"

Brian seized the opportunity. "You can do that," he agreed. "But what about putting a condition on it?" When Stan looked at him inquiringly, he disclosed, "With your backing, Blake could become one of the directors." According to Ted, there was an opening at the rehab, and Blake was qualified, so why not make it happen?

"I can do that," Stan agreed.

"I'll match your donation," Leo spoke up. "That should assure Blake's directorship."

Since his CFO had been stupefied into imitating a goldfish, Brian took charge. "We can handle the transfer of funds after we get the details worked out." He'd put Melanie on it; she could draw up a contract, and the fee for handling the legalese would give Mel some extra cash for the holidays.

Right now, if he and Ted didn't want an irate Deb on their tails, they needed to get the heck out of here. The only reason Brian hadn't asked Justin to help wrap things up at Kinnetik was because Justin, Emmett and Deb had been planning Thanksgiving dinner for weeks. He didn't want his surrogate mom to come after him with a ladle, like she had last year, not accepting Brian's excuse of something came up. 

What was even the big deal? Every holiday, Debbie intentionally fudged the time she wanted Justin, and Brian took that into account. He still got Justin there when Deb actually needed him, so she should be happy.

"As I'm sure I'm not the only one who's about to be sent into a carbohydrate stupor," Brian announced, not bothering to hide a grimace at the thought of the ‘feast' that awaited him. "Let's all wrap up and get out of here."

Leo Brown chuckled. "There's nothing like a good Thanksgiving spread. If I want to enjoy the one I've been invited to, I'd better get going as well. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone." His image disappeared to a return chorus of Thanksgiving wishes.

Glancing at the wall clock behind Brian, Ted jumped as if he'd been goosed, swearing, "Shit. I need to pick up Blake; the group session he was leading ended twenty minutes ago."

He hurried out of the room, and the others started to file out behind him, throwing unwanted ‘Happy Thanksgivings' at Brian as they trooped out

"You sure Debbie doesn't mind me coming over?" asked Cynthia, looking up from collecting paperwork and stuffing it into an accordion file.

"Deb?" asked Brian disbelievingly. "She'd have all of Kinnetik over if she could."

Cynthia grinned. "Okay, I'll see you over there. I'm just gonna stop at home to get the stuffing I made."

Fattening no doubt, but unlike anything the munchers or Ben contributed, Brian at least shouldn't have to worry about some unpalatable, meatless monstrosity.

As Cynthia headed out, the last person in the room ambled over to stand right next to Brian. Brian unobtrusively backed up half a step, irritated at the way the six foot two quarterback loomed over him. Drew was only half an inch taller, but his bulk made it seem like he had a good three inches on Brian.

Boyd scowled as he looked around the empty conference room, making Brian wonder what his problem was. Not only had he squeezed a mil out of Brown Athletics for an easy gig - inability to stand up on ice skates aside - he'd also gotten an apology from Leo Brown for ending his previous contract. Even though Leo had been within his rights to terminate the contract, he'd agreed with Brian that the best way to handle the situation was to apologize.

Maybe Drew was upset that Stan had earned the same fee, Brian speculated. Or that Stan had decided to donate the entire amount. Who the fuck knew?

"Where's Emmett?" Drew blurted out. He scanned the room again, even peering under the conference table, like Honeycutt was gonna pop out from beneath it.

"It's Thanksgiving," Brian said, shrugging as he guided Boyd out of the conference room, heading for the exit.

"So?" Boyd retorted. "I thought we'd hook up. You know, give each other a boost before my game."

Unable to keep his mouth shut, Brian observed, "Maybe he wants more than a quickie in a cheap hotel room." Brian had been shocked when he found out that Drew never sprang for anything better than a Holiday Inn for his trysts with Emmett.

"Like you put your tricks up at a five-star hotel," Drew sneered as they walked out of the building together.

"Is that what Emmett is? A trick?" It was all Brian could do not to punch the arrogant asshole's lights out.

"Me and Emmett have an understanding," Drew countered belligerently, following Brian to his Corvette. "He knows I'm not ready for a relationship."

Thank fuck he himself wasn't as dumb as Boyd. Brian knew what he wanted and went after it.

"I don't think Emmett is ready for one either." After getting into the Vette and starting the engine, Brian smirked at Drew, adding, "With you anyway."

Emmett, he thought as he drove off, could do way better.

 

 

A case of Penn Dark Lager in his hands and a cardboard carrier with four bottles of Italian wine balanced on top, Brian depressed the latch and shouldered open the door to Debbie's house. Hit by a wall of noise and warmth, he almost backed up, fully prepared to drink the alcohol all by himself.

Jesus, thought Brian, taking in the press of people milling around the living room. Maybe Deb had invited all the Kinnetik staff. Then again, it looked like it was mostly just family - a family that never stopped growing.

The urge to flee eased when he was assaulted by all sorts of savory aromas. Brian's stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten today; foregoing all food, even a green apple, had seemed like a good plan since the den mothers, otherwise known as Debbie and Jennifer, would be pushing food at him and telling him he was too fucking skinny. Well, Mother Taylor might say it without the ‘fucking,' but you never knew considering the influence Deb'd had on her.

The girls were parked on the sofa on the far side of the living room, engaged in what looked like a heavy petting session. Blech. What kind of example was that for impressionable young minds? Speaking of, Brian glanced around for Gus and JR. He caught sight of Gus and his friend Timmy over by Stan, but there was no sign of Jenny. Brian didn't care where the little hellion was; he just didn't want her putting grubby hands all over him for the third fucking day in a row.

He watched Carl ease his way around Stan, who was now down on all fours, demonstrating something to a wide-eyed Gus and Timmy. Oh Christ, it was the Scuttle, a move the contortionist had invented and subsequently trademarked under his stage name. This was hardly the way to ensure a hearty appetite, mused Brian, his stomach flipping.

Thankfully, Gus couldn't imitate Distorto today, not with his arm in a sling until his sprained shoulder healed. With nothing to stop him, Timmy slid down onto the floor and attempted to contort his body to match what Stan was doing.

Gus pouted for a moment but then cheered his buddy on when Stan helped Timmy move his arm into an unnatural position.

"Follow me," Carl said, lifting the wine off the case of beer and lightening Brian's load. He guided Brian past Distorto and the boys towards a folding table that was sagging under the weight of a large roaster, a couple chafing dishes and an oversized, pastel orange crockpot that could only belong to Honeycutt.

Brian started to lower the case to the floor, planning to push it under the table, when Horvath muttered, "Uh-uh. It's too warm in here. The beer's already sweating."

When he glanced down and saw that Carl was right, Brian wrinkled his nose, hefted the case back up and followed the detective out the back door.

The contractors had done a good job widening the stoop into an enclosed porch, he noted absently, setting the lager down next to the minifridge. The space still wasn't very large, but there was room for a couple of lounge chairs, a small table between them and the mini fridge. An old TV with rabbit ears was perched on another small table opposite the chairs.

"There." Carl set the wine carrier down next to the beer. "Now I'm all set if I want to escape to watch the game." He patted the TV affectionately. "This old gal gets the best reception in the Burgh."

Brian would've liked to contest that - the TV looked ancient enough to have belonged to Carl's grandparents - but Horvath was right. The Zenith TV did get reliably good reception, unlike Brian's fucking expensive, temperamental LED widescreen.

"The Valpolicella should go inside," he commented a trifle resentfully.

"Right. Better grab it then." Carl gave Brian a toothy smile.

Rolling his eyes, Brian set the two bottles of white wine next to the case of beer, hooked his fingers through the handle of the carrier and followed Carl back inside, almost plowing into the older man when he came to an abrupt stop. 

Turning to peer down at the food-laden folding table, Horvath mumbled, "Can't watch that shit. It creeps me out."

Brian might've put the sweat beading Carl's forehead down to the overheated house, but his pale face belied that assumption. As did Distorto, whose shoulders and elbows were bent in the wrong direction.

A snicker escaped Brian before he could stop it. He hurriedly tried to disguise it as clearing his throat, but the pained look on Horvath's face showed he didn't buy it.

"I ended up peeking through my fingers during the Scuttler's Halloween show like a little kid," Horvath admitted, flushing a dull red. "You hear about that?"

"No," Brian flat out lied. He didn't want to embarrass Horvath any further - lots of people were unsettled by Distorto's contortions. Also, he didn't want to throw Justin under the bus since his partner had been the one to share that tidbit.

Brian was casting about for a way to extricate himself from the uncomfortable conversation, when he heard a burst of laughter to his left. Glancing over, he saw Dale Wexler clapping a red-faced Theodore on the back, Blake grinning as he eyed his obviously embarrassed husband. "All it takes is just a little tap, I promise. It'll seem innocuous at first, but then..." Wexler trailed off with a suggestive lift of his eyebrows.

"Uh," fell out of Ted's mouth in response. He shuffled his feet, suspiciously eyeing his college friend.

Dale looked over at Brian and Horvath. "You want to try it, lieutenant?" he queried flirtatiously.

"Uh." Shifting uneasily, Carl echoed Theodore.

Brian couldn't blame the veteran cop for looking like he wanted to flee. Even after living with Debbie for years, Carl still wasn't used to men flirting with him. 

Visibly summoning his courage, Horvath stood his ground. "I don't think that's something Deb wants to try," he got out, his face going redder.

"Hot Whip?" Wexler deadpanned. "Why not?"

Jesus. That sounded hardcore and not at all to Brian's taste. He wouldn't have thought it was to Ted's taste either, but his CFO had done a stint as a ‘suck pig.' That must be why Theodore simply appeared distrustful rather than embarrassed and outraged. If Ted had shared his bondage fetish with his husband, it might also explain Blake laughing like a hyena.

Before Brian could suss it out, Dale winked as if letting Carl in on a secret and said, "Debbie asked me for one to share with you."

Horvath gulped, looking horrified and... a bit intrigued? Huh, maybe you could teach an old dog new tricks.

"Uh," Carl choked out. "What-" That was as much as he managed before clamping his mouth shut.

"What does it look like?" Dale asked. "Lemme just bring it up." 

When he pulled his cell out of his jeans, Horvath began edging away.

Brian forgot all about Carl's predicament when he realized Dale's phone looked like the latest Nokia N95, with a larger screen than the original model. And even more important, eight fucking GB of internal storage. How the heck had Wexler gotten hold of the new model when it wasn't even out in the US yet?

His envious drooling was interrupted by a mischievous giggle coming from behind him. The sound immediately caught Brian's attention, and he looked over his shoulder just in time to see Justin appear in the entryway to the kitchen, holding something small in his hand.

"Jesus Christ," Carl cursed loudly when the blond approached him and opened his hand. "It's a spice?"

Dale and his companions burst out laughing, and when he caught a glimpse of the spice jar in Justin's hand, Brian joined in. The tomatoey red that now covered Carl's face matched the color of the little whip-wielding devil on the label.

"Daddy!" Finally noticing he was here, Gus ran over and wrapped his good arm around Brian, who held the wine carrier away from his son, not wanting to bump his injured shoulder. "Ten dollars, Grandpa," was the next thing out of Gus' mouth.

Brian sighed. It figured that most of his sonnyboy's attention was on his grandad cussing. "Gus," he said chidingly.

Gus looked up at him, all innocence. "But, Daddy-"

"It's okay," Carl intervened. "We told Gus we wanted to help with the ‘vakey fun.' I doubt Red realized how much we'd be contributing though." He shook his head, chuckling ruefully.

"Okay," Brian allowed. "But Je- uh, what your grandad said was one curse, not two."

"But-" Gus' brow furrowed, and Brian could see his mind racing as he searched for an effective counterargument. 

"One," Brian stated firmly. "And just so you don't steal your grandparents' house out from under them, you only get to count one curse whenever one of them speaks. Capisci?"

The seven-year-old looked mutinous for a moment, but then he muttered, "Capito," before running over to Carl. "I don' wanna sheal your house, Grandpa."

"Don't worry, ragazzo. That's not gonna happen." 

He wouldn't be so sure of that if he were Carl, Brian thought. His kid was a mercenary little shit. In a good way - sort of - but still.

Carl ruffled Gus' hair, smiling down fondly at the boy.

The avaricious gleam that Brian was becoming all too familiar with returned to Gus' eyes. "Then-"

"Gus." This time it was Justin who spoke up in warning.

Gus glanced over at Justin, whose demeanor was unusually stern. His shoulders slumping, Gus conceded the battle. "S'rry, Papa."

Justin raised an eyebrow.

"S'rry, Grandpa. "S'rry, Daddy," Gus apologized, darting glances at one man and then the other.

"Hey, Kinney," Mel called out. "How about pouring me a glass?"

"Here." Brian outstretched his arm all the way, the carrier dangling from his fingers. "You can use your teeth to uncork it, and just swig from the bottle, Smelly Melly."

"Brian!" Linds chided, apparently not noticing the grins Brian and Melanie were exchanging. "We haven't drunk wine from a bottle since college."

"Chr- er, crap," Mel quickly amended.

Brian grinned at his sonnyboy, watching his expression go from expectant to downcast. Gus had lobbied for ‘crap' to be included as a cuss word, but to no avail, all four of his parents naysaying that idea.

"Don't remind me of the rotgut we drank in college." Melanie shuddered. "It'll ruin my palate."

"Thunderbird?" asked Justin, scrunching up his nose.

"That and Boone's Farm," Mel replied.

"Yeah, let's skip that." Lindsay looked a little ill, possibly reliving times she barfed up everything she'd downed. 

Fuck knew, she'd emptied her stomach on Brian more than once, although she'd never done it again after the time Brian spewed chunks in her hair. Not Brian's proudest moment, but fuck, it had been nice to get even. Though he could've done without Linds bringing it up for years afterward.

"No white?" asked Lindsay, looking hopefully at Brian.

Brian shrugged. "The Soave's out back. Help yourself."

A put-out expression on her face, Linds glanced around, but when no one offered to get it for her, levered herself off the couch.

"I'll get a corkscrew," Melanie placated her wife, patting Lindsay on the rear as she got up.

"Thanks." Linds planted a kiss on Mel, which went on way too long in Brian's opinion.

"Don't look," he teased Justin. "It'll turn you into a lesbian."

"Mmm," Justin hmmed, moving closer to Brian. "Then you'll just have to use your superpowers to turn me back into a fag."

All for using said superpowers right now, Brian reached out with his free arm to haul the blond closer.

Naturally, the doorbell rang before he could get a good hold. Never one to forget his WASPy upbringing, the little twat trotted over to the door, leaving Brian empty-handed.

Frowning in irritation, Brian glanced over as Justin opened the door to Cynthia, who was carrying an oversized dish. What the fuck? How many people was that supposed to feed? How did she-

"Wow!" Justin exclaimed in awe, immediately reaching out to relieve Cynthia of the gigantic dish. "How'd you even get this in your oven?" he asked the question now on Brian's mind.

"I almost didn't," the blonde woman acknowledged with a rueful smile. "It was nip and tuck, but I didn't want to tote two 9x11 dishes." She looked over her shoulder at the bumper-to-bumper cars parked on both sides of the street. "I wasn't sure how close I'd be able to park, and I didn't want to have to go back to my car for the other one."

Nodding in understanding, Justin carried the dish over to the folding table and set it on an electric warming tray that had appeared out of nowhere.

"Where'd you end up?" Ted asked, craning his neck, presumably searching for Cynthia's red Honda.

"A block and a half away," Cyn replied as she shut the door. "Good thing you warned me about how crowded it gets over here."

"Cynthia!" Gus boisterously greeted one of his favorite people. "Jeet?"

Where'd that perfect perfect pronunciation come from? Brian wondered. He was tempted to peer into Gus' mouth to see if his permanent teeth had suddenly grown in.

"No, ju?" the blonde woman replied, smiling at Gus.

The seven-year-old shook his head, grinning up at Cynthia.

"Hey, that's cool," Cyn observed, studying the sling Gus was wearing.

Cynthia struck just the right tone, making his sonnyboy puff up with pride. "Papa painted it for me," Gus confided, turning so Cyn could get the full effect of a wand-waving Harry Potter dispelling a Dementor.

"Expecto Patronum!" Cynthia declared, pointing a finger at the Dementor.

Brian stared in baffled surprise. Not because his assistant didn't blink at ‘Papa' but because of the Patronus Charm. How the heck did she know it? As far as he knew, Cynthia didn't spend any time around kids except, occasionally, Gus. Brian would've noticed if his sonnyboy had been running around the office, waving his wand and shouting out the charm. Which was pretty much how he'd learned it in the first place: Gus practicing at the munchers' house and then with Justin at the loft.

