Work Text:
The Thanksgiving table stretches long and crowded in the Simpson dining room, a chaotic tapestry of mismatched chairs and clashing personalities bathed in the warm, slightly greasy glow of overhead lights reflecting off polished turkey skin and cranberry sauce. At its center sits Bart Simpson, smelling faintly of diesel and axle grease from his demolition derby rig. He’s wedged between his sisters: Lisa, radiating sharp intelligence in her crisp blouse, and Maggie ("Mags"), a stark contrast with her ripped black mesh top and chipped black nail polish tapping impatiently on the tablecloth. Directly across from Bart, Bob Terwilliger – reformed, suited, and radiating calm competence – sips his wine, his eyes momentarily distant as he dissects the orchestration of "Edelweiss" playing softly from Maggie’s phone speaker.
Marge occupies the end nearest the kitchen, a fortress of nervous energy perched between Lisa and Lisa’s barista girlfriend, Chloe, whose sharp plum suit seems out of place amidst the homey chaos. Next to Bob, radiating theatrical flair in a dirndl skirt and puffed sleeves that scream Sound of Music, is Lisa’s other girlfriend, Anya. Beside Anya sits Ned Flanders, beaming beside his husband Homer, who anchors the opposite end of the table, already eyeing the untouched pumpkin pie. Squeezed between Homer’s bulk and Maggie’s slight frame is Nelson Muntz, looking unusually subdued in a clean-ish band t-shirt, his gaze flicking between Maggie and Marge with wary amusement.
The air thrums with low-level tension – Marge’s disapproving glances darting from Bob (the former tormentor) to Anya and Chloe (the polyamorous partners) to Ned and Homer (the loud, unlikely couple), finally settling suspiciously on Maggie and Nelson. Bart watches Bob, genuinely charmed by how effortlessly the ex-supervillain-turned-attorney navigates Anya’s questions about Julie Andrews' vocal technique. The carefully planned chaos of a fake engagement prank, meant to detonate this simmering pressure cooker, suddenly feels pointless. Why prank Bob when watching him genuinely connect is so much more… satisfying? The thought, unexpected and warm, bypasses Bart’s usual filter.
He leans forward, elbows on the checkered tablecloth, his demolition-calloused hand reaching across the gravy boat towards Bob. "Will you marry me?"
The words hang in the air, sharp and sudden as a dropped carving knife. The gentle hum of conversation – Anya’s melodic chatter, Ned’s soft "diddly," Homer’s fork scraping his plate – dies instantly. Every head swivels towards Bart. Maggie’s jaw drops, revealing a silver lip ring. Lisa chokes silently on her sip of water, eyes wide behind her glasses. Nelson’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. Marge freezes, a spoonful of green bean casserole hovering mid-air, her expression a mask of horrified disbelief. Chloe drops her napkin. Anya gasps, a hand flying dramatically to her chest.
Ned whispers, "Heavens to Mergatroyd!"
Only Homer seems unfazed, muttering, "Pass the yams, Flanders," before noticing the silence.
Bob Terwilliger slowly lowers his wine glass. His sharp, intelligent eyes lock onto Bart’s. There’s no immediate shock, no theatrical surprise. Instead, a slow, calculating stillness settles over him, the kind that precedes a perfectly crafted chess move or a devastating cross-examination. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches the corners of his lips – not warm, but intrigued, analytical. He leans back slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin, the picture of composed assessment.
"Marriage," Bob states, his voice smooth, low, and cutting through the thick silence like a scalpel. "A fascinating institution. Legally binding, socially significant... and statistically, a minefield ripe for catastrophic failure." His gaze sweeps the stunned table briefly before returning, laser-focused, to Bart. "The dissolution phase alone presents myriad opportunities for... creative destruction. Poison, naturally, is passé. Too detectable. A staged vehicular 'accident' during one of your demolition excursions? Plausible deniability is high, but the forensic scrutiny could be... inconvenient." He pauses, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his chin. "Perhaps something involving faulty wiring in that charmingly dilapidated bike shop of yours? Slow, agonizing, and easily attributable to your questionable electrical work."
