Work Text:
The fluorescent lights of Costco hum overhead, casting sterile brightness on towering pallets of toilet paper. Stewie Griffin, three years old in his sailor suit, spots a display of industrial-strength adhesive.
"Ooh, forbidden treacle!" he declares brightly, mimicking the posh tones of his favorite telly program.
He pops the cap with surprising dexterity. Eight-year-old Brian, scarred knuckles gripping the cart handle, sees it.
"No, Stewie!" He lunges, fingers wrapping Stewie's tiny wrist just as the toddler's tongue darts out.
Brian yanks him back—too late. The viscous glue oozes over both their hands, instantly welding skin to skin in a warm, unyielding seal. Brian freezes, panic tightening his throat. Stewie stares, wide-eyed, at their joined hands.
"Blimey," he breathes. "We're rather stuck, aren't we?"
Brian's breath catches, not from pain, but the unfamiliar weight of small fingers fused to his own.