His speculations, not that he was getting anywhere, came to a halt when Deb let out a piercing, shrill whistle from the kitchen and yelled, "Sunshine, get your hiney over here! The turkey's ready to come out of the oven."

"I can get it, Deb," Emmett called out as he came out of the kitchen with two large plates of ham. "I'll be right back."

If the southern belle thought he'd find a space on the folding table for the two large plates of ham in his hands, he was looking in vain. Brian doubted there was enough space for the smallest cruet.

Giving up on the folding table, Em moved over to the credenza, where the four carved pumpkins had pride of place. "Well, Liza," he drawled in a thick southern accent, "it ain't a-goin' there either. Just let me find a place to set down this ham, Deb," he yelled, amending his promise, "and I'll be there in a shake of my tailfeathers."

"It's okay, Em." Justin patted the southerner on the ass as he passed him on the way to the kitchen.

Brian narrowed his eyes. Justin shouldn't be patting any ass other than his. He'd have to shake his own ‘tailfeathers' and keep Justin's attention where it belonged.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Brian was cursing a broken fingernail. He'd been shanghaied into putting the extension leaves into Deb's ancient dinner table, after helping Carl haul the damned things down from the attic. Despite his hard work and sacrifice - fresh manicure destroyed - it was now evident, even with all the leaves inserted, that there was no way everyone was going to be able to squeeze in around the dinner table.

"Hang on," Horvath said. "I've got just the thing."

He snagged Brian by the front of his T-shirt in passing. Great, thought Brian, not only was his manicure ruined, his shirt was a wrinkled mess. And smudged with dust, he realized, despairing when he glanced down at his new, wine red Emporio Armani tee.

So much for Brian's foresight in foregoing a sweater to compensate for Debbie's overheated house. Maybe he should just take his T-shirt off? Give everyone a feast worth ogling?

He was just hooking his fingers under the tee when Justin passed him with the requisite Thanksgiving green bean casserole. "Don't you dare," Justin hissed. "That's mine. Well, and the backroom's," he added good-humoredly.

Brian rolled his eyes as he trudged up the stairs behind Carl. It was Justin he took his shirt off for, not any old trick in the backroom.

"Here. You take the table and I'll get the chairs," Carl said after leading him to the back of the attic.

A kids' table? Gus was going to love that, Brian mused, reaching for the pint-sized wooden table, which turned out to be heavier than he anticipated. He staggered a step, then got his balance and headed back down the stairs.

As expected, his sonnyboy eyed the table with disfavor when Brian set it down near the ginormous - but still not big enough - dinner table. "Whosh that for?" Gus lisped.

"You and Timmy and Jenny," Carl informed him, placing four chairs around the low table. "There," he announced, beaming down at the table. "As good as new."

The children's table - maple, cherry or some other glossy, polished wood - was in good condition, Brian acknowledged to himself. No scratches or dents that he could see, even if it had been used, as he suspected, by generations of kids. 

"I'm not sittin' there." Gus attempted to cross his arms but failed, the sling ruining his effort. He reached up with his free hand, obviously planning to rid himself of the sling, but then he caught sight of Brian's lifted eyebrow. Heaving a put-upon sigh, Gus fiddled with the strap before dropping his hand.

Thank fuck his kid hadn't really hurt himself, thought Brian. The ER doctor had assured them that although painful for Gus, he hadn't done anything worse than strain his shoulder. He just had to wear a sling for a few days, put up with having his shoulder iced and rest. The last one was the toughest; resting was far too much like napping, which was just for babies according to Gus. Like Jenny, though Gus thankfully hadn't said that anywhere his sister could overhear and throw a fit.

Given how Gus was glaring at the children's table, he might be the one to pitch a fit. Luckily, Timmy was still practicing whatever move Distorto had been teaching him or he likely would've matched Gus' sullen attitude.

"I'll go get JR." Melanie hurried past Brian to the stairs.

"I'll set the table." Linds shot Brian a pleading look as she headed for the kitchen.

What the fuck was he supposed to do? Upset kids were the munchers' bailiwick, not his. Hell, Brian wouldn't have wanted to sit at the children's table either, which didn't exactly help him find a solution.

"You don't want to sit with me?" came a hurt voice from behind Brian.

Gus squeezed out a weak, "Uh," in response.

Only one person could make his son tongue-tied, thought Brian.

Yep, there was Molly, smiling at Gus as she moved over to the children's table and took a seat. Brian was astounded at how gracious the teenage girl was being about the whole situation; she couldn't have wanted to sit with a bunch of little kids either, but she appeared to have chosen to do so without prompting.

Coloring up, Gus looked bashfully at Molly, who batted blue eyes at him.

Gus almost missed the chair he was aiming for, plonking down awkwardly.

Already a cougar, thought Brian in amusement, watching the strawberry-blonde girl.

If a clattering of dishware behind him hadn't made Brian aware that the table was being set, it would have been Justin schlepping a humongous bird on a carving board that clued him in that it was time to eat. Good thing he'd been dragging his boy to the gym to work out; the turkey probably weighed half as much as Justin did.

As Mel came down the stairs with a cantankerous JR, Debbie, followed by Daphne, Jennifer and Tucker, came trooping toward the table.

What the fuck? Why had Debbie summoned Justin when Tucker was there? Or Daphne, for fuck's sake; there was a lot of power packed into that tiny frame.

Brian shook his head in wry resignation. Knowing Deb, she wasn't willing to trust anyone except her two assistant chefs - Justin and Emmett - with the important things. Even Jennifer had been relegated to the sidelines going by the ‘resigned' shrug she gave Tucker.

"We could feed the entire PPD and still have leftovers," Carl observed, chuckling. 

Better the fuzz than him, thought Brian, although a bite or two of the turkey wouldn't go amiss. Or Cynthia's stuffing...

Horvath swung the video camera he was holding toward Honeycutt as Emmett swished over to the table with the ham. "About time you got the table ready," Emmett grouched. "There was nowhere to put this porker. There's no room anywhere." Setting one of the platters down on the table, he made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the living room and kitchen, where every other surface was crammed with food.

When Carl panned toward him, Brian hastily hid his right hand behind his back. He'd been thinking of biting off the jagged fingernail but didn't need anyone seeing him gnawing at his nails like a five-year-old.

Abruptly realizing that he had his right side to the camera - he didn't want even the faintest suggestion of a double chin - Brian shifted unobtrusively to present the camera with his left profile.

"Don't worry, son." Horvath chuckled again. "It hardly shows."

Did the fucking flatfoot have to be so observant?

"New painting?" Tucker queried, wandering further into the living room to take a look after depositing what looked like a sweet potato casserole on the table.

"Isn't it great, Tuck?" Jennifer beamed with pride as she joined him.

‘Tuck' had to be the most asinine nickname ever, Brian thought as he always did whenever he heard it. Not that ‘Tucker' was much better.

Swinging the camera around, Horvath videoed Jen and Tucker standing in front of the couch, looking at the painting behind it.

Justin eyed the painting he'd given Deb and Carl and then grinned slyly at Brian.

Brian's lips twitched in response. He wondered if ‘Tuck' had any idea that the painting depicted Justin and Brian fucking.

When Debbie had seen the painting, she couldn't stop gushing about it, so Justin had gifted it to her.

Emmett had suggested that Deb and her newly minted lieutenant could use it for inspiration.

Deb had run with that idea, getting Emmett to help her hang the picture above the couch, Em later confiding that a multitude of holes was hidden behind the painting because Deb kept changing her mind about how high up on the wall it should be.

From the get-go, Carl was convinced the painting was of him and his redhead. Granted, the painting was abstract, and you couldn't really tell if the two entwined figures were male or female, but c'mon. Justin wouldn't have painted a hetero couple in the first place, so where Carl had gotten that notion from, Brian had no idea.

Debbie never corrected Carl, although Brian was pretty sure that, unlike the for once strangely unperceptive detective, she knew who was pictured. She probably just wanted to feed off the sexual energy in the painting.

Tucker strolled back toward the kitchen, stopping next to Justin. "Just a little more overt than Johns," he murmured.

Looked like he was wrong about the Tucker Fucker not catching on. Brian normally read people well, but there was something about Tucker that threw him off stride. 

If Tucker were gay and Brian had spotted him on Liberty Avenue four or five years ago, he would've taken him to Babylon's backroom and fucked him, maybe even treated him to a night at the loft. After that, never having heard his godawful name, Brian would've forgotten him.

Instead, he'd ended up with ‘call me Tuck' as a quasi father-in-law. Trying to pinpoint what bugged him about Tucker was an itch Brian couldn't scratch. Justin had surmised it was because Tucker was younger than Brian. Or that it was because Tucker was as hot as Brian. As if. That notion still made Brian scoff.

Tucker might be a magnet for women - he did ride a cool motorcycle - but he was also an elementary school teacher, and there was nothing exciting about that.

Unfortunately, unless he wanted to disturb the uneasy détente that Justin had established with his sorta stepfather, Brian had to hold back the snark. Really not his forte.

"Yeah, well." Justin shrugged, eyeing Brian obliquely.

The gleam in Justin's blue eyes promised more of what they'd been doing in the painting. Brian instantly forgot about Mother Taylor's boy toy. 

""I'm lucky," Justin continued, his gaze now fully on Brian. "I don't have to hide my sexuality behind symbols and subliminal messages. Besides which, unlike Johns, I haven't lost the person who means the most to me."

"I'd say Brian's just as lucky as you," Tucker noted before returning to Jen's side.

Good old Tuck was right about that. Taking a step toward his lover, Brian wrapped an arm around Justin's neck and pressed a kiss to his lips.

"Mmm," Justin hummed into his mouth, the sound traveling through Brian to his dick.

Brian changed the angle, deepening the kiss. Christ, all these years later, it still felt like fireworks were being set off along his spine.

"Jesus fuck," he vaguely heard someone say, their tone dripping with envy.

Brian had no intention of ending the kiss anytime soon, but then the front door banged open and they were hit by a blast of chilly autumn air. You'd think it would have felt good in the overly warm house, but instead it just put a damper on the moment.

Reluctantly pulling back - their lips parted with an audible pop - Brian glanced toward the entryway, ready to castigate whatever moron had interrupted him.

Deb beat him to it. "'Bout time you got here!" the redhead shrilled, clouting Michael over the ear.

"The dulcet tones of motherly love," Justin giggled.

"Ma!" Michael protested, raising a hand to his head.

"Sorry, Deb," Ben apologized. "It was my fault."

"Yeah." Hunter pushed past his dads. "Something came up."

Brian scowled. That was his line.

Hunter rolled his eyes so hard it looked like they were going to fall out of his head. "You'd think they were teenagers, the way they go at it all the time."

"You should know." Michael smirked at his son.

"Not a teen anymore. Remember?" Hunter retorted.

"It's been what, six weeks?" Justin teased.

Hunter flipped Justin the bird.

Debbie patted her grandson on the cheek. "Not gettin' any? What happened to Kelsey?" Brow furrowed in thought, she tried, "Or is it Kristy?"

"They're history," Hunter blew off the question.

Brian couldn't help being impressed. The kid was almost as much of a player as he'd been, although why he bothered to get the girls' names was beyond him. That was just asking for trouble.

"Where should I put this?" Hunter asked Deb.

"That gravy?" Debbie frowned, studying the dark liquid that sloshed out from under the lid when Hunter tilted the container.

"I guess." Hunter shrugged, jerking a shoulder at Ben. "Dad told me to pour the stuff into the gravy boat."

"It's a soy gravy," Ben revealed, "to go with the tofurkey I made." He beamed, holding up a round platter encased in an insulated cover.

Debbie gaped at Ben, apparently rendered speechless.

"Sweety," Emmett stepped in, "we already have roasted turkey and honey-glazed ham and a whole slew of side dishes. We don't need, uh, that is, have room for, er-" Em stuttered to a halt, his efforts at southern politesse failing him.

Really, thought Brian, Honeycutt should just tell the truth: it sounded revolting.

"Nonsense," Ben said briskly. Balancing the platter on one arm, he opened the thermal cover to reveal a mud-colored crust. "We've got fresh tofu stuffed full of healthy vegetables."

Calling the tofu fresh didn't make it any more appetizing as far as Brian was concerned.

"You'll try some, right?" Ben looked over at Lindsay and Melanie, who could usually be counted on to eat anything vegetarian, and then at Jen.

"I, uh, gave up the vegetarian diet for Thanksgiving," said Mel.

"You're supposed to give things up for Lent," hissed Lindsay.

Mel contended, "I'm Jewish. You feel free to have some though."

"Er, I'll pass." Linds gave Ben an apologetic look.

His face falling, the tofurkey chef turned to Jen.

"Um." Even WASPy Jen was thrown off kilter. "I'm not a vegetarian."

"Let's eat the meat," came a voice from the back of the room.

That really had been one of his most inspired ads ever, thought Brian.

"Mmm, let's," Justin husked, making Brian's dick stand upright.

Brian grinned. The original commercial, which was still airing, continued to reap dividends. Dividends he couldn't take advantage of right now, unless he and Justin could sneak off to the upstairs bathroom?

Brian grabbed hold of Justin's wrist and took a step toward the stairs, but then Debbie, never taking her eyes off the ghastly tofu thingamajig, cautioned, "Don't even think about it, buster. You either, Sunshine," she added after a beat.

Stymied, Brian copped a feel of Justin's ass. That would have to do for now.

"Now, where shall we put this?" Debbie did a credible job of hiding her distaste for Ben's soybean masterpiece as she looked around the room.

"Outside?" Justin whispered into Brian's ear. "Maybe the birds'll eat it."

"Vegetarian birds?" joked Brian.

"How about on the table?" Ben took a step toward the table, but was stopped by Debbie drilling a scarlet fingernail into his chest.

"I've got it," Emmett volunteered. "I'll just move the green bean bacon bundles - they're scrumptious-"

"They are," Daphne confirmed, licking her fingers.

"Daph!" Em swatted at her fingers as she reached for another one. 

"What? I'm just testing the meat." Daphne grinned impishly at the video camera as Carl zoomed in on her.

"That's my girl," said Brian. He'd swear he heard someone echoing him but couldn't place who, only that it wasn't Justin. Weird. Maybe he'd gotten water in his ear when he showered before heading over here.

"I need a drink," said Emmett, snatching the green beans away from Daphne and setting them, along with a plate heaped high with cornbread, on the table. "Now." He beckoned Ben and Hunter over to the coffee table. "Just put the fake turkey and the maybe-gravy right there."

A titter ran through the room, Ben manfully ignoring it as he set down the tofurkey. "If you try it, you'll be surprised how good it is." Taking the gravy boat from Hunter, he put it next to his soybean creation.

Michael, who'd followed after them, commented worriedly, "Ben, I don't think the gravy turned out ri-"

"Michael, I've made it before," Ben said testily. "It's fine." Ben was clearly losing his Zen.

Giving the supposed gravy a final, wary glance, Michael turned to look around the room. Walking backward, head twisted completely around, Stan waved at him.

"Beeent," Michael yelled, running over to Stan. "You made it!"

Justin grinned smugly.

It figured, thought Brian. Justin had talked Stan into showing up at Red Cape with a copy of the signed flyer from his Halloween show at Babylon, and ever since, Michael'd had a new best friend.

Brian had hardly seen Mikey in the last few weeks. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but it was strange. 

Of late, when he wasn't planning dinners with the Stepford fag neighbors or cooing sickeningly over his honeybun, Mikey was busy planning the next issue of Rage, with Bent in a starring role. He was constantly on the phone with Justin, wanting to discuss plots, regardless of the time of day or night. 

He was gonna kill Mikey if he ever again called and killed a class-A rimming. It had been bad enough, years ago, when Justin had zonked out, right as Brian was demonstrating his mastery. But to have Michael interrupt Justin mid rimjob was beyond the pale.

"I've got this great idea." Michael was hopping from one foot to the other, looking like he desperately needed to pee, and grinning at Stan. "Rage gets, like, you know, stripped of his powers. He can't even get it up. Me and you come to the rescue."

Brian growled. That had to be the stupidest idea he'd ever heard. If Rage needed rescuing, it was gonna be JT who did the job. He could give Rage one of the blowjobs that were famous throughout Gayopolis; that would resurrect Brian's alter ego in no time.

The professor, Brian noted, looked equally unhappy with Michael's brainstorm, while Justin merely snorted, "As if."

"I'd rather rescue my sidekick," Stan countered.

"Your sidekick? Who's that?" Michael looked around like Bent's sidekick was gonna jump out of the woodwork. Which wasn't completely wrong, except that Mikey's eyes skimmed over Dale without stopping.