He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that somehow carries to everyone. "Of course, the optimal strategy depends heavily on pre-nuptial agreements. Or the lack thereof." Bob’s eyes gleam with a dark, professional relish. "Tell me, Bartholomew. Are you proposing a merger... or setting the stage for the most compelling wrongful death case Springfield has ever seen?"
The silence deepens, thick with horrified fascination. Marge looks faint. Lisa stares at Bob, a complex mix of academic interest and profound alarm on her face. Maggie whispers, "Metal," to Nelson, who grunts, looking vaguely impressed.
Anya clutched Chloe’s arm. Ned clasps Homer’s hand tightly, murmuring a prayer. Homer finally looks up from the pie, frowning. "Wrongful death? Is that like when the turkey died for nothin'?"
Bart stares at Bob, the playful prank he'd envisioned vaporized by the chillingly clinical dissection. The warmth he'd felt moments before curdles into something cold and sharp in his gut. He sees not his boyfriend teasing back, but the sharp mind that once terrorized Springfield contemplating his potential demise with detached, legalistic precision. The chains on his wrists suddenly feel heavier.
He swallows hard, the taste of diesel and dread mixing in his mouth. "Dude..." he starts, his voice uncharacteristically thin, "...it was just a..."
He trails off, unable to finish the lie under Bob’s unnervingly calm, expectant gaze. The Thanksgiving chaos he'd sought was here, alright—darker and far more dangerous than he'd bargained for.
"... just a proposal?" Bob finishes smoothly, raising one impeccably groomed eyebrow. The faintest ghost of a smile plays on his lips, utterly devoid of warmth. "How delightfully... impulsive. Reminds me of a client I once had. Charged with arson after setting fire to his ex-wife's prize-winning begonias." He takes a slow sip of wine, savoring the tension thickening the air like congealed gravy. "He lacked your flair for the dramatic, however. His proposal involved a Molotov cocktail. Crude." Bob sets the glass down precisely. "Yours... carries far more intriguing legal ramifications. Potential for collateral damage is significantly higher." His gaze flicks meaningfully towards Marge, pale and trembling, then to Maggie, wide-eyed and fascinated, before settling back on Bart. "So, shall we discuss terms? Or," his voice drops to a velvet murmur laced with steel, "shall I start drafting the pre-nup? Contingency planning is paramount, Bartholomew. Especially when dealing with volatile assets... and explosive personalities."
He lets the implication hang, the threat wrapped in legalese, chillingly real. The demolition derby outside felt tame compared to the wreckage unfolding at the table.
"Is that a yes?" Bart asks, his voice rough-edged, a mix of defiance and uncertainty.
Bob leans closer, his breath ghosting Bart's ear* "It's a 'proceed with extreme caution.'" He pulls back, his expression unreadable. "But yes, Bartholomew. For the spectacle alone... It's a yes." He raises his wine glass in a mock toast, the crystal catching the light like a warning flare. "To mutually assured destruction."
The clink of Bob’s glass against Bart’s is the last sound of "peace" the Simpson household knows this evening. For a few moments, the table is a vacuum of sound. Marge looks as though she is trying to remember how to breathe, her hands clutching the edge of the tablecloth so hard her knuckles turn the color of the mashed potatoes. Homer, however, is the first to break the spell. He lets out a loud, wet snort of derision.
"Heh. 'Mutually assured destruction.' That’s what I call it when Clancy finds my stash of donuts in the garage," Homer says, reaching for a second helping of stuffing. "Nice try, boy. Almost had us thinking you’d actually tied yourself to a guy who’s tried to kill you more times than I’ve forgotten your birthday."
Bart doesn't respond. He is too busy feeling the weight of Bob’s "yes." It isn't the prank he’d intended; it has morphed into a strange, heavy reality that sits in his chest like lead. The tension doesn't dissipate; it shifts. Chloe, sitting beside Lisa, is fidgeting. The "spectacle" Bob mentioned seems to have drained the last of her social battery. She leans toward Lisa, her voice a strained whisper that carries over the sound of Ned’s soft humming.
"Lisa, this netting is digging into my skin. I feel like I'm wearing a hairshirt made of polyester," Chloe murmurs, her eyes darting toward the door. "Can we please go? I don't think I can handle any more 'legalistic' romance or... whatever this is."
