Possibly, I'm Insane

Matt was so used to celebrating baby milestones. It felt like Adam was always doing something new, always achieving something. He grew in leaps and bounds, seemed to get older by the hour. It was dizzying to Matt, a roller coaster ride entirely different than the one with the girls.

One day he realized that the pace had shifted, that Adam no longer had as many firsts, that instead Adam seemed more settled in the world.

“He’s getting older,” Patrick said. “That’s what happens.”

“Well, that’s…” Matt didn’t know what it was.

“A completely different type of adventure,” Patrick said.

It starts with the orange sneakers that Pete buys, one pair for him and one pair for Tennyson. And then there’s matching fuzzy orange sweaters to go with the orange sneakers. And then Pete manages to locate orange pants, too.

“The exact same shade of orange! And in the right sizes! It’s fate!” Pete explains as he buys them.

“Obviously you need orange socks now, too,” Patrick remarks.

He thinks that Tennyson won’t be into these matching orange outfits, that he’s too old for these shenanigans, but actually it’s Tennyson who suggests, “Maybe we should dye our hair orange, too!”

“I missed out,” Pete tells Tennyson mournfully.

Tennyson is unimpressed by his regret. “On what?”

“I didn’t create any Christmas traditions for you. And now you’re too old.”

Tennyson looks at him incredulously. “What are you talking about? When I was a kid every Christmas Eve Patrick would come over and we would make sugar cookies in unrecognizable shapes and Patrick would make you or me play the piano while he sang carols to us.”

This…is true, Pete realizes.

“So. That’s our tradition.”

“Oh, my God, it is.” Pete beams. “So glad I created a good tradition for you, kiddo!”

Arthur has an inventory of their Christmas ornaments.

“Look,” Arthur says. “This is the only way we can keep organized. You own over a thousand ornaments.”

“We own over a thousand ornaments.”

“Yes, and sometimes you say things like, ‘The only thing we can put on this branch is the ice blue metallic boot we bought in Lucerne that trip we took when your wisdom teeth started bothering you.’”

“And then you save the day, darling, as you always do, by pulling up your inventory and knowing exactly where that ornament is.” Eames beams at him and kisses his earlobe.

Pete always looks devastatingly attractive, with his eyeliner and his swooping hair and his too-small jeans with the belt on the side. Next to him, Patrick always feels…blargh. Deciding what to wear on stage stresses him out, since he has to stand next to the bundle of sex personified that is Fashion Plate Pete.

He grumbles, “I should give up and just wear some sort of uniform.”

Pete says, “Oh, Trickerdoodle, I support you in a uniform, like, a cute little skirt?”

Which makes Patrick turn pink but the leer also makes him feel better about the way he looks.

“Sorry for dropping by unexpectedly,” Lestrade said as he unwound his scarf. “I was just at loose ends and thought you might be in the mood for a hot toddy or two.”

John was about to say of course when Sherlock said scathingly, “What’s the matter? Is my brother busy toppling another country’s government?”

John said brightly, “Please come in. I hope you don’t mind that you’re just in time for the annual gingerbread decorating.”

“Oh, fun! What are we making?” Lestrade glanced over Oliver’s shoulder.

“Anatomically correct corpses of all the victims of Jack the Ripper,” Oliver explained happily.

hominysnark

Sherlock was, predictably, willing to engage in the decorating of gingerbread people if it meant they could be decapitated or otherwise mutilated with plenty of red icing to represent the blood gushing from gory wounds.

John remarked, “To any other child, this might be traumatic.”

Oliver happily munched on a severed leg.

“What’s traumatic about this?” Sherlock demanded. “It’s a fake murder! True trauma is having to sit and listen to the vapid conversation of Mrs. Hudson’s so-called ‘baking friends.’” Sherlock’s voice dripped scorn.

John laughed. “Were you enlisted to help bake the gingerbread?”

“It was torture,” Sherlock clipped out.

rereader

Kylie’s day: a disagreement over a piece of charcoal in art class; a geometry test she was sure she failed; something about lunch tables that Matt couldn’t follow even though Kylie explained it three times. Then Patrick ordered pizza for dinner, forgetting Kylie couldn’t have pizza from the local place because she’d heard someone who worked there was friends with a school jerk, so she was boycotting.  

“Cheer up,” Matt remarked that night. “You had them so close together in age, eventually all of them are going to be in high school at the same time.”

Patrick scowled at him.

When Patrick was telling himself stories when he still lived at his parents’ house and thought nothing interesting would ever happen to him, those stories always ended with happily ever after. And Patrick used to imagine to himself what happiness might be. He knows now he imagined poorly. He could never have imagined, for instance, music accurately. He could never imagine warm baths. He could never even imagine what the world looked like, because he didn’t have glasses then. But of all the things he’s learned, mostly what he’s learned is that happiness is a purring cat-person tucked beside you.

sdlibrarian

Arthur was the dreamer, so Eames was expecting the dreamscape to be perfect, pristine, as Arthur’s dreamscapes were.

Eames was definitely not expecting the octopus. Right there, in the middle of the suburban mall.

The mark said, “Is that an octopus?” and Eames engineered a distraction.  

When the job was over, and the team was berating Arthur, Eames said, “It turned out fine.” But then, to Arthur, “An octopus?”

Arthur muttered, “Sorry.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, darling. It’s just…an octopus? What were you thinking?”

“The way you sleep,” Arthur admitted, blushing. “Like an octopus. Arms and legs everywhere. Whatever.”

Eames grinned.