"Bent Whacker." Stan wiggled his eyebrows.

"Huh?"

Brian rolled his eyes. Mikey was seriously slow on the uptake this afternoon.

Debbie guffawed and slapped Carl on the back, making the videocam weave crazily.

"Oh. Oh!" Michael burst out with a braying laugh.

"I hate it when they do that," fourteen-year-old Molly piped up. She glared at the laughing adults. "You know, talk over our heads."

Gus, who'd been staring soulfully at his crush, shrugged. "It doesn't sound that exciting. What I like," he confided in Molly, speaking slowly and carefully, "is when Distorto does the Scuttle. It's my favorite." 

"It's cool," Molly agreed. "I wish I knew how to do it. It would, like, wig my dad out."

"Molly's right," Justin laughed. "He'd shit a brick." 

Gus' eyes lit up, but he didn't say anything. Maybe he didn't want to look mercenary in front of Molly, Brian speculated. He didn't doubt his sonnyboy was toting up every curse however and would present him with an accounting later on.

"Craig thinks Distorto's a total freak show," Justin continued, "'cause he's gay and because he moves like a total spaz."

Hmm, maybe Brian could arrange for Stan to give the kids private lessons. He was all for pissing off Craig Taylor.

Michael, who was still laughing hysterically, finally started to wind down. One more hiccupping laugh tearing out of him, he glanced at Dale and then Stan before returning to Dale. "So which one of you is the Dungeon Master?" he asked earnestly. "Do you, like, take turns?" Unable to keep up the serious facade - this was Mikey after all - he started giggling again.  

"Mmm, Stan's the man," hmmed Dale, drawing him close.

"Your man," Stan qualified, swiveling his head completely around to kiss his husband.

"Eww," huffed Molly. "Old people kissing."

Timmy tried to imitate Stan's neck twist, albeit with limited success. When he ended up staring at the wall, he gave up and unkinked his neck.

Gus screwed up his nose in apparent agreement with Molly. "You guys play Dungeons and Dragons?" he piped up. "Thash, like, an old people's game."

"It is not!" Michael protested. "Me and Brian used to play it."

"Yeah? When was that?" Justin joked. "Back in the Dark Ages?"

"Take that back!" Michael yelled, charging over to Justin and poking a finger into ticklish ribs.

Brian helped by holding Justin in place. Like hell, he was old.

 

Shortly after Brian and Michael had thoroughly avenged themselves on Justin - they'd had the boy giggling helplessly and pleading for mercy - Debbie carried another dish to the table. Hands on hips, she looked around, nodding in satisfaction.

"It's just like the first Thanksgiving!" Deb proclaimed.

"Minus the Pilgrims screwing the Indians," Ted observed dryly.

"Where's a teething ring when you need it?" a frazzled-looking Melanie asked when JR let out a wail.

"Or that," Blake quipped. "No teething rings back then."

"Huh." Deb cocked her head in thought. "I wonder what the Pilgrims used."

"The natives, the, uh-"

"Wampanoag, Daddy," Gus supplied.

"The Wampanoag probably strung them up on cradleboards," Brian snarked. "Out in the woods where no one could hear them."

"Like we used to do with you," Melanie teased Gus, ruffling his hair.

"Mama!" Gus giggled.

"Did you check my coat?" Linds asked when JR let out another cry. "I think I put a teething ring in one of the side pockets."

Mel took a step toward the coat rack, but then halted, her eyes bugging out. "JR! No!" she shouted, lunging for her daughter.

Ben was on her heels, an anxious look on his face.

"Play-Doh, Mama," Jenny explained, all wide-eyed innocence. Removing her fingers from where she'd dug into the tofurkey, she held up messy handfuls, and then took an experimental lick.

Her face screwing up, she stamped her foot. "No fair," JR sniveled, waving her hands in the air and splattering Mel and Ben with gooey vegetables and bits of tofu.

A chortling Carl zeroed in on the action with the video camera.

"Not Play-Doh, Mama." JR's brown eyes danced with outrage, and it looked like a tantrum was imminent.

"God, Mel, I'm sorry." Lindsay shot her wife an apologetic look. "You were right about the edible playdough being a bad idea. Now Jenny thinks everything is edible."

"Playdough's gross," Gus knowledgeably reported to Molly and Timmy. "All green and pink and yucky."

Brian resisted the urge to heave. Jesus, where did Linds come up with these wacky ideas? Who'd want to eat Play-Doh?

Jennifer, who'd moved over to stand near the table, must've noticed his revulsion. "It's really not that bad, Brian. Edible Play-Doh is just marshmallows, cornstarch and a few drops of food coloring. You can use whatever color you want."

"No wonder Jenny wanted the bean crud," Justin remarked. "She probably thought it was chocolate playdough."

"I'm with you, son." Carl had backed up so that he was standing next to Justin and was panning the camera around. "I don't get why anyone would substitute soybeans for real food."

Debbie belted out a laugh. "You're just like your daddy, JR. Michael liked to gnaw on everything too. He went after the cornucopia centerpiece one Thanksgiving, knocked everything over and covered me and Vic in gravy. He was just about your age, maybe a year or two older."

"Ma!" Michael yelled, his face going red. "I didn't-"

Deb lifted a finely shaped eyebrow at her son.

"I mean, I- I couldn't have been older than JR."

"Tell the truth and shame the devil, honeybun." Debbie tapped Michael's cheek. "You've always shoved anything remotely edible into your mouth. They musta modeled ‘Mikey will eat anything' after you."

"Yeah." Michael laughed, conceding the point.

"Like father, like daughter." Mel heaved a deep sigh. "C'mon, Jenny, let's get you" - she looked down at her stained blouse and sighed again - "and me cleaned up."

"Use the kitchen sink." Debbie shooed Mel and JR in that direction. "There's a step stool Jenny can stand on. I'll get the Shout from the washing machine to treat those stains. Ben?" she tried to get her son-in-law's attention. "How 'bout you? Want me to Shout you, and then we'll see what we can do with your tofu thingy?"

When Ben didn't respond, she left him alone at the coffee table, staring down at the ruins of the fake turkey. The professor was waving his hands in the air as if that was gonna make the wannabe turkey magically reassemble itself.

It looked like the tofurkey was a goner, thankfully. JR had done a real number on it, pushing her hands right into the middle and making one side cave in when she pulled them out.

A woebegone Ben finally sloped over to the dinner table, shoulders slumped and feet dragging.

"I'm so sorry, Ben." Lindsay wrung her hands, appearing genuinely anguished. 

Brian didn't buy the act and neither did Justin, given the unsubtle roll of his eyes.

"Jenny didn't mean any harm." Lindsay wrung her hands again, blinking rapidly as if she was about to cry. 

Brian could hardly object to Linds using her WASPy powers since it was in defense of her kid. But crying over a fucking tofurkey? Really? He was sure she was overplaying it, but then Ben sniffled a little, looking grateful for the attention.

"She really thought it was the edible kind of Play-Doh," Linds elaborated.

Christ. Ben was supposed to be an adult, not a surly teenager; it was time he snapped out of his soybean-induced funk. Brian didn't mince words. "For fuck's sake, Professor, it was just an imitation turkey. Get over it."

"Brian," Justin hissed, nudging him with his elbow.

Okay, he might've been a little harsh, Brian acknowledged, casting about for a way to soften his criticism of the not-turkey. Before he could come up with anything, Mikey spoke up.

Glaring at Brian, Michael ran a soothing hand down Ben's arm. "I'm sorry about the tofurkey, babe, but you know Jenny didn't mean it. She adores you; you're, like, her favorite person."

Brian rolled his eyes. He was gonna puke if he had to listen to much more of this garbage.

"Maybe you can make another one?" Michael suggested hopefully. "I'll eat it with you. Promise."

Brian stared, aghast. He couldn't imagine making that kind of sacrifice. Luckily, he didn't have to worry about that. Justin was a genius in the kitchen, not that he'd ever cook the kind of weird shit Ben liked anyway.

Mel came back holding a spruced-up Jenny in her arms and carried the toddler over to the dispirited tofu chef.

"Sorry," the little girl said sweetly, kissing Ben on the cheek. "I didn't mean to kill the tofucky."

Carl roared with laughter, the camera shaking in his hands.

"Oh God." Justin doubled over, giggling madly.

Even Michael couldn't resist, another braying laugh ripping out of him.

Ben heaved a deep sigh and then finally quit acting like it was the end of the world. "I know, pumpkin." He rubbed Jenny's nose with his own, making the little girl giggle.

Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Debbie nodded in approval. "Speaking of pumpkins, did yinz see what my grandson made for me?"

Gus piped up from the children's table, "It wushn't jush me. Papa helped me and Daddy, an' he did two of 'em by himshelf."

"Papa," Jen whispered, raising a hand to her mouth and going all starry-eyed as she looked over at Justin.

"And, uh." Gus squirmed. "They're jush on loan, Grandma. I'm takin' em home wif me, 'kay?"

"I know, honey. Don't worry." Debbie grabbed the remote and pressed the button to turn on the tea lights. "Somebody close the curtains," she ordered.

Emmett reached around the TV cabinet, drawing the drapes closed.

The pumpkins lit up: a fire burning in Tatanka's belly; the gobbler appearing to have just come out of the oven; and homey lights glowing in the house and tipi.

Brian might be feigning indifference, but inside he was proud of himself. He'd actually carved a pumpkin.

"You boys did a really good job," Jen praised them, squeezing between Justin and Brian and wrapping an arm around each of them.

"Yeah, boys," Tucker drawled, grinning wickedly.

Brian narrowed his eyes at the fucker.

"Where's Harry?" Carl asked Gus, diverting Brian's attention.

"Harry?" Gus glanced over at Tatanka, clearly confused. After a few beats though, a sudden understanding dawned on his face. "Oh, that Harry."

His eyes twinkling, Carl drolled, "There's more than one?"

Gus gave him a gap-toothed grin. "I was thinking of naming Tatanka Harry."

"Yeah?" Carl asked, head tilted in curiosity.

"Yeah." Gus nodded. "It's nicer than H-a-i-r-y, you know?"

"Huh," Horvath said, looking just as unclear as Justin had yesterday, in Brian's opinion. But then, seven-year-old reasoning wasn't always the same as an adult's.

"I'm saving the other Harry for Halloween," Gus told his grandfather, glancing over at Justin. Right, Papa?"

Although he must've been caught off guard, Justin nodded equably. Then, with a playful wink at Mel, he asked, "Quidditch carving contest? We'll see who can carve the best Quidditch players. You, Linds and Jenny against me, Brian and Gus."

"You're on," the bulldyke accepted the challenge. "Prepare to get creamed."

Brian scoffed. Was Mel really so foolish as to think that Lindsay's witchy Halloween carving put them in the same league? Admittedly, the witch had borne a strong resemblance to Mel, but that wouldn't be enough. The girls were gonna get knocked off their brooms. Brian would make sure of it.

Deb fiddled with the remote, dimming the tea lights and then ratcheting them back up to full intensity. "Fancy that," she chortled. "Best invention since Cheez Whiz." 

Pressing the button one last time to turn the tea lights off, Debbie set down the remote and gestured for Emmett to reopen the drapes. 

"Okay, everyone," the redhead announced. "It's time to eat! Grab a plate and load up. Just be sure to leave space for the turkey and ham."

 

It didn't take long for the crowd to heap their plates high with food, everyone skirting around the tofurkey disaster.

Melanie cast a worried glance at JR after putting together a plateful of food for her daughter. "Maybe you should sit on my lap."

"Nuh-uh!" Jenny shook her head vigorously, dark curls flying.

"I'll help her," Molly assured Mel. "Don't worry."

"You're a godsend." Melanie blew out a relieved breath. "I'll double what we usually pay you to babysit."

"No, ma'am," the teenage WASP politely refused. "I'm good. This is a family dinner."

It might be a family dinner, but dealing with Mel and Mikey's little hellion would hardly be fun. Even if JR did usually behave for the teen, Brian should get Molly something to thank her. Molly, unlike her brother, appreciated a good label, which made shopping for her easy.

Brian claimed seats for himself and Justin near the middle of the table and waited for his partner to join him. The little twat was, of course, still piling food on his plate.

The Thanksgiving horde gradually filtered over with full plates, Justin settling in next to Brian with a happy sigh. Everyone except Brian - even Debbie, for fuck's sake - had obviously forgotten about the turkey and ham. Idiots. Brian shrugged it off, absentmindedly filching one of the bacon-wrapped green bean bundles from Justin's plate and putting it on his own.

It was only when Carl started uncorking wine that Brian realized he'd forgotten to grab a lager for himself. He'd half risen from his chair when Emmett came traipsing over to the table with a large pitcher in one hand and a smaller one in the other. 

"Wait, wait, wait," the southerner cried out. He went from place to place, pouring an orangish concoction into the martini glasses that Brian only now noticed.

"What the fuck's that, Honeycutt?" Brian growled.

"It's a pumpkin spice martini. And you're going to at least try it, Bri," Honeycutt insisted as he flounced over to his next victim. "Vic loved a good martini and he loved the holidays, so we're going to have a toast in his honor before we start eating."

"Oh, Em." Debbie looked at the southern belle from misty eyes before giving Brian a patented ‘you'd better not fuck with me' glare.

Fuck. Brian subsided with ill grace. He'd have to try the damned martini now.

Justin hopped out of his chair and hustled toward the back porch, presumably in search of something palatable to drink. Brian was a tad too late in an attempt to snag Justin's T-shirt and tell him to bring him a beer to chase the martini with, but then he relaxed. Justin wouldn't forget him.

"Em," Ted hissed when his tall friend reached him and Blake. "We don't-"

"-drink alcohol. I know, Teddy." Emmett held up the smaller pitcher. "That's why you're getting virgin martinis."

"There's something in this room that's virgin?" Debbie jested, generating a round of laughter from the table. 

Jen shot her a reprimanding look, glancing over to check that her daughter wasn't listening in.

Brian followed Mother Taylor's gaze and spied Justin pouring something into the kids' glasses that didn't look all that different from the martinis, regular or virgin. That was well and good, but where the fuck was his beer?

"This is a secret potion," Justin disclosed conspiratorially. "I winkled the recipe out of Professor Snape."

"Harry Potter's Pumpkin Juice?" Gus beamed at Justin, obviously thrilled.

Justin nodded, confirming Gus had correctly identified the concoction.

"Cool!" Timmy declared.

Molly, Brian noted, looked just as excited as the two boys, while JR obviously didn't get what the big deal was. Fork in hand the way Michael held his, Jenny looked ready to start shoveling food into her mouth.

Justin hustled back to his seat, sans beer. "Couldn't carry a couple bottles of lager in your other hand?" Brian snarked.

The twat had just opened his mouth to answer when Deb tapped a spoon against her martini glass and stood, raising her glass up high. "Okay, everybody. Here's to Victor Antonio Grassi. Best brother. Best-"

"Uncle," Michael inserted.

"Best at being out and proud," came from Melanie.

"Confidant," supplied Justin.

"Friend," stated Emmett.

"Man I'll ever know," declared Brian, suddenly missing Vic fiercely.

"Hear, hear," came from around the table, everyone raising their glasses and drinking.

Not bad, thought Brian, humming in pleased surprise and taking another sip. It wasn't nearly as fruity as he'd expected of a Honeycutt creation.

Emmett must have ears like a bat, because he immediately reached across Justin, pitcher in hand. "Top up?" he inquired.

Brian shook his head. Palatable or not, he wasn't gonna forgo beer with his meal. He was just contemplating getting up and fetching a lager when a jerk of Carl's chin caught his eye. Jesus. The table had sprouted a bunch of Penn Dark bottles, right in front of the detective. How the fuck had Brian missed that?

Horvath raised an eyebrow, and Brian nodded, holding up two fingers. Unlike Justin, he knew how to be a partner; he'd get the brat a beer.

Carl passed one bottle and then another to Deb, who passed them on to Mel. When the bulldyke raised an eyebrow, Brian grumbled wordlessly. She'd better pass the beer on down, not keep it for herself. Melly could grab a bottle for herself; it was right in front of her, for fuck's sake.

"I remember meeting Vic a long time ago," Stan spoke up as Melanie finally passed the beer over to Lindsay. From there, the bottles made their way to Emmett. The southerner sniffed disdainfully but didn't hold the beer hostage, as Brian half expected to happen, instead setting the lager in front of Justin.

Justin picked up the church key he'd had the foresight to put next to his plate, Brian shaking his head at the twat remembering the opener but not the beer, and pried the caps off. Sliding one of the lagers over to Brian, he raised his own in salute, smiling at him. 