Lisa, sensing the genuine distress in her partner’s eyes, nods immediately. "Yeah. Let’s get out of here. Anya?"
Anya stands up with a theatrical sweep of her dirndl. "Indeed! The atmosphere has become quite... dissonant. Like a flat note in a glorious aria."
The three of them retreat to the hallway. Marge makes a half-hearted attempt to get up, but Homer pulls her back down. "Let 'em go, Marge. More pie for the rest of us."
In the foyer, the air is cooler, but Chloe's panic is rising. As she struggles to pull her sleek plum jacket over her shoulders, her movements become frantic. A stray zipper tooth or perhaps a splinter on the coat rack catches the edge of her wig’s lace front.
"Ow! Dammit!" Chloe hisses, jerking her head.
The wig shifts precariously, revealing a glimpse of short, dark hair underneath and the edge of a wig cap. Homer, who has lumbered out of the dining room to see why the "poly-party" was taking so long, stops in his tracks.
"Whoa, Chloe. You losing your scalp?" Homer asks, his tone hovering between a joke and genuine confusion. He takes a step closer, squinting. "Wait, is that a rug? Why are you wearing a rug? And why’s your forehead looking all... man-ish?"
"Dad, stop it," Lisa warns, her voice vibrating with protective fury.
"I'm just asking!" Homer persists, fueled by the wine and his own inherent lack of a filter. "First, the boy wants to marry a murderer, now your girlfriend’s hair is falling off. What’s the deal? Are you a spy? Is this a costume?"
Chloe freezes. The snagged wig is the final thread. She reaches up, her hands trembling, and unhooks the lace. She pulls it off entirely, holding the expensive hair like a dead animal in her hands. Then, with a sob of pure, unadulterated exhaustion, she grabs a nearby decorative towel from the hall table and begins scrubbing at her face, smearing the plum-colored lipstick and the carefully applied foundation.
"I’m trying so hard!" Chloe cries, her voice cracking, losing its practiced feminine lilt. "I’m trying so hard to be a 'Chloe,' Homer! To be the girl Lisa deserves! But maybe I’ll forever be stuck as a Colin!"
The silence that follows is different from the one at the table. It is jagged.
Homer blinks, his mouth hanging open. "A... Colin? Like the kid from the dome? Wait, you’re a guy? Lisa, you’re dating a guy? But you said—"
Ned Flanders, standing in the doorway of the dining room, looks like he has just seen a ghost. "Lord have mercy... a trans-diddly-formation?" He looks genuinely unnerved, his world-view tilting on its axis.
"She is not a 'guy,' Homer," Bob’s voice rings out, authoritative and sharp as a gavel. He has followed them into the hall, leaning against the doorframe with an expression of profound boredom toward Homer’s ignorance. "She is a brave, gorgeous trans woman. It takes more fortitude to stand in this hallway and endure your vacuous questioning than it took for me to survive solitary confinement. Show some respect, you cave-dwelling simpleton."
Homer stares at Bob, then at the tear-streaked "Colin" in the hallway, and then he starts to laugh. It isn't a mean laugh, but a loud, booming one of pure relief.
"Oh! I get it!" Homer slaps his knee. "This is all a big joke! Lisa, you’re not really in a 'poly' thing, you’re just playing with us! And Bart’s proposal—that was a prank too! Oh, man, you kids really got me. I gotta call Clancy. He’s gonna love this."
Marge, who has finally made it to the hallway, goes rigid. "You’re going to call Clancy? Clancy Wiggum?"
Homer stops laughing. "Uh... yeah? He’s my best friend."
"You told me you two broke up!" Marge shouts, her voice reaching a pitch that could shatter glass. "You said you weren't seeing him anymore! You said you were 'done' with the Chief!"
Ned clears his throat nervously. "Actually, Marge... Clancy was supposed to be here tonight. He was sent away on a last-minute training seminar. Homer didn't want to host the 'official' dinner alone, so he asked me to fill in as the... well, the husband-proxy."
Homer whirls on Ned. "Shut up, Flanders! You weren't supposed to spill the beans on our beans!"
"I don't like lying, Homer! It gives me the hives-diddly-ives!"
As the argument devolves into a shouting match about secret boyfriends and proxy husbands, Nelson Muntz steps out from the shadows of the hallway. He looks at Lisa, who is holding a sobbing Chloe.
