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Brad Majors-Furter sits on the worn velvet ottoman, the light from the digital travel planner casting a blue glow over his face. The screen displays an interactive map of the 7th arrondissement in Paris. Next to him, Magda “Magpie” Furter, all elbows and knees at eleven, leans in, her dark hair flopping over her concentration.
She points a finger at a landmark. “Dad, can we go to the Trocadéro first? That’s the best photo spot for the Eiffel Tower.”
Brad nods, making a mental note, but his gaze lingers on his daughter. She’s wearing a vintage tee, probably found in Frank’s dressing room archives, and skinny jeans with artfully placed rips. Magpie looks entirely hers. And yet, even after years of shared life, even with her middle school anxieties and her penchant for glitter, Brad feels a sudden, familiar spike of awe. She is their creation, their daughter, born from love, science, and the most complicated paperwork imaginable. He notices the faint, almost imperceptible twitch of her right eyebrow—a perfect mirror of Frank's habitual expression of subtle superiority—and the way she holds her spine, impossibly straight and flexible, a physical riddle.
Frank N. Furter, lounging dramatically across the fainting couch, doesn’t even have to open his eyes to know the precise moment Brad falls into one of his existential reveries.
"Searching for reasons she’s our daughter again, darling?" Frank’s voice is a low, knowing purr, cutting through the silence of their cozy, candlelit living room. He stretches a hand out, fingers tipped with