Instantly forgetting his irritation, Brian smiled back, lightly tapped the bottom of his bottle against Justin's and took a swig.

"I was a gawky mess, all arms and legs, a bad of acne: what a dweeb," Stan laughed, continuing his story. "I was bummed because I'd just been dropped from my junior high gymnastics team."

"But," Michael interjected, "you're, like... Bent!"

Stating the obvious had everyone laughing and shaking their heads at him, but Mikey just grinned, unbothered.

"Thanks." Stan smiled at Michael. "But back then, I wasn't much to look at, you know?"

Mikey nodded in understanding, probably recalling his own tweens.

"Anyway, Vic took one look at me, blew off the guy he was with and dragged me into the diner-"

"Where was I?" Debbie broke in.

"Maybe it was your day off?" Stan shrugged. "Anyway, Vic got me a greasy cheeseburger and just sat and coaxed the story out of me. He told me to never give up on my dreams, that the naysayers could just fuck off."

"Vic always cared." Deb wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "He wanted the younger generation to have it better than he did. Not in a PC way, like the GLC is always goin' on about, but just so they could be themselves without anyone telling them how to be or-"

"Hmm?" Stan held up a hand, cutting Debbie off, and cocked an ear at the children's table. He then lifted the bowl with the cranberry sauce, rotated his shoulder and passed it over to Molly.

Molly, Gus and Timmy looked at Stan with starry eyes as they stammered out thanks. Jenny, in contrast, was too busy spooning in food to even look up.

"Having a hot guy like Vic pay attention to me did wonders for my confidence," Stan wound up. "I had a heckuva crush on him."

"Oh!" Face transfixed with joy and eyes shining, Emmett was peering at the ceiling on the far side of the room. "Do you see them? Vic and Judy are toasting all of us!"

Stan and Dale looked understandably confused, while the other adults just played it off as Emmett being Emmett. Brian wasn't about to say he could see Vic, who was holding up a pumpkin martini - had he snitched one of the glasses? - and looking him directly in the eye. It was the clearest vision of Vic that Brian'd had in years.

Fortunately, before anyone asked Brian what the fuck he was staring at, Vic winked at him and then faded out.

"You wanna do the honors, Mikey?" Debbie asked, looking down the length of the table at her son. "Carve up the bird like Vic used to?"

"I knew I shouldn't have sat here," Michael groaned. "But I wanted to be between Ben and Hunter."

Justin snorted, body vibrating with suppressed laughter.

"Duuude," Hunter moaned. "We coulda sat somewhere else."

Brian could see the wheels turning in Michael's head as he rewound what he'd said. "I meant because we've got elbow room down here!" Mikey hastily tacked on.

"Geez, Dad, lame-o," Hunter complained. "You gonna cut the turkey or what?"

"Or what," Michael refused turkey duty. "I still remember sending a wing flying across the table the first - and last - time I tried."

His own effort wasn't much better, Brian remembered, even if he hadn't made the turkey take flight. It was one of the reasons he'd skipped out on Thanksgiving dinner at the Novotnys' for years. He carefully avoided Debbie's gaze now; he didn't want to make a fool out of himself again.

"Why don't I take care of it, Red?" Carl started to get up, knocking into Jennifer because the chairs were wedged in so tightly around the table.

"I can do it," Emmett offered a beat later. "I've had plenty of practice."

"No," Deb declined both offers. "It should be someone Vic taught. You know, to remember him properly."

Shit, his surrogate mom was looking his way. Brian was scrambling for an excuse, unable to come up with anything, when Deb asked, "Vic taught you, didn't he, Sunshine?"

A nod from Justin had Brian sagging in relief.

"Gimme the bird," said Justin, giggling.

Brian gave him the finger, which only made the twat giggle more.

"Might be easier if you went to the bird." Cynthia eyed the turkey in amazement. "I've never seen one that big."

Michael, looking frantic to escape the carving process, pushed back his chair so hard that it tipped over. Picking it up off the floor, he gestured for Justin to take his place. "Uh, you can sit here to carve. I'll go get a couple platters."

"You mean these?" Cynthia picked up the oversized plates in front of her and passed them to Ben, who, undoubtedly still perturbed about the demise of his tofurkey, huffed but then set the plates next to the big bird.

"Uh, yeah," Michael replied, prudently edging further away from the table.

Lips pressed together - Brian could tell Justin was on the verge of a major giggling fit - Justin scooted his chair back and moved over to slide into Michael's. Then, evidently deciding he'd manage better if he stood, Justin got back up. He picked up the carving knife and fork, flourishing them before smoothly cutting into the turkey. 

"Show-off," muttered Michael as Justin proceeded to extract the wishbone.

Justin glanced over at the kids' table, but they were all too busy chattering away about something - either Potter's potions or Distorto's distortions would be Brian's guess - to notice the wishbone.

Stripping off the gristly bits and patting the wishbone with a napkin, Justin noted, "It won't be easy, but anyone want to give it a go?" 

"Me!" said Cynthia and Emmett at the same time.

Justin reached past Ben, handing the wishbone to Cynthia, who studied it for a moment. "I've heard there's more power in it if we wish for the same thing," she divulged.

Brian snorted. What idiot came up with that?

He wasn't surprised when Honeycutt ignored him and bestowed a gap-toothed grin on Cynthia. "I'm in. What're we wishing for?"

"Mmm." Cynthia mulled it over for a minute. "Ten inches, knows what to do with them, hot and can hold a conversation about something besides sports."

Like nine and a half inches weren't plenty. Brian narrowed his eyes at his blonde assistant.

His grin widening, Emmett nodded in agreement. Both he and Cynthia rose partway, getting as good a grip as possible on opposite sides of the slippery wishbone.

"One, two, three..." Ben counted down, getting into the spirit of things. "Go!"

Snickers came from around the table as both Cynthia and Em tugged, valiantly trying to break the wishbone and getting red in the face from their efforts.

"C'mon, Cynthia!" Daphne rooted for the blonde woman.

"Emmylou! Emmylou! Emmylou!" chanted Ted.

Brian rolled his eyes. You'd think this was the Wishbone Olympics or something.

The Olympians finally succeeded in ripping the wishbone in half, Emmett flopping back in his seat and crowing, "Country boy for the win!"

Brian was annoyed to realize that the tug of war had distracted him from watching Justin remove the meat from the legs. In fact, Justin had already peeled half the breast off the breastbone and was now slicing and then transferring it to one of the large plates.

The blond must have honed his skills since shooting a turkey leg into his grandmother's lap. He made carving the big bird look easy. Impressed and more than a little envious, Brian watched as Justin repeated the process with the other half of the turkey, before removing the wings, setting one at the end of each platter.

"Lemme just take this to the kitchen" - Justin hefted the board with the turkey's remains - "and wash my hands and I'll be back."

Apparently deeming it safe, Michael took a cautious step back towards his seat. "I'll take this to the other end of the table," he offered, picking up one of the platters and taking a deep breath of the turkey-laden air.

It did smell good, Brian's stomach rumbling loudly as Jusin returned and slipped back into the spot next to him.

"Better feed you before you start gnawing on Sunshine again," Debbie chortled.

Brian just grinned, more than a little proud of his efforts.

Emmett reached up and brushed a thumb over the bruise on Justin's neck. "That is one spectacular hickey, Baby."

Brian flicked Em's hand, causing the southerner to cry out, "Ow!"

"You shaid hickeys are little love bites, Mama," Gus piped up in an accusatory tone. "They're s'poshed to be small."

"The size depends how much you love the person," Hunter interposed with a sly gleam in his eyes. "The more you love them, the bigger the hickey." He grinned at Justin like he'd finally one-upped him.

Hunter was still a mouthy shit, thought Brian. But he had another think coming if he expected the L-word to bother Brian. "That's right," he told Gus. "It means I love your Papa lots."

Brian could've done without the oohs and ahs from the girls, but the blinding smile from Justin made up for the heckling.

"You done good, Sunshine," Deb congratulated Justin. "You too, ragazzo," she added, smiling fondly at Brian.

Foiled in his attempt to needle Brian and Justin, Hunter turned his gaze to Daphne. "I'd give a hickey to a girl I liked," he said meaningfully.  

Fucker better keep his hands off Daphne, thought Brian. Daphne was Justin's and his: no poaching allowed.

Daphne thoughtfully eyed Hunter, which had Justin tensing up, but then the girl shrugged, turning to Cynthia to say something. Just a harmless flirtation, Brian decided.

Brian outstretched a long arm and transferred a few slices of the white meat to his plate and then added a dollop of the mashed potatoes from Justin's plate for good measure. Might as well make room so Justin could have some of the turkey.

"So, anybody got news?" Debbie asked.

"JR went potty all by herself," Michael proudly announced as he helped himself to the ham. "Number one and number two."

"...brings that up at the dinner table?" Blake questioned, his voice not as quiet as he'd likely intended.

"Jesus," Mel cursed, sharing a despairing look with Lindsay.

Leave it to Mikey, thought Brian. His childhood friend never changed.

"Er, maybe let someone else share their news, babe," Ben recommended.

"But it's a huge step in JR's development!"

"I've got good news," Lindsay cut in before Michael could wax on about Jenny's ‘accomplishment.' "The Carnegie Museum of Art contacted me and asked if I was still interested in working for them. They filled the position I applied for, but they have an opening for an assistant manager in the gift shop; they think my sales experience would come in handy there. The salary's not very good and it isn't exactly my dream job" - she heaved a sigh - "but I can't let Mel carry the load of supporting us any longer."

Linds glanced sidelong at Brian, as if expecting him to object, but he just gave her a bland look. Brian didn't want her to bring up the financial support he'd been providing. Besides, Melanie had been working her ass off to take care of her family; she deserved the limelight.

"If they like what she does," Mel commented, giving her wife a proud glance, "they'll put Linds in the training program to recruit investors at the end of her probationary period."

"The business end of things isn't really my forte," Lindsay mumbled.

"Theodore can give you pointers," Brian volunteered his CFO.

"Sure. Glad to help," Ted agreed easily, smiling at the girls.

"Linds isn't the only one with arty news." Daphne smiled at her bestie.

Thank fuck Daphne had spoken up; now Brian didn't have to. Justin was confident in his work - Brian complimented him often enough - but he hated to brag about it.

Knowing the twat, he didn't want to infringe on Lindsay's news or make her feel bad that she hadn't pursued her own dreams of becoming an artist. Fuck that. It was up to Lindsay to pick up a paintbrush.

"You in another show, Sunshine?" Debbie gave her erstwhile boarder a huge smile.

"Um, yeah." Justin reached up to rub at his neck only to lower his hand when he encountered the love bite Brian had bestowed on him.

Brian smirked. Justin's skin was probably a smidge tender.

"Well?" prodded the redhead. "Do I have to use the tongs" - she flourished the item in question - "to pull it out of you?"

Justin cringed as if terrified. "No! Not the ‘tongs of truth'!" 

Giggling, Daphne warned Justin, "You better spill or Debbie's gonna getcha." 

Cheeks pinkening, Justin imparted, "I've got a solo show-"

That was all he got out before everyone started cheering and clapping.

"Your own show? That's awesome!" Stan enthused. If the contortionist hadn't been a fan of Justin's before becoming part of the Rage franchise, he sure as heck was now.

"Where? When?" Questions flew at Justin.

"At the Bloom Gallery," Justin revealed more details. "It'll run from the day after Christmas through the second week of January."

"Right when people will be looking to splurge," noted Brian.

"I'd think they'd be broke from buying Christmas presents," Emmett argued. "I know I'll be down to chicken feed," he said to laughs and murmurs of agreement.

Brian shook his head. "You're not the target audience. We'll be going after people with money who want to indulge their passion for art."

"You doing the advertising?" Michael wanted to know.

Stupid fucking question. Brian gave Mikey a ‘duh' look.

"How many paintings?" asked Melanie.

Finally a pertinent question.

"I'm not sure yet," Justin admitted.

"How can you not know?" Lindsay inquired, her expression a little sour.

"'Cause it won't just be paintings," Justin explained. "I'll also be showing some drawings as well as panels from Rage. Sidney wants a little bit of everything to ‘showcase my repertoire of skills.'" He raised his fingers in air quotes to make it clear that he was just relaying what Bloom had said.

"I don't have the Rage storyboards anymore - those belong to the movie studio and are probably buried in a basement somewhere - but I'm gonna try and recreate a couple of them to accompany the comic book panels."

Maybe he should get out the sketch Justin had pilfered and brought back from LA. Brian had rescued it from the wastebasket, where Justin tossed it after showing it to him, secreting it away on the top shelf in the closet. It was nestled in a box with the first ever drawing Justin had sold, the cowrie shell bracelet he'd retrieved from Brian's shithead nephew and the bloodstained silk scarf from prom.

The box had been undisturbed when Brian opened it this morning, which didn't surprise him. Justin refused to admit he was too short to reach the upper recesses of the closet without the aid of a step stool, so Brian never had to worry about the twat rooting around in there.

When Ben commented, "That's great news," Brian tuned back into the discussion about Justin's show. Looked like the professor was back to his normal Zenny self. 

"Who knows?" Ben questioned. "Maybe it'll inspire the studio to try again."

"Fuck the studio," Justin denounced that idea. "I'd rather try and do something low-budget that we'd have control over."

"I agree," Michael seconded Justin. "They didn't have the guts to produce the movie a few years ago, and I doubt they'd do it now. Not without watering down Rage and JT so you can't even tell they're gay."

Justin smiled at Michael. "The news about my show gets even better. While it's going on, Sidney wants to host a special event with the people who inspired the Rage characters - me, you, Brian, Ben and Stan. Have us dress up as JT, Zephyr, Rage, Professor Kirchner and Bent as long as we're willing."

"Heck, yeah!" An overexcited Michael slammed a hand down on the table, hitting his fork and sending it flying.

"Sorry." Mikey winced when his fork landed on Cynthia's plate, splattering her royal blue silk blouse with gravy and meat.

Cynthia shook her head in bemusement. "The last couple of days have been hard on my wardrobe," she observed wryly.

Brian made a mental note to buy Cynthia a few new blouses to go with the lingerie he already owed her for taking part in the final scene of the Brown Athletics commercial.

"Sid wanted Reverend Swineheart too." Justin started giggling. "But I don't think we want the asshole who inspired him anywhere near the Bloom Gallery."

"Fuck Stockwell!" Debbie cried out.

"Maybe with a ten-foot pole," muttered Ben, making everyone laugh.

Hmm, maybe Brian should send Stockwell an invitation to the opening. Stick it to the homophobic bastard some more.

"I was thinking maybe we could ask Kiki to dress up as IceTina," Justin mused. "Do you think she'd go for it?"

"That tranny?" Debbie screeched. "She won't be able to pull up her girdle, she'll be so puffed up."

Brian did not want that image in his head. Nor did anyone else, going by the groans from around the table.

"It's like having our very own Picasso in the family." Melanie smiled warmly at Justin before widening her gaze to include Brian. "I couldn't have been more wrong," she stated, shaking her head.

"About what?" quipped Brian. "The possibilities are endless."

"Asshole," retorted Melanie, no heat behind the epithet. She turned to Justin with an earnest expression. "I told Brian you were sacrificing your career to be with him. I'm sorry, baby, for assuming I knew what was best for you."

"It's okay." Justin shrugged it off. "It's not like I listened to you anyhow."

Brian could feel a flush rising up his neck. He hadn't really blamed the bulldyke for spouting that crap about sacrifice. Not two years ago, and even less so since she'd apologized to him at Halloween. For a long time, Brian had taken anything Linds said about making it as an artist as gospel; if she said Justin needed to go to New York, then Brian was gonna see that he went. Thankfully, Justin had proven less easy to manipulate.

"Normally, disregarding a lesbian's advice would have dire consequences." Mel shook a finger at Justin. "But in this case, you were right. You can be a success from Pittsburgh... as long as your name is Justin Taylor. Right, hon?" she asked, turning to Lindsay.

If Linds' expression had been sour before, she now looked like she'd bitten into a lemon. "I suppose," she grudgingly conceded, "but-" 

"Dig in!" Debbie overrode whatever Lindsay planned to say. "Cold meat's for sandwiches, not Thanksgiving dinner."

In an effort to quiet his rumbling stomach - it was getting embarrassingly loud - Brian scooped up a bite of the ham along with some of the mashed potatoes, and swallowed it down.

Mouth still open, Linds didn't look ready to let go of whatever point she had wanted to make.