"Hey, Lisa," Nelson says, his voice unusually soft. "Since your... uh... 'friends' are clearly busy crying and stuff, you wanna go get a burger later? You’re single now, right? Since this was all a joke?"
Lisa’s head snaps up. Her eyes are red with rage. "I am not single, Nelson! My girlfriends are right here!"
Nelson scoffs, gesturing to the dejected Chloe. "But she’s not even a real girl, so she can’t be a girlfriend. It’s just logic, Lise."
The sound of the slap echoes through the house. Lisa doesn't just hit him; she puts the weight of her entire academic career into it.
"Whoa!" Nelson stumbles back, holding his cheek. "What was that for?"
"For being a bigoted, insensitive prick!" Bart yells. He doesn't wait for a second slap; he lunges forward and lands a solid punch right on Nelson's jaw. "Get out of the house, Muntz! She said 'no,' and you didn't listen!"
Chloe can't take it. She turns and bolts out the front door, the wig still clutched in her hand, sobbing into the November night.
"Chloe! Wait!" Lisa shouts, but Chloe is already halfway down the driveway.
Maggie, who has been silent the entire night, suddenly moves. She grabs a small bag she’s left by the door—a kit containing makeup wipes and her lightest emo-style eyeshadow palette.
"I got her," Maggie says, her voice low and steady, startling the arguing adults. She doesn't wait for a response before she sprints after Chloe.
Marge stands in the middle of the wreckage of her hallway, looking at Homer with cold, hard eyes. She pulls her cell phone from her pocket and begins dialing with aggressive stabs of her thumb. "I'm calling Ruth. I'm telling her to come back and pick me up right now."
"Oh, sure! Go run back to Ruth Powers!" Homer snarks. "See if she has better stuffing than I do!"
"Out!" Bart is literally pushing Nelson toward the door. "Get out before I use your head as a spare tire for the derby!"
Bob steps in, his large hand catching Bart’s shoulder. "Enough, Bartholomew. Don't waste the energy on a sub-human. Let him retreat to his hovel."
Nelson scowls, spits on the porch, and disappears into the darkness. Outside, the air is biting. Chloe has reached Lisa’s car but is slumped against the passenger door, realizing she doesn't have the keys. Maggie catches up to her, breathing hard. She doesn't try to hug her; she just holds out a Neutrogena wipe. Chloe looks up, her eyes puffy, her real hair messy and matted from the wig cap.
She looks at the ten-year-old girl in the black mesh top. "Maggie? What are you..."
"Don't cry," Maggie says, handing her the wipe. She holds up the eyeshadow palette and points to the mirror. "Let’s fix it. We can make you look like yourself."
Chloe lets out a shaky, watery breath. "You... you want to help?"
Maggie nods. "Always."
Bart comes jogging over, followed by Bob. Without a word, Bart reaches into his pocket for a screwdriver. He leans into the driver’s side window of Lisa’s car—which is slightly cracked—and with a few expert clicks, the door unlocks. He hops in, hotwires the ignition to get the heater running, and opens the passenger door.
"Hop in, Chloe," Bart says, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Mags’ll fix you up. I’ll keep the engine warm."
Chloe climbs in, and Maggie sits on the edge of the seat, carefully beginning to wipe away the ruins of the "Chloe" mask. Bob walks to the other side of the car, reaching into the backseat to retrieve the tangled wig. With the patience of a man who has spent years performing intricate tasks by hand, he begins to untangle the synthetic fibers. The sound of a loud, modified engine rumbles down the street. A bright, flamboyant hot rod—painted a shimmering candy-apple red—pulls into the driveway. The driver’s side door opens, and a man in a vibrant silk shirt and perfectly coiffed hair steps out.
"Neddy! Darling! Are you ready to escape this den of domesticity?" the man calls out.
Ned Flanders practically falls out of the Simpson house, clutching his coat. "John! Oh, thank the Good Lord! Yes, please, let’s go. It’s been... it’s been a 'diddly' of a night."
John, Ned’s boyfriend, pauses as his eyes sweep the scene in the driveway. He locks onto the tall, frizzy-haired man leaning against the car. "Wait... Bobby? Bobby Terwilliger?"