Melanie took advantage of her wife's open mouth, shoveling in a large forkful of turkey and stuffing. "C'mon, we agreed to give up the vegetarian diet for the holidays. Let's enjoy ourselves."

Lindsay closed her lips around the tines, and Melanie slowly slid the fork out, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

"Mmm," Linds hummed in evident pleasure.

"Way to put me off dinner," grumbled Ted, going a bit green around the gills.

"Why?" Tucker asked, eyes fastened on the lesbians. "Two women together is hot."

"Tuck!" a pink-faced Jennifer remonstrated.

Debbie narrowed her eyes on Carl. "What've you got to say about it?"

"The lesson from Caffney and Louenna, the lesbians on the force, was enough for me," Horvath proclaimed his innocence. 

Mel scoffed, "You would find two lesbians whose names make them sound like gay clones of Cagney and Lacey."

Horvath blinked in surprise - he'd evidently never made that connection - and then returned his focus to his paramour. "And that was only so I'd know how to pay you back for the stellar blowjob, Red."

Deb cooed, "Oh, Carl, honey."

Brian could feel the food he'd swallowed coming up for a visit.

"Let's just concentrate on eating the meat," Ted injected a much needed dose of rationality.

No one objected - a minor miracle.

Brian scooped up some of the cranberry sauce from Justin's plate along with a piece of cornbread and then filled in the empty spot with slices of turkey from his own plate.

The blond boy smiled at Brian as he snagged the salad bowl, into which significant inroads had already been made, courtesy of a greedy Theodore. Fucker. This must be the new salad recipe Justin had promised to make for Brian, dammit. Ted could have something else, like the limp-looking lettuce creation that some yahoo thought would be a good contribution.

Ameliorating his irritation with Ted, Justin piled kale, small glazed onions, cherries, some kind of nuts and white cheddar onto Brian's salad plate. He even managed to put a sizable portion on his own salad plate, before Emmett snatched the bowl. All so he could have another serving, Brian suspected.

Brian gave Justin a companionable bump of the shoulder and settled down to the serious business of enjoying the Thanksgiving feast.

 

 

 

"You want more, Sunshine?" Debbie held up a decimated platter of turkey.

"Basta cosi, grazie," Justin moaned, pushing back from the table. "I shouldn't have had that last serving of turkey. But I just can't resist your homemade gravy, Deb."

Deb beamed at the lad, clearly tickled pink.

Justin eyed the turkey wistfully, as if, despite the discomfort he was in, he was contemplating eating more.

Even Justin couldn't possibly fit in another bite. "What about the third helping of stuffing and the extra piece of cornbread?" Brian snarked. "Could those have contributed to your expanding waistline?" In contrast to Justin, Brian'd had the good sense to stop eating seventeen minutes ago when the waistband of his jeans got too tight. 

Justin arched a blond eyebrow, looking from Brian's plate, where only the smallest of crumbs remained, to the button Brian had undone on his Diesel jeans and back again to his nearly spotless plate.

Brian narrowed his eyes in response. Was the brat insinuating that Brian had been the one to consume that piece of cornbread? 

While Brian was searching for the best way to retort - the tryptophan was making his brain sluggish - Lindsay spoke up, her voice saccharine sweet. "You know, Justin, I only want the best for you." 

Fuck. It looked like Linds hadn't given up after all. If Brian was correct, everyone at the dinner table was gonna be treated to Lindsay rehashing the reasons Justin needed to be in New York.

"I know you want to be with your muse," Lindsay trotted out a trite argument, which she hadn't phrased quite like that before. "But New York is the center of the art world; it's where you need to be to make it big."

"Maybe for you." Justin's voice sliced through the air with the same precision the carving knife had cut into the turkey when they first sat down.

Shit. Justin must be totally fed up to be addressing Lindsay like that. Normally, he blew off the blonde's well-meaning interference, never forgetting how she'd encouraged him in his career, especially during the bleak post-bashing period.

"I, however-" Justin continued, voice cold, when Lindsay was saved by the bell. Literally.

‘I'm just waiting on a friend,' the doorbell chimed. Emmett and Daphne picked up from where the chimes left off, modifying the Rolling Stones' tune slightly. 

Watching boys go passing by

It ain't the latest thing

I'm just standing in a doorway

I'm just trying to make some sense

Out of these boys go passing by

The tales they tell

I'm not waiting on a man

I'm just waiting on a friend

"We expecting anyone else?" Carl asked Deb, speaking loudly to be heard over the slightly off-key harmonizing.

"Nope. I reckon it's just one of the neighbors wanting to borrow something." Debbie cackled, "If they want a chair, they're plumb out of luck!"

No shit, thought Brian. Outside of the recliners, every chair in the house had been pressed into service, including Deb's sewing chair and the office chair Em kept at his computer. Brian grinned to himself, wondering if Mikey, who was sitting in the computer chair, had considered what Emmett used it for. Pitts9x6 had probably jerked off in it this morning.

"Honeybun, could you get that?" Debbie looked down the table at Michael.

"Ma!" Mikey groaned. 

Brian grinned. He found it funny that Deb had resurrected that cutesy endearment. He could remember Deb addressing her son as ‘honeybun' when he introduced Brian to his mom back in ninth grade, completely mortifying Mikey.

Even when JR inevitably rebelled against the nickname, Deb would keep calling Mikey ‘honeybun.' Brian would bet on it.

Michael went to stand but slumped back into his chair, groaning again, albeit for a different reason. "I don't think I can get up. I ate too much."

Murmurs from around the table indicated Michael wasn't the only one in dire straits.

"I can get it," Stan offered. He glanced at Debbie. "As long as it's okay with you. I've got a show Saturday, so I had to be careful not to overeat."

"If it means I don't have to get up, I'm all for it." Deb made a shooing motion with one hand.

"Just don't give away any chairs," Carl added a caveat.

A cheeky grin on his face, Stan covered the short distance to the door. Swinging it open, he announced, "No chairs for... hire," his voice trailing off on the last word.

"Not even for a mil?" came the dry reply.

Christ, Brian knew that voice. He pushed his chair back, but because he'd had it angled toward Justin, he crashed into Hunter.

"Gerroff," Hunter complained. "You're too heavy for a lap dance."  

Justin, who at one time could have been counted on to take umbrage if Hunter so much as touched Brian, started giggling.

"Twats," Brian muttered, rolling his eyes as he got his chair out of the way and stood up.

To no purpose, Brian discovered. While he was stuck at the table, Ted had gotten up and ushered their visitor inside. Along with-

Brian sank back down and stared, dumbfounded. What the fuck was going on?

"Um," said Ted, an abashed look on his face, "This is, uh-"

"I'm a friend of Theodore's," one of the visitors interjected smoothly.

"Come on in." Debbie greeted the newcomers with a broad grin. "Any friend of Ted's is welcome at my table. "Especially if they're offering a million for a chair."

The older of the two men chuckled. "I might be persuaded to add another mil for the rehab. Mind, it had better be a darned comfortable chair I get to use for the rest of the afternoon."

Debbie looked perplexed by the reference to rehab but shrugged it off. "Michael," she demanded, "get your ass out of that chair and give to to Mr. uh-"

"Leo Brown," the head of Brown Athletics introduced himself. 

"Ah." Debbie smiled knowingly. She should recognize the name of one of Brian's biggest clients, if only because Brian had a surfeit of Brown Athletics gear, which he passed on to his family.

"I'm afraid I've taken shameless advantage of Theodore's invitation to join you for Thanksgiving." 

"I, uh-" Ted stuttered.

Brown smiled wryly. "I know Ted didn't expect me to show up, but I realized I didn't feel like putting up with my brother-in-law this year. Man's a jackass."

The person standing next to Brown nodded vehemently in agreement. "Dad's a blowhard. And a raving homophobe."

"So when Ted mentioned there was nothing to match a Thanksgiving dinner put on by his surrogate mother, Deborah Novotny, I had to check it out."

Christ. Leo Brown knew how to lay it on thick. Debbie was smiling fit to burst. Little did Leo suspect that by inviting himself to Thanksgiving dinner he'd be expected at every fucking family event from now till doomsday. He'd be in deep shit if he didn't show up. Brian would let Theodore, who was smiling like he'd done something brilliant, impart that tidbit. Right before Christmas.

"I had my assistant look you up in the White Pages online while I booked us a flight," Leo finished up.

"I'm surprised you could get seats," Dale commented. "My dad wanted to fly in, but he couldn't find anything."

"We ended up flying economy." Leo looked pained, like that was something he'd never experienced. "According to the Liberty Air ticket agent, tourist class isn't as packed during the early to midafternoon window on Thanksgiving Day. For some unknown reason - the agent couldn't provide a satisfactory explanation - that doesn't apply to business class travelers; none of those seats were vacant."

"Uncle Leo just about had a fit," the younger man confided, throwing an arm around Brown's shoulders.

Leo stiffened - maybe, Brian surmised, because he didn't like having anyone tower over him. Which when you were all of five inches over five feet was bound to happen.

Brian usually didn't pay attention to how height-challenged Leo was. Brown not only had an imposing demeanor, he also had the sense to stay seated during in-person meetings.

"Like you were any happier," Leo huffed. "You kept complaining about having your legs under your chin."

Brian sympathized; he hated flying economy for the same reason. That was an advantage to being short, he supposed. He smirked, lifting an eyebrow at Justin.

Likely guessing the reason for his amusement, Justin elbowed him in the side in retaliation.

"Ow," Brian muttered under his breath. Preferring to avoid another jab - Justin had pointy elbows - Brian returned his gaze to the new arrivals.

Brian caught Leo's companion looking down at his uncle with an impish grin, gray eyes twinkling.

It struck Brian that the two men had the same eyes: pale gray with a hint of blue. He hadn't noticed before - why would he? - but, height aside, there was a definite similarity between them. It wasn't just their eyes; Brian could see it in the shape of their noses too.

"Michael, you must be done eating by now." Debbie disregarded the way her son was using his own spoon to scoop more of the stuffing from the serving dish and shovel it into his mouth.

Brian sighed, hoping neither of the visitors would notice; he doubted they wanted to share Mikey's genetic material.

"Get your ass out of that chair, Michael Charles Novotny," Deb demanded when Mikey showed no sign of moving, "and offer it to Mr. Brown."

"Leo," the Brown Athletics CEO said affably. "Call me Leo."

"In that case, I'm Debbie," Deb introduced herself. "My son Michael is the one scowling at me from the foot of the table. He's already eaten enough for three, and since male pregnancy isn't real-"

"Humanity would expire if it was," Jennifer noted acerbically.

"Hear, hear." Emmett raised his martini glass in a salute, the rest of the men quickly echoing him.

Michael slowly stood, scooping up one more bite from the turkey platter before pushing his chair back and moving away from the table. Ben also stood, smiling affably at the newcomers, and gestured at his own chair before following Michael.

"And this is Carl." Blushing, Deb gave her detective a quick smooch.

"Next to Carl is Jennifer," Ted picked up when Debbie didn't go on, apparently lost in Horvath's eyes. "Justin's mom," Ted elaborated.

Leo and Jennifer exchanged polite, WASPy nods.

Brian only vaguely registered the rest of the introductions, his attention on Leo's companion as he slid into the seat that Ben had just vacated.

The man smiled flirtatiously at Brian.

Comfortably situating himself at the end of the table, Leo patted him on the arm. "This is my nephew, Willy."  

"Will," Willy corrected his uncle. "Or William." He flashed a smile at everyone, his gaze turning coy as he zeroed in on Brian again.

Fucker, thought Brian. What did Billy boy think he was doing? Didn't he have any gay etiquette? A family dinner was hardly an appropriate place to hit on him.

A hitherto foreign urge - the desire to flee from a trick, although this guy didn't really qualify; he'd just been an expedient fuck - struck Brian. He'd actually inched away from the table when the perfect way to deflect Willy's interest dawned on Brian. He wrapped an arm around Justin, drawing him closer.

The proximity to his lover had Brian's cock twitching in interest. Down, boy, Brian directed a warning at his dick. It wasn't like he could drag Justin off to the bathroom right now. He didn't even want to, given how bloated he was from all the rich food.

Justin snuggled a little closer, murmuring, "You fucked him, didn't you?"

Shit. The little twat knew him too well. Brian darted a glance at Justin, worried that he'd be upset. Justin might not have figured out when Brian had fucked Phil, but his trip to Chicago to woo Brown Athletics hadn't done their relationship any good.

He breathed out a sigh of relief when he noticed that Justin didn't seem upset, his blue eyes twinkling in amusement.

His relief came too soon. Emmett, batlike ears swiveling and nose aquiver, scented gossip. He leaned over Justin, hissing, "You did!" Em colored up when that came out loud enough for everyone to hear, but with a speculative look at Willy, he still asked, "Was he any good?"

Brian glared at Honeycutt. He could hardly answer that in front of his client. He remembered the copy machine xeroxing Billy's ass the whole time Brian was fucking him. Brian mustn't have been doing as thorough a job as usual, because the guy had still had the presence of mind to refer to his uncle as ‘Mr. Brown.'

"He was okay." Willy shrugged as if it hadn't been the fuck of a lifetime.

Brian rolled his eyes. Emmett hadn't meant Brian, for fuck's sake. Or had he? Brian swiveled his head to look at the nelly queen, who gave him an innocent lift of the eyebrows in return.

Justin giggled, obviously unperturbed at having his lover's reputation tarnished.

"I was more than a little peeved that Brian had ‘got into him.'" Leo raised his eyebrows at Brian. He didn't elaborate further, but he didn't need to.

Cynthia laughed into her wineglass.

Betrayed on all sides. Fuckers. Brian gave Brown a sickly smile in response. He was stunned that Leo had suspected - known? - all along what had happened but never let on. He was damned lucky that Brown hadn't reneged on the contract. Thankfully, the concept Brian had so hastily put together years ago was sheer genius, and Leo'd had the smarts to recognize that.

Will, face flaming, didn't look much better off than Brian. "C'mon, Uncle Leo," he protested. "It's been years. Let it go."

"The prints from the copier that the janitor put on my desk weren't yours?" Brown deadpanned.

Butt Print hadn't destroyed the evidence? Brian wanted to smack the nitwit.

"Jesus, Uncle Leo." The color now suffusing the moron's face matched his reddish-brown hair. 

Leo merely arched an eyebrow at his nephew, apparently enjoying himself. "What would you have done if my assistant had been female?" Leo inquired of Brian.

That didn't bear thinking about. Brian wasn't sure he could've gotten it up, even for a good cause. The days when he could get hard for just about anyone, as long as he was drunk and high, had been far in the past by then.

As if she'd been following his thoughts, Lindsay spoke up at that moment. "While I can't condone such behavior-" She paused, pursing her lips and gesturing with the wine glass in her hand.

Jesus, what was with the self-righteous moralizing? Brian narrowed his eyes at Linds, speculating that she must've been hanging out with Tannis and Philip again. She'd better be careful or she was going to turn into a dried-out, sexless prune like them.

"-I can assure you Brian would have managed," Lindsay concluded. She took a large swallow of wine and smirked at Brian before lowering the glass to the table. The glass wobbled when it hit the edge of her plate, but Mel reached out and righted it before it toppled over. 

Great, thought Brian. His friend was sloshed. Will looked from Brian to Lindsay and then back again. "Are you bi?" he asked, gray eyes alight with curiosity.

Brian snorted. He was as far to the homosexual side of the Kinsey scale as you could get. His trysts with Lindsay had only reinforced it.

Gus, who'd been chattering away with Molly and Timmy, none of the kids paying attention to the newcomers, must've caught the word ‘bi' and nothing else. "My daddy can make you buy anything," Gus piped up.

"Is that right?" Leo Brown drawled.

Gus nodded enthusiastically, smiling at Molly and then over at Leo. "Mama shays he could sell a twat to a leshban."

Molly, face flaming and clashing with her strawberry-blonde locks, appeared ready to die, embarrassed as only a young teenage girl could be.

Jennifer blinked, glanced at Molly in commiseration and then took a large swallow of her wine.

Face going equally as red as Molly's, Mel looked like she was contemplating sliding under the table.

Debbie guffawed, burying her face in Carl's shoulder; Linds let out a tipsy snicker; Theodore snorted virgin pumpkin martini out his nose; and Emmett and Justin giggled, leaning against each other.

Brian rectified that by pulling Justin back over to him. His twat, dammit.

Gus looked bewildered at the merriment his comment had provoked. He undoubtedly thought ‘twat' was an affectionate nickname; fuck knew, he'd heard Brian call Justin that often enough.

Laughing loudly, Leo Brown peered over at Gus. "You're Gus, I take it."

 

Brian took a drag from his cigarette, blew the smoke out through the door he'd cracked open and snorted in amusement. Thank fuck Leo was taking his fuckin' insane family in stride. When Brian had escaped from the dinner table, Brown had been bonding with his sonnyboy, Gus jabbering away excitedly about pumpkins and spiders.

The nicotine hit felt good. Another drag had Brian eyeing askance the rapidly dwindling Lucky Strike and contemplating lighting up another cigarette.

He heard the door to the back porch creak, followed by a familiar voice chiding, "You should quit, you know."

"Yeah," Brian grunted as Michael moved up next to him. He wrapped an arm around his childhood friend and breathed in the familiar scents around him: the lingering aromas of Thanksgiving dinner; the cheap-shit cologne Mikey still used; the tobacco from his dying cigarette; and the stench of the fertilizer Deb insisted would revitalize her rose bushes.

Opening the door to the backyard a little further, Brian dropped the cigarette butt on the cement step and ground it out with the toe of his Prada boot. He reluctantly decided against another Lucky Strike, Gus' recent declaration, ‘I want you around for a long time, Daddy,' still ringing in his ears a week later. No guesses as to who'd put his sonnyboy up to that.

"Will's chatting up Emmett," Michael revealed.

Who? Brian almost asked before remembering Leo's nephew.

"He's pretty hot," Mikey assessed. "You sure you don't wanna tap him again?"

"Honeycutt can have him." Hell, Brian would gladly pay the southerner to keep the flirty pain in the ass away from him.

"He likes the pumpkins," Michael babbled inanely.

Whatever. Brian shrugged.

"I told him your partner was the master carver." Mikey smiled up at him.

Huh. The way his lips were pursed, it was clear Mikey was expecting a kiss. Brian obliged him with a peck on the lips, but nothing more. Like the cigarettes, that was something Brian had been cutting back on. 

"You're a good friend, Mikey."

Michael's smile was a little droopy, but only for a moment. "Thanks," he replied, his smile returning to full strength.

"You know," Brian mused quietly, "I shouldn't have said that about you."

"You hafta clue me in." Michael shrugged and smiled good-naturedly. "You've said lots of things about me."

Christ, how could Michael so easily accept it when Brian was a jerk? His friend usually just rolled with the punches, although when he got his dander up, Mikey gave as good as he got.

"About you being a dumb little kid for wanting to carve pumpkins," Brian mumbled. It was hardly the most hurtful thing he'd ever said, but still.

"Yeah, well." Michael smiled at him. "Galaxy Lad should've stood up for himself back then and not been a pussy."

"What about Zephyr?" Brian asked.

"Zephyr's got his shit together," Michael declared. "And if he needs backup, he's got hunky Professor Kirchner."

It was... odd not to have Mikey rely on Brian or his alter ego Rage anymore. Odd, but freeing. He and Michael would always be friends, but they both now had other people who came first.

Carving pumpkins for Thanksgiving was reserved for him, Gus and Justin, thought Brian, but Halloween was another matter. "Next Halloween," he proposed, "we should all get together to carve pumpkins. But if JR even comes close to grabbing handfuls of ‘pumpkin paste' again, I'm gonna make sure she throws it at you."

"Again?"

"Yeah, after we carved the pumpkins in there" - Brian jerked a shoulder toward the interior of the house - "JR got into the raw pumpkin and threw it everywhere."

"That's my girl," Michael boasted, a proud smile on his face.

Brian rolled his eyes. Only Mikey would think that was good behavior. "You'd better watch out next year," he quipped. "You won't stand a chance against Kinney's Carvers."

"Dream on. You won't stand a chance against the Mighty Mikes." Michael playfully punched Brian in the shoulder.

"Is that supposed to scare me?" Brian asked, putting Mikey into a neck lock and giving him a noogie.

"Ow. Ow! Uncle!" Mikey cried, giggling.

 

The TV in the living room was on mute when Brian sauntered back inside a while later. He'd indulged in a second cigarette - he'd cut back tomorrow - after Mikey headed back into the house.

Brian looked around for Justin and spotted him holding Jenny, talking with Lindsay and Melanie. An earnest look on her face, Lindsay placed a hand on Justin's arm and said something that had Justin frowning. Brian briefly considered going over to rescue Justin, but then he decided his lover could take care of himself. Besides, Brian'd had more than enough of the she-devil's get pawing at him.

Turning away, Brian checked what everyone else was up to. Carl, he noted in amusement, was shifting from side to side in his recliner as he tried to see around the people between him and the television. Deb must've put the kibosh on Horvath escaping to the back porch.

The table had been restored to its normal size, thankfully without his help. Besides Leo, only Debbie was sitting there, jabbering away with him like they were old friends.

Brian caught a snippet of the conversation - something about him, Mikey and the ten-speed his friend had destroyed - and sighed. Deb must be regaling Leo with tales of his teenage mishaps.

"I did not!" Michael shouted from the kitchen. "I didn't hit a bus! The bus hit me!"

Did Mikey really think anyone bought that explanation? If that was the real story, no way Michael would've walked away without a scratch while the bike he'd borrowed from Brian got creamed.

Michael looked none too happy to have been relegated to kitchen duty; he and Hunter had apparently gotten the short end of the stick and were washing and drying the pans that hadn't fit in the dishwasher, which was chugging away.

"Mr. Brown?" Blake walked over to the table and seated himself across from Debbie.

"It's Leo," the Brown Athletics CEO promptly responded.

"Right." Blake smiled. "You've said that before."

Brown chuckled. "I'll keep saying it until you and that husband of yours finally get it."

"I just wanted to thank you for your investment in the Liberty Avenue rehab," Blake said earnestly. "We'll help anyone who needs it, but ninety-nine percent of the people who come in are queer. We don't normally rake in big donations, and never anything like what we're getting between you and Stan."

"Three million's a little out of the norm?" Leo's gray eyes twinkled.

Brian smiled wryly to himself. Three million was out of the norm for everyone in the room. Even for him, despite running a multimillion dollar business.

"Three? Wait, you were serious about donating another mil just 'cause you got a chair to sit in for Thanksgiving dinner?" Blake's voice rose, conveying his astonishment.

"Uh, Leo," Debbie stammered, "that was supposed to be a joke."

"I know." Brown patted Debbie's hand. "But this is the first time I've known someone who's hands-on involved." He looked at Blake. "A lot of people backslide, I suspect."

"Yeah," Blake acknowledged. "It's tough to kick any drug, much less crystal. But the journey doesn't end when someone leaves the rehab. Addiction doesn't just go away-"

Bored with the crystal conversation, Brian tuned out, glancing over at the television right as the football action segued to commercial. "Turn it up!" he shouted. "That's the new commercial!"

Everyone stopped talking and gathered around the TV as Carl unmuted and increased the volume. From the other side of Carl's recliner, Justin flashed a smile at Brian, who smiled back at him.

"Jumpin' Jehoshaphat, that was close," Emmett breathed out fifty-eight seconds into the commercial, as Stan slid between Drew's legs on the TV, the hockey stick appearing to stroke the cotton fabric at Boyd's groin.

Brian reckoned Boyd had earned the mil for the commercial; it took balls to stand there with nothing but a pair of briefs to protect you.

Hockey stick extended, Stan sent the puck into the net.

"Yay! Go, Distorto!" Gus and Timmy cheered.

"You ever considered a career change?" joked Ted. "You'd make a heckuva hockey player, Stan."

Stan chuckled. "I don't think the opposition would obligingly stand there while I scoot through their legs."

Mere seconds later, when the yellow blur zoomed across the TV screen and knocked everyone down, the mood turned somber.

"Jush like Big Yerro," Gus commented in a hushed voice.

His sonnyboy, Brian noted, was cradling his left arm in its sling.

"That's scary." Molly leaned into Justin, who was standing next to the kids.

Timmy shivered. "It was," he agreed.

The TV screen froze on Brown Athletics and Kinnetik's condolences for those injured and killed, with the PSA about drunk driving directly beneath.

"I've never... seen anything quite like that," one of the off-screen commentators said.

"Me neither, Bill," his colleague concurred. "It's a sobering reminder not to drink and drive."

Heinz Stadium came back into view, the camera focusing in on the commentators' box, in front of which two ‘Terrible Towels' hung from the railing.

"We should give the towels to whoever came up with that," Bill opined. "That commercial's maybe the best deterrent to drunk driving that I've ever seen."

Suddenly, the screen went blank, and then the Brown Athletics commercial began to replay.

Brian watched in stunned silence. Their commercial had preempted the other ads that should be playing now.

When the commercial ended, the commentators came back on screen. The two men were looking at each other with perplexed expressions.

"What do you think that was about?" Bill asked.

"The advertiser probably paid for it to run twice," his colleague asserted confidently.

"More likely," Bill countered, "someone over at NBC made a mistake."

His colleague laughed, sounding amused. "Well," he drawled, "Let's hope it's not that."

"Holy moly!" Leo whooped. "Hillgrove and Wolfley just gave us a major plug, and the NBC affiliate may have replayed our commercial on purpose! I wouldn't be surprised if this hits the national news."

"I can' wash it again." Gus turned away from the TV.

Leo's expression instantly went from ebullient to concerned.

Justin crouched down in front of Gus and Timmy, who'd also turned away. "I know it's a little scary," he said softly. "But the commercial's a good thing. It'll help keep people from drinking and driving like Murphy did."

"Promish?" Gus asked, voice wavering. He looked up at his papa and then Brian, who'd crossed the room in long strides.

"It's going to make a big difference, young man," Leo said with conviction as he got up from the table and joined them. "I'm sorry I didn't think about how it would affect you," he added in apology.

Leo wasn't the only one, thought Brian, mentally kicking himself.

"It's your 'mershal, right, Daddy?"

"It's the one Kinnetik made for Brown Athletics," Brian agreed.

"I still don' wanna wash it," Gus reiterated. "But I'm glad you made it, Daddy, 'cause it's gonna help people."

Jesus. His kid was gonna kill him, thinking Brian was some kind of altruistic do-gooder. 

"You done good." Debbie patted Brian on the back. "Keep it up."

Thanks a lot, Brian thought. Now everybody was gonna expect him to create more advertisements that raised social awareness or whatever. He'd done it to bring down Stockwell and also, in a way, with the original Remsen Pharmaceuticals' ad, so maybe occasionally? There was a market out there; Brian just had to tap into it.

"Whaddaya you say we do something fun?" Debbie took the remote from Carl and zapped the screen off. "Where'd you put 'em?" she asked, prompting Horvath to get out of his recliner and find whatever she wanted.

Leo suddenly said, "I owe you." Reaching out, he shook Gus' hand and then Timmy's.

Both boys looked puzzled but pleased at being treated like adults.

Leo then shook hands with Brian, Justin, Ted, Blake, Cynthia and Stan. "I owe you," he repeated. "All of you."

Brian didn't know what the fuck to say to that but fortunately didn't have to come up with an answer, Debbie's loudly yelled "Twister!" drawing everyone's attention.

Who the fuck wanted to play Twister while overloaded on tryptophan? Brian wondered, looking at the battered boxes in Carl's hands.

Apparently he was the only rational person in his family. Brian started edging away from Deb and the horde of eager beavers gathering around her, pondering his escape. 

He could excuse the two seven-year-olds for jumping up and down, although Gus was doomed for disappointment. Both he and Timmy were tall enough, despite being under the recommended minimum age for the game, but there was no way Gus could participate with an arm in a sling.

Stan was grinning like a shark scenting chum in the water. Lindsay, who'd never expressed the least interest in the game before - she'd disappeared wherever it was dragged out by one of their college peers - actually seemed intrigued.

Grinning, Daphne looked at Justin. "Bet I can still beat you, Jus!"

Justin gave his bestie a wary look, declining to take the bait.

"You too?" Molly giggled.

"Puhleeze," Justin scoffed. "No way could you beat me, Mollusk."

Brian took another step back as the siblings bickered. 

"Watch me, Jester," Molly dared her brother. "Daphne and I are gonna whoop your a-" She stopped abruptly when she caught sight of her mother, whose face bore what Brian would've called a mild look of disapproval from anyone else. But Jen was a WASP; she could convey more with a raised eyebrow than anyone else Brian knew. Even Justin hadn't yet reached that level of WASPishness.

Molly quickly amended the last word to "derrière," pronouncing it with a French accent.

Jennifer's expression didn't change. Chuckling, Tucker observed, "At least Molly's practicing her French."

With a rueful toss of her head, Jen also laughed.

"Go on," Debbie coaxed. "Let's get the game started. "You too, buster." She pinned Brian, who was getting close to the front door, in place with a stern look.

Shit. He'd almost made it.

"It'll be good for you," Deb reasoned. "Help you work off the turkey so you'll be ready for dessert."

Was that supposed to be an incentive? Brian didn't want dessert.

Debbie looked him up and down. "You could use a piece - better, two - of pie. You need fattening up."

Not if he wanted to fit into the new Armani collection, he didn't, Brian thought resentfully.

Even if it meant drawing his surrogate mother's ire, Brian almost bolted. Anything related to the dirtiest three-letter word in the English language - fat - terrified him. 

"We've got two mats, so that means two teams, one for each mat," Deb laid out the rules. "Any member of a team flubs up, they lose that round."

"How are we gonna choose teams?" Michael interrupted his mom. "Whoever gets Distorto is a shoo-in."

"I'll referee," Stan offered. "I could use help though." His gaze landed on Gus. "How about you?"

Gus looked conflicted, obviously wanting to play but also eager for a chance to assist his idol.

"You can't play with an injured wing," Stan commented gently.

Gus scuffed a sneaker against the carpet, lips turned down, a little bummed out.

"I'll keep you company, Gus," Timmy piped up.

That was a friend worth keeping, thought Brian. He glanced over at Mikey, remembering all the times Michael had stood by him.

"I'll play with the two of you another time," the contortionist sweetened the deal. "I can show you the best moves to win."

Brian's sonnyboy perked up at that. "Okay!" He high-fived Timmy, both of the seven-year-olds grinning from ear to ear.

"You gonna choose the teams?" This time Michael directed his question at Stan.

Stan looked a little hesitant about how best to proceed. "I guess I could draw names out of a hat."

That proposal was greeted with mumbling and uncertain glances. 

"Or how about I choose two team captains and then the captains can take turns selecting their team members?"

Ted approved, "That'll work."

Stan glanced around. "Okay, let's see how many people we've got, and then I'll decide how many people play each round."

"I'm out," said Leo, making himself comfortable on the sofa. "Willy'll play though."

"Jenny's too young." Lindsay corralled JR just before she stuck her hands into the ‘Play-Doh' again. "I can sit this out-"

"Oh, no you don't." Deb marched over and took hold of her granddaughter's hand. "Jenny and I'll do just fine together."

Had Debbie ever intended to participate? Brian's eyes narrowed in suspicion. It would be just like her to bully everyone else into playing but then come up with a perfectly reasonable out for herself.

"We can have dessert with Leo." Debbie smiled at the toddler.

"Fuck," Melanie muttered, sharing an unhappy glance with Lindsay. "She's gonna be up all night again, high on sugar."

"Sceam!" shrieked JR, letting her grandma know what she wanted.

Then again, Brian reckoned, playing Twister didn't sound bad compared to dealing with the demon child.

"Sorry, Ben," Debbie addressed her son-in-law, "I meant to see what I could rescue of your, uh, masterpiece so you could take it home, but I got sidetracked."

The tofu chef gazed down at the tofurkey ruins for a moment. "Just as well," he sighed. "I'm the only one who'd eat it."

"Looks like a moat with the castle missing," Carl chuckled, putting the camcorder to use once again.

"Play-Doh." JR nodded seriously as her grandmother led her to the kitchen.

"I'll film the contest for posterity," Carl declared.

"I'll play," Jennifer agreed to participate, "but I don't want the camera on me."

Tucker chuckled self-deprecatingly. "Yeah, I wouldn't want any of my fifth-graders to see me. I'd never hear the end of it."

Horvath kept his eyes fixed on the camcorder, fiddling with the viewfinder. Tucker, Brian thought, might be in for a surprise; Carl had neatly avoided answering him.

"What about choosing the captains from the original gang?" Dale suggested. "I wasn't around at the time, but I've heard-"

"Me and Brian hafta be together!" Michael cut in. "We're a team! Always and forever!"

Brian rolled his eyes, both amused by and annoyed at his childhood friend's exuberance. What had happened to the adult he'd just been talking to on the porch?

When Justin shifted away from him, Brian snagged him by the back of his T-shirt. "Where do you think you're going?"