Bob looks up from the wig, a genuine look of surprise crossing his face. "John? From the village? I haven't seen you since the 2013 opera season."
"You look fabulous, darling! Still doing the whole 'reformed' thing?" John laughs, waving.
"Trying my best," Bob waves back with a sophisticated flick of his wrist.
Bart, watching from the driver’s seat, feels a sharp, hot needle of jealousy prick his heart. He looks at the way Bob smiles at this flamboyant newcomer.
Bob, ever the observer, catches the look. He leans down, peering into the car window at Bart. "Don't fret, Bartholomew. I'm still marrying you, remember? Spectacle and all."
Bart feels his face go hot, a deep crimson blush spreading to his ears. "Shut up, Bob."
"Congratulations, you two!" John calls out as Ned buckles himself into the hot rod. "We’ll send a gift! Something tasteful!"
The hot rod roars away, leaving a scent of expensive cologne and high-octane fuel in the air.
Finally, Anya and Lisa emerge from the house. They both look exhausted. Lisa sees Chloe in the car, her face being carefully reconstructed by Maggie’s steady hand.
"How is she?" Lisa asks.
"She's okay, Lise," Bart says, hopping out of the car. "Mags is a pro."
Chloe steps out of the car. Her makeup is different now—darker, edgier, a bit more 'emo,' but it suits the raw honesty in her eyes. She looks at Bart, then Maggie, then Bob. "Thank you. All of you. I... I didn't expect..."
"Don't mention it," Bart says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Family's weird. You’re just our kind of weird."
Bob checks his watch. "It seems the festivities here have reached their natural, explosive conclusion. However, the night is young, and I believe my brother Cecil is currently hosting a much more civilized gathering at our apartment. Dustin is just finishing the coffee, and I believe Neil is finally home from his lectures."
He looks at the group. "Would you all care to join us? I believe we all need a palate cleanser."
Chloe’s eyes lit up. "Dessert? Yes. Please. Anywhere that isn't here."
Anya claps her hands. "A marvelous idea! I shall lead the way in my carriage!"
Lisa sighs, the tension finally leaving her shoulders. "Thanks, Bob. We’ll follow you."
Bart nods, looking at his siblings. "I'm going too. Obviously. I live there."
Maggie looks up at Bob, her eyebrows raised in a silent question.
"Yes, Maggie," Bob says warmly. "The invitation definitely extends to you. I think you'll enjoy meeting Neil and Dustin."
The apartment is a stark contrast to the Simpson house. It is decorated in minimalist mid-century modern, with soft jazz playing. Cecil Terwilliger greets them at the door, wearing a cashmere sweater.
"Robert! And... the Simpson clan," Cecil says, his voice droll. "Do come in. Bart, Neil is in the kitchen helping Dustin."
As they move into the living area, a man steps out of the kitchen holding a tray of coffee. He is tall, with a kind face and spectacles that look remarkably familiar to Lisa. Lisa freezes in the middle of the rug. Her heart, which has been through a marathon of emotions tonight, suddenly leaps.
"Mr. Bergstrom?" she whispers.
The man turns, a warm, knowing smile spreading across his face. "Lisa Simpson. It’s been a long time. I see you’ve grown into the brilliant young woman I knew you would be."
Cecil walks over and places a loving hand on the man's shoulder. "I see you’ve already met my husband, Dustin. Though, judging by your address, I suppose you only knew him as your teacher?"
Lisa is speechless. Her first crush—the substitute teacher who had told her she was "the" Lisa Simpson when she was only nine—is married to Sideshow Bob’s brother.
"Wait," Bart says, looking at Dustin. "Dustin, you were Lisa's teacher? You never mentioned that. I just thought you were the guy who always hides my skateboards when they're in the hallway."
Dustin laughs softly. "Small world, isn't it, Bart? I never made the connection with the last name until tonight."
Bob takes a seat on a leather armchair, crossing his long legs. "It’s a tangled web, Bartholomew. But at least the dessert is excellent."
As they sit around the table—a group of trans women, polyamorous activists, reformed villains, and emo kids—the chaos of the Simpson dinner fades into the background. For the first time tonight, the air doesn't feel tense. It feels like a different kind of family. One they have actually chosen.