The blond shrugged, disappointment flashing across his features. "If this is gonna be an episode of the Brikey show..."

Brian gagged. Brikey? He wasn't gonna let Justin name things anymore if that was the best he could come up with.

"As the two captains?" Stan put paid to Michael's notion that he and Brian were gonna be on the same team. "Sure."

"Wait, I didn't mean-"

Too late, Mikey, thought Brian, laughing to himself. He tugged Justin closer, and husked in an atrocious western accent, "Who'd you think was gonna be my pardner, pardner?"

Justin grinned, discontent vanishing.

"Team Brian on this side of the room" - Stan gestured at the area near the sofa - "and Team Michael over there." He pointed at the dinner table. "That way the captains can see who's left to choose from. Brian, you go first."

Fucking easiest decision ever. "Justin."

Carl zoomed in for a closeup of Justin. The blond grinned, his infectious sunshine smile on display as he moved over to the couch and started chatting with Leo.

"Ben." Michael made googly eyes at Ben, who was flexing his arms, biceps bulging.

Horvath panned from Ben to Michael and back to Ben. The detective, Brian thought, looked a little envious of the muscles on display. Brian was less impressed; brute strength wasn't gonna help the professor do well at Twister.

"Honeycutt," Brian selected his next team member. Like Brian, the southerner was tall. Unlike Brian, he was bendy.

"Don't call me Honeycutt," Emmett reiterated his standard refrain as he flounced over to join Justin. "Bri."

"Don't get your panties in a twist," Carl joked as he zeroed in on his housemate with the video camera.

Brian was sure the cop meant Emmett, but then Horvath winked at him. What was that about? He did not ‘get his panties in a twist.' Ever.

"Ted." Michael grinned at his longtime friend. 

Brian mentally rolled his eyes. Mikey, he suspected, had simply called his friend's name without reasoning out who'd actually perform the best.

Brian took a moment to consider his remaining options, but again, it was a straightforward decision. "Melanie." The dyke wasn't very tall, but she was agile; pair her up with Emmett, and they'd boost his team's chances.

Michael hemmed and hawed, but then his face lit up. "Daphne."

Brian gave a mental nod. That wasn't a bad choice, with Daph motivated to beat Justin. He opened his mouth, ready to go for Molly, wanting to foil any plans she and Daphne might make.

"You'd better pick Linds," Mel hissed, elbowing Brian in the ribs. Sighing, Brian complied. He didn't need a pissed-off bulldyke on his team, and if anyone knew how to keep a drunk Lindsay in line, it would be Mel.

"Molly!" Michael shouted. Fucker had obviously been thinking along the same lines as Brian. Molly skipped over to Daphne, the two of them immediately putting their heads together.

Horvath zoomed in for mugshots and then, as Brian mulled over the remaining possibilities, panned back and forth between him and those not yet selected.

Surprisingly, Hunter wasn't looking at Brian with his patented ‘I'd do you' leer. Brian was tempted to choose the annoying shit just to get his eyes off Daphne, but he wasn't sure how Hunter would respond. He might try showing off and fuck up, losing the game for Team Brian.

Better to go with someone else. Maybe he should take Copy Boy? Brian was at least a little bit acquainted with Phil, if only in the biblical sense. Nah, he decided a moment later. He needed to choose whoever would help him win. If Brian selected Billy, it might make Brown happy, but a nebulous ‘might' wasn't reason enough to go for Leo's nephew.

Brian looked over the other possibilities. Blake? Another no. He was limber but short. "Cynthia," Brian stated decisively. His blonde assistant was not only taller than Blake but equally as agile.

"Hunter." Michael promptly made his next choice, keeping it all in the family on his team.

"You should've picked Blake," Ted grumbled, visibly annoyed that Michael had passed over his husband.

Theodore should take lessons from Mel on how to apply peer pressure, Brian thought sardonically. The number of candidates having dwindled significantly, he debated between Tucker and Jennifer for a few beats before deciding, "Tucker." Justin was probably going to kill him, sticking them together on the same team, but the guy was tall - maybe even taller than Brian; Brian had never stood right next to the fucker since he didn't want to find out - and seemed reasonably limber. 

Arms crossed, brow lowered, Ted glared at Michael. Huh, who knew Theodore had it in him to look that menacing?

Succumbing to Ted's arm-twisting, Michael shouted, "Okay, okay! Blake!"

"Jennifer." Brian had missed out on Molly, but except for her, he now had a full set of Taylors.

Michael looked from one remaining option to the next before glancing over at Stan. "Dale."

Mikey was probably hoping Stan would show favoritism toward the team his husband was on. Dale was tall - another person Brian was careful not to stand next to - but he didn't give an impression of dexterity. Other than with a whip.

With eight people on each team, Leo's nephew was left all by his lonesome, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. "Uh, I don't have to play."

"Nonsense, Willy," Leo rejected that notion. "You have to uphold the family honor."

Stan nodded in support of Leo, stating, "Two teams of nine would work better anyway. Three from each team per round." He glanced at Timmy. "Help me out?"

"Sure!" Timmy paused, looking at Gus. "Uh-"

"'shokay." Gus gave his buddy a gummy smile. He'd taken the spinner board out of one of the boxes and now twirled it, presumably checking that it spun freely.

With Timmy now in the mix, Brian mulled it over. Phil could maneuver - he'd hopped right up on the copier years ago and wrapped his legs around Brian - but he didn't particularly want him on his team. Ignoring the urgent "Will" from Emmett, he went for Timmy, leaving Copy Boy to Mikey.

Carl zeroed in on Bill as he sloped over to join Team Michael, not waiting for Mikey to call his name. Phil had a dejected look on his face, whether because he wanted to be on Brian's team or because he was picked last, Brian didn't know. Or care.

Taking out the Twister mats, Stan positioned them about a foot apart and smoothed out the creases with Gus' help.

"Captains, choose your threesomes" - Stan grinned wickedly - "wisely."

Mel eyed up the blondes on Team Brian as if debating which ones she wanted for a threesome.

"Let me know the order the threesomes will play in" - another impish grin from Stan - "before we start. Nine rounds total per game, with each threesome competing three times."

"Good approach," murmured Justin, moving up next to Brian. "The rounds are bound to go pretty fast on these mats." Raising his voice a little, he asked, "One point per round? Anyone puts a knee or elbow on the mat or falls over, they lose that round?"

Justin probably had the Twister handbook memorized, Brian reckoned.

"Exactly." Stan nodded. "If the teams are tied at the end of the ninth round, there'll be a knockout round; captains can choose which threesome they want to play in the knockout. Whichever team wins two out of three games is the Thanksgiving champion. Okay?"

"Can team members put their hands on the same circle?" Molly piped up.

Another Taylor who must've memorized the handbook and was experienced in team play. Brian regretted that he didn't have her on Team Brian.

"That's fine," Stan agreed. "Any other questions?"

He got head shakes in return. "Then take a few minutes to confer on your threesomes, and we'll get started."

A noisy babel ensued as Brian and Michael's crews surrounded their captains, everyone wanting to get in their two cents as to who should be in their threesome.

A deafening whistle pierced the din. 

Weird, thought Brian, his ears ringing. He could've sworn that Mel was clamoring for Cynthia to be part of ‘her' threesome a moment ago.

He turned toward the bulldyke, ready to thank her for quieting the unruly horde, only to discover Mel holding a hand to her head, mumbling something about damage to her eardrums and glaring toward the kitchen.

"Nothing beats that whistle from my patrol days, huh, hon?" Carl beamed at Debbie, swinging the camera toward the redhead.

Deb had a tray crowded with pie, ice cream, coffee cups, creamer, sugar bowl and utensils balanced on one arm and a coffee carafe in her other hand. JR toddled along at her side, holding onto a sippy cup. 

Letting a large silver whistle fall from her mouth to her chest, where it dangled from a lanyard, Debbie grinned at her inamorato before turning a chastising gaze on the players. "Don't get your tits in a twist," she reprimanded them, staring directly at Brian. 

Like it was all his fault. Jesus. To make it worse, she had to use the T-word. Brian knew he shouldn't say anything, but he couldn't let that go. "I don't have-"

Deb didn't let him finish. "Or your dick. Whatever equipment you've got. It's just a game." Forging her way over to the coffee table, she set the tray down, the dishes and silverware bumping and jangling discordantly. "But you'd better win," she directed a final comment at Michael. "Uphold the Novotny honor."

 

A while later, the threesomes sorted, more or less amicably, they were deep into the first game, the two teams dead even after eight rotations. Team Michael had drawn ahead a couple of times, only for Team Brian to peg them back. They were now on the ninth rotation, the last of the threesomes on the mat.

"Blue, right hand," Gus called out.

Brian's gaze flicked between the opposition and his team.

Butt Print, who was spreadeagled across the mat, breathing heavily as he tried to keep elbows and knees from touching down, dragged a hand from green to blue. 

"Keep it up, Willy," Leo volubly encouraged his nephew.

Stretched out over Will, Ben lifted a hand off a green circle and moved it to a blue one. In contrast to the heavy breather, Ben looked like he could hold his position all day.

"Go, Dad!" Hunter whooped.

On Team Brian's mat, Melanie and Lindsay were chest to chest, the bulldyke's torso twisted sideways, hands behind her head. Despite the awkward position and having to swivel her neck around to find the closest blue circle, she made it look easy to lift a hand off green and move it to blue.

All Lindsay had to do was lift her hand from the circle it had been resting on and move it over one row. Thank fuck since Linds wasn't very supple and had proven to be something of a liability, just as Brian had feared.

Not worried about Emmett - he was as formidable as Mel - Brian took a quick look at the other mat. 

Michael hesitated, the seconds stretching out before he gingerly reached beneath Copy Boy. His elbow came dangerously close to Willy's groin as he strained for the closest blue circle, but he made it without collapsing onto the mat.

"You've got it, Uncle Em!" Timmy, who'd adopted Gus' uncles as his own, yelled in encouragement.

Balancing on his heels, back arched, Honeycutt outstretched a hand. Then, just as he was about to touch down on a blue circle, disaster struck. One stocking-clad foot slipped on the mat, and down Emmett went. He caromed into Mel, who knocked Lindsay over, their limbs tangling as all three fell in a heap.

"We did it!" Michael sprang up and started jumping up and down, doing a wacky victory dance.

"Take that, Jester." Molly smiled smugly.

Justin stuck his tongue out at his sister, making Jennifer laugh.

Brian couldn't help being a little annoyed at how lightly Jen was taking the Twister match. Didn't she realize this was serious business? He was gonna have to listen to Mikey crowing for the next year if Team Michael won. Not to mention Theodore. His CFO would be more subtle than Michael, bringing up his loss when Brian was least expecting it.

"That was just the first game. Best two out of three," Stan reminded everybody.

"We've got the edge; we're gonna win." Ben low-fived Hunter, Michael and then the rest of his team.

"Some of you probably haven't played Twister in a while-"

"I may be twisted," said Dale, generating laughter from the group, "but not like this." He bent over and started massaging his calf muscles.

"-so I was lenient in the first game," Stan went on. "Some of you took your time when Gus made a new call. From now on, if someone doesn't move right away, the team defaults that round."

"What if that happens on both teams? You can't have your eyes everywhere at once." Daphne, Brian would bet, was still annoyed at having been caught sneaking her foot off the circle it was supposed to be on during her threesome's second rotation. It had cost Michael's team the round and allowed Brian's team to catch up. To no avail, unfortunately.

Stan grinned toothily at Daphne. "I can always ask Lieutenant Horvath to check the video."

"Glad to help," agreed Carl, looking up from the camcorder, blue eyes steely.

Daph pouted for a moment but then gave a resigned shrug.

 

The no dithering rule ended up benefiting Team Brian. Early in the second game, Ted had frozen, too busy calculating the best angle to remember to move. Then, in the next round, Dale put a knee down on the mat, complaining about a spasming muscle as he clutched his leg to his chest.

They'd never caught up to Team Brian.

Morale boosted, Brian's threesomes were looking sharp as they started the deciding game.

Hunter couldn't get his hand on the mat in the first round, which gave Team Brian an early lead. Then, in the third round, Emmett started whistling Itsy Bitsy Spider.

Ben had been managing surprisingly well up to that point, even though his heavily muscled frame didn't lend itself to yoga-like contortions, but his fear of arachnids did him in. He collapsed, taking Michael down with him, for the loss of another point.

"Cheater!" Michael's jaw jutted out pugnaciously as he confronted Emmett.

"What?" Emmett asked innocently. "I thought I saw a daddy long-legs dangling from the ceiling."

Ben paled and backed away, peering up worriedly.

Fucking brilliant, thought Brian, giving Honeycutt a subtle nod of approval.

Certain the spider stratagem was gonna win the day, Brian grew a bit overconfident.

In the fifth round, the first move that Gus called out, Tucker put his right foot on a green circle instead of a yellow one.

"Sorry," Tucker apologized sheepishly. "I was thinking about playing red light, green light with my fifth-graders and got distracted."

Fucking lamest excuse Brian had ever heard.

Team Michael burst out laughing.

"Christ," Justin muttered in disgust.

Jennifer ran a hand up and down Tuck's arm, murmuring, "It's okay, sweetheart. Like Debbie said, it's just a game."

No it fucking wasn't, thought Brian, his annoyance with Jen growing. Since the Tucker Fucker duo still had to play one more round, he gritted his teeth and swallowed down the snark he wanted to let fly.

The Mel-Em-Linds threesome took the sixth game, restoring Team Brian's lead and Brian's good humor. No way were they gonna lose now.

In the next round, Brian, Justin and Timmy were neck and neck with Ted, Blake and Hunter, all six of them successfully twisting this way and that as Gus called out the moves.

Timmy had been a godsend, the seven-year-old twisting and turning with ease. Justin was equally bendy, leaving Brian to grumble to himself as his hip twinged. This game was intended for kids, not adults, dammit.

"Right hand, red," Gus announced the fourth move in the round.

Justin lifted his hand from a yellow circle and stretched for the nearest red one, his T-shirt sliding down and further exposing the spot on his neck that Brian had worked on so assiduously this morning.

Forgetting what he was supposed to be doing, Brian leaned in, closed his teeth around the hickey and started sucking.

It was only when he and Justin tumbled down onto the mat, knocking Timmy over, that Brian realized he'd just forfeited that round.

"Hmm," Tucker hummed as Brian stood up.

Brian lifted an eyebrow in return. At least he'd had a good reason for his abstraction.

"That's how you make a hickey," he stated insouciantly, grinning at Gus.

Team Brian was still ahead by one point, so they'd be okay.

Brian kept thinking that when Cynthia fell flat on her ass in round eight. Despite the loss of their one-point lead, they just had to take round nine and they'd win.

Em, Mel and Linds were doing fine, moving fluidly as Gus called one combination and then another. Until, suddenly, close proximity to her wife's neck flipped a switch in Lindsay. Lips drawn back from her teeth, she latched onto Melanie's skin. 

"What the fuck?" the bulldyke cried out, leaning back a little too far and falling down on the mat.

Michael and his teammates started jumping up and down and cheering. "Still think you can beat me, Jus?" Daphne taunted.

Lindsay pouted at her wife. "I just wanted to give you a love bite, babe. You know, like Brian-"

"Um, I don' think you did it right, Mommy," Gus observed. "Maybe Daddy could show you?"

Lindsay swiveled around on the mat, smiling hopefully at Brian.

"Sure." Brian smiled sweetly at Linds. "Justin and I can do a demo."

His blond moved closer, eyes narrowed as he grabbed hold of Brian's arm. "Try YouTube," Justin advised Lindsay. "Search under hickeys."

From Team Michael's mat, where the winners were hugging and pounding each other on the back, there came a burst of laughter.

"You should give lessons, Bri," Ted deadpanned. "On how to help your team lose."

He was firing Theodore first thing Monday, Brian decided.

Daphne and Molly strutted over to Justin. "Didn't go so well for you, huh, Jester?" Molly teased her brother.

"Not this time," Justin allowed, sounding a little sullen. "Really, you two were great," he added more graciously, smiling at his bestie and his sister.

"Yinz were aweshome!" Gus ran over, Timmy right behind him. Gus' eyes fixed on Molly, his Aunt Daphy might as well not have been standing there.

"Way better than we were," a downcast Timmy threw in. "Uh-" He glanced over at Brian and Justin and stopped speaking, his freckles standing out on reddening cheeks.

"It's the truth," said Brian heavily. "I flubbed up." He wanted to blame it on Lindsay, but Brian couldn't; she'd just copied him... in an irrational lezzie fashion. 

"I didn't mind." Justin wrapped his arm around Brian's waist. "Just maybe not when we're playing-"

"-Twister!" Daph and Molly chorused in unison.

"Jus is totally edible," Daphne tacked on, waggling her eyebrows at her bestie before grinning cheekily at Brian. "I get why you did it."

His face warming, Justin spluttered incoherently.

Horvath's voice boomed out, saving Justin from further embarrassment. "How about a couple shots of the whole group?" he suggested.

"Photos of the teams?" Michael hee-hawed, gasping, "We can tack them up next to the front door, labeled ‘winners' and ‘losers.'

He might have been expecting it, but Mikey's behavior still galled Brian.

A scathing put-down was on the tip of Brian's tongue when Debbie intervened. "Someone had to win and someone had to lose, but a real winner knows how to be gracious in defeat."

"That's right," Leo backed up the redhead.

Brian smiled smugly at his childhood friend.

"Brian wouldn't be ‘gracious' if he'd won," Michael retorted.

That might be true, but while Brian would give his friend a bad time now and then forget about it, Mikey would rave about his win, rubbing it in every chance he got for fuck knew how long.

"Everyone stand over there." Carl pointed at the spot where the folding table had been. "Don't worry, I'll angle the camera so the Irish lace isn't in the picture," he added, fiddling with the camcorder. "I'm getting pretty good with this thing."

"I can't believe I missed that." Face going pink, Deb stared at the thick strands hanging from the ceiling.

"Um." Ben backed away. "I think I'll pass."

"Ben, honey, it's just a bit of spider silk," Deb tried to reassure the arachnophobe. "But I can get it down with the broom if you want."

"No!" Ben yelled before calming a little. "I don't want you to, uh, knock the spider down, maybe, uh, kill it. It's good to have spiders around" - Ben blanched as he spoke - "since spiders eat insects."

Brian snorted at Ben's disjointed rambling. According to Michael, Ben was all for killing spiders - as long as he could do it with a vacuum, safely distanced from the creepy-crawlies.

Six minutes later, Deb finally coaxed Ben into standing on the edge of the group, as far from the Irish lace as possible. Carl snapped a bunch of photos, Brian getting antsy because he was separated from his blond, who was standing in the front with the other shorties.

"How about a couple more?" Michael asked when Carl lowered the camera and the group started to break up. "We could pretend we're still playing Twister."

"No thanks," Daphne declined. "I'm ready for some pie." 

"Same here," Cynthia agreed. "That pecan pie has been calling me."

"Follow me," said Deb.

A good half of the players along with Gus and Stan trooped after the three women.

Shit. Brian didn't want dessert, but he also wasn't keen on posing for more photos.

"I'll make it worth your while," said Justin. "You could dip me. Like you did at prom."

Brian couldn't refuse. Prom wasn't as painful for him as it used to be, but it was an endless source of frustration for Justin, who still couldn't remember anything except the bat coming at him.

 

A little while later, looking over Carl's shoulder at the viewfinder as he flipped through the shots, Brian decided it had been worth posing for the additional photos. Even with Lindsay just standing in the background or sitting on the floor, the pictures were good. Emmett had his arm around Justin in one of the photos, but Brian didn't mind too much. A growled ‘Honeycutt' had had the southerner removing his hand from Justin's ass and placing it on Brian's thigh instead.

The picture in which Brian was dipping Justin was his favorite. He already had a spot in mind, once the photo had been printed. It would have pride of place in the breakfast nook at Britin, and the other photo could go on the mantelpiece in the living room, where they'd display family photos.

Now Britin was only missing one thing... 

Brian just needed to sell Justin on getting married first; then he could finally reveal he'd never sold the mansion. 

Recalling something he'd caught sight of when hauling the children's table down from the attic, Brian suddenly knew just how to proceed. He glanced around for Justin and found the blond at the table, stuffing his face with pie. Of course.

Certain Justin would be busy for a while, Brian made another trip up to the attic and looked around for the children's table, which was again propped up against the far wall but with the legs still screwed in. The top of a guitar case could just be seen poking out over a stack of boxes near the table.

Tall as he was, Brian still had to move dusty boxes out of the way before he could grab hold of the guitar case. It was definitely Mike's old case: a large Captain Astro decal front and center, surrounded by stickers for bands that had been popular when they were teens.

Now if the guitar was just inside... Crossing his fingers, Brian flipped the latches and opened the case.

Mikey's acoustic guitar was inside, unstrung, but that didn't faze Brian since a packet of strings was tucked in next to the instrument. Setting the kiddy table upright, Brian sat down and got to work.

He took his time - it had been a few years since he and Mikey had a garage band - but he remembered what to do. Brian chuckled, recalling how he and Mikey thought they were hot shit, even though they were actually mediocre guitarists at best.

It took him a good thirty minutes to string the guitar, but no one came looking for him. If Justin was still stuffing dessert in his face, he'd have to roll his partner home, thought Brian, snorting.

Another few minutes and Brian had the guitar tuned. Satisfied, he made his way back to the second floor and then stopped at the head of the stairs. 

Now to make a grand entrance.

Strumming the guitar for all he was worth, Brian sang, "Well, shake it up, baby, now."

The ‘baby' felt a little awkward, but if Lennon could sing it, so could Brian. He might not sound as good as Lennon, but he was hotter. Justin wouldn't be able to resist him.

Brian could see heads turning as he carefully started down the stairs. He wouldn't be able to follow through with his plan if he took a spill.

Shit, he hadn't thought this through, Brian realized. Without backup, he'd have to sing the chorus too. Resigned, he repeated, "Shake it up, baby."

He winced when his voice went up higher than intended.

Searching for the next step with his right foot - why the fuck hadn't he just waited till he got to ground level to play the song? - Brian belted out, "Twist and shout."

"Twist and shout," he provided his own chorus.

Another step. Christ, he didn't remember this staircase having so many stairs.

Carl whipped out the camcorder - Brian was beginning to wonder if it was glued to man's hand - and started recording. Brian faltered for a beat. He hadn't intended on having this captured on film, but then again, it meant Justin couldn't back out, right?

Pausing for a moment, Brian planted both feet on one stair and concentrated on the guitar. He wanted to get the chords right. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, baby, now."

"Come on, baby," Brian segued into the chorus.

When a rich baritone joined in on ‘baby,' he lifted his fingers off the strings, trying to place the voice, before hurriedly setting them back on the guitar.

"Come on and work it on out," he sang the next line. Brian plucked the notes for the chorus, waiting to see if the mystery singer would pick up again.

Sure enough, the same deep baritone chorused, "Work it on out."

This time Brian spotted Ted, who was swaying in place as he sang. He should've recognized the voice - he'd been subjected to Theodore's operatic efforts before - but he just hadn't expected a rock tune from Ted. 

"You forget the words?" Debbie yelled.

Realizing he'd been woolgathering, Brian used his long legs to cover two steps in one go and then picked back up with, "Well, work it on out, honey," while looking directly at Justin.

Like ‘baby,' ‘honey' felt weird dropping out of his mouth - ‘twat' would've been more natural - but it was part of the song, so he rocked with it.

"Work it on out," Ted sang, Justin joining in as he looked up at Brian.

"You know you look so good." Wasn't that the truth? thought Brian, eyeing Justin hungrily as he felt for the next step.

In the next instant, while Ted and Justin chorused, "Look so good," Brian retracted his foot. He'd stay here, midway down the stairs, where everyone could look up at him, for a bit.

Beginning to feel more at ease, Brian belted out, "You know you got me goin' now."

"Got me goin'," Ted and Justin returned, Justin snapping his fingers in time with the music.

"Just like I knew you would." Brian's fingers were flying over the guitar as he sang to Justin.

"Like I knew you would," Ted and Justin chorused, the opera singer crooning, "Woooo," by himself and carrying it off perfectly.

On autopilot as the refrain kicked in - this was the easy part - Brian mused absently that Theodore might even be good enough for a recording contract.

"Work it on out," everyone chorused at the end of the refrain.

Jesus, thought Brian, a couple of them - he wasn't sure who - really couldn't carry a tune. Then, realizing it was time for his favorite bit, the only part he'd altered, he grinned and sang, "Well, you twist, little boy."

Justin twisted in place, singing along with Ted, "Twist, little boy."

"You know you twist so fine," Brian went on. The only one who could match Justin on the dance floor was Emmett. On that thought, Brian looked around for Honeycutt, glad to find him on the opposite side of the staircase, the handsy southerner nowhere near Brian's boy.

"Twist so fine." Justin bent his knees, twisting from side to side.

"Come on and twist a little closer now." Brian lifted his fingers from the strings for a moment, beckoning Justin closer. 

As he and Ted chorused, "Twist a little closer," Justin grooved his way back to an upright position and then stepped onto the first stair.

"And let me know that you're mine." Brian's voice cracked halfway through the line and he colored up, suddenly having an inkling of how Mikey must've felt when he serenaded Ben at Woody's way back when.

Justin didn't seem to mind his less than stellar singing abilities, smiling at Brian as he leaned against the banister. "Let me know you're mine," he sang along with Ted.

"Woooo," Ted again added, right on cue.

Time for the instrumental section. Brian took a deep breath and looked down, careful with the tricky fingering. Fuck the vocals; Ted could do this part by himself.

He peered up from beneath his lashes to see Justin tapping his foot to the beat, his blue eyes sparkling as he watched Brian.

"Ahhhh, ahhhh." Ted was pitch perfect, not sounding at all challenged.

"Ah, ah," came the sharper finish.

He had this, thought Brian, relieved to have reached the last part of Twist and Shout without any major snafus. Removing his gaze from the fretboard, he launched into the refrain.

His audience stamped their feet, clapped and sang along.

Well, shake it up, baby, now

(Shake it up, baby)

Twist and shout

(Twist and shout)

Once Brian reached the lyrics he'd only sung once so far, everybody except Ted, Justin and Debbie dropped out of the chorus.

C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, baby, now

(Come on, baby)

Come on and work it on out

(Work it on out)

Well, you twist, little boy

(Twist, little boy)

You know you twist so fine

(Twist so fine)

Come on and twist a little closer now

(Twist a little closer)

And let me know that you're mine

(Let me know you're mine)

He lost Justin then, not that Brian blamed him. Debbie joined Ted though, her soprano meshing well with his baritone.

Woooo, woooo, woooo, woooo," they harmonized.

Blake, Emmett, Mel and Stan jived to the music, while Linds and Dale swayed in place, their feet barely moving. Kind of like him with Justin, Brian thought wryly.

Brian segued into the last of the lyrics, fingers flying.

Well, shake it, shake it, shake it, baby, now

(Shake it up, baby)

Carl passed the camcorder over to Cynthia and twirled Deb around, both of them deft on their feet. Leo cut in briefly but then returned Debbie to Carl. Jesus, the old folks could really move, thought Brian. He'd known Deb could cut a rug, but Carl? He would never have expected the portly detective to move so smoothly.

Singing the chorus, Justin stepped off the staircase and swung Daph around before handing her off to Hunter.

Hunter stared down at his feet and shied away. The kid must not know how to dance, Brian assumed. If he hadn't been busy singing, he would've told Hunter to just shuffle in place; it worked for him.

One hand on his stomach, Emmett raised his other hand in his signature ‘Praise Jesus' move.

Well, shake it, shake it, shake it, baby, now

(Shake it up, baby)

Well, shake it, shake it, shake it, baby, now

(Shake it up, baby)

Ted was doing such a bang-up job with the vocals that Brian left the last bit to him.

"Woooo, ahhhh, ahhhhhh," Theodore crooned, drawing out the last ‘ah.'

"Yeah!" Brian bowed like he'd seen the Beatles do on an old episode of the Ed Sullivan Show.

To applause and cheers, Brian jumped down the last of the stairs. He ignored the back slaps and admiration from family and friends and zeroed in on Justin. He was the only one who mattered.

Two long strides and he was face to face with Justin. Justin licked his lips, looking ready to pounce on Brian and eat him up.

Normally Brian would have been all in, but there was something that needed to be settled first.

He sank to one knee, setting the guitar down next to him.

Justin's mouth dropped open and his eyes widened.

A fine tremor made Brian's hand shake as he fished out the ring he'd retrieved this morning. The box wouldn't fit in his jeans without leaving a weird bulge, and fuck knew what kind of comments it would have elicited from his friends, so he'd taken Justin's ring out and slipped it into his coin pocket.

Now, hand extended, the ring nestled in the palm of his hand, he opened his mouth to pop the question he'd never anticipated asking once, much less three times.

Before he could get a word out, Emmett shouted, "You go, baby!"

Did Honeycutt mean him with that ‘baby'? Brian wondered, bemused.

Shaking it off, he looked up at the man he wanted around for the rest of his life.

"Marry me, Justin?"

While Justin stared down at him, Brian's heart beat erratically. Say yes, say yes, say yes...

"Yes," Justin said so quietly that Brian could barely hear him. Then he threw his arms around Brian, declaring, "Yes! Yes, Brian, I will marry you."

Brian stuck the ring back in his pocket - he'd wait until they were married to put it on Justin's finger - rose and twirled his blond around.

"Oh, honey." Jennifer started towards them with tears in her eyes, but she was preempted by Gus crashing into Brian's legs.

"I'm the ring bearrr!" he hollered.

"Hmm," Brian murmured into Justin's ear. "That's an idea. A ring bear..."

Justin laughed. "You finally admitting you're a bear?"

 

Brian narrowly evaded Debbie, leaving Justin to deal with the Novotny matriarch. Justin was already getting hugged to death, so he'd just have to handle a double dose from Deb.

Desperate to wet his whistle, Brian took one of the few remaining lagers from the case on the back porch, removed the cap, tipped the bottle and took a long draft. 

"Ahh," Brian moaned, taking another swallow. His throat had never been as dry as when he'd asked Justin to marry him just now.

Fuck it. He'd earned another cigarette. The last of the day, Brian promised himself as he lit up and nudged open the door to the backyard.

Someone came onto the porch behind him, and assuming it was Mikey bubbling over with enthusiasm about finally getting to be his best man, Brian held out the beer.

What he got was a wiseass lesbian lawyer. 

"Thanks," came Mel's voice. "Got an extra fag?" she quipped.

"Two fags for the price of one," Brian riposted, handing over a Lucky Strike and lighting it for her.

Mel took a drag of nicotine and blew rings of smoke through the propped-open door. "You better not think about getting married in New York, Kinney. I got Linds to go along with the surprise Christmas trip - and I damned well know that's as much for Justin as for Gus - but there's no way I'm going to miss you tying the knot. I won't believe it till I see it."

You'd think a marriage certificate would be enough for the legal eagle, but... given his anti-marriage stance, Brian got why it might not be. He still wasn't gonna be a Stepford fag, but no one who knew him would expect that. Certainly not Melanie Marcus.

"Okay," Brian acquiesced, handing off the beer. Melanie would have her proof soon enough.

They smoked in a surprisingly companionable silence, trading the lager back and forth. Brian was a little irked that Mel was better at blowing smoke rings than he was, but he was in too good a mood to let it get to him. Much.

Brian briefly considered bringing up the statute of limitations in regard to what Justin had done to Hobbs, but then he decided to wait. Anyone could come out on the porch while they were talking; better to discuss it where they wouldn't be overheard.

"Wanna dance?" Mel interrupted his thoughts as the sound of someone strumming the guitar Brian had abandoned carried out to the porch.

Brian shot her an appalled look. They might be getting along fairly well nowadays, but-

"Christ, Kinney, you should see your face," Mel chuckled.

Brian glared at the she-devil.

"I didn't mean with me." Now Mel looked almost as appalled as Brian. "I thought you might want to dance with your fiancé."

Fiancé, thought Brian, unaware that he was smiling foolishly. That had a nice ring to it.

Leaving the half-smoked cigarette and the rest of the beer with Mel, Brian headed inside.

Hell, he thought, smirking. Maybe he'd whirl the bulldyke around the dance floor after he and Justin got hitched. It'd probably give Smelly Melly a heart attack.

 

Moments later, his fiancé in his arms, Justin guiding his steps, Brian was swaying to the rendition of Yellow Submarine that Michael was picking out on the guitar.

Once they were married, Brian mused, Justin would have to keep him. Warts and all. Not that a gray hair or two - Brian shuddered - was the worst of his ‘warts,' but since nothing had put Justin off before, he reckoned the blond would stick it out. 

"You're not gonna wriggle out of this one, Sunshine," he muttered. "You're stuck with me, gray hairs and all."

"You're insane," Justin giggled. "All this so no one will see your gray hairs?"

Brian grinned. "Only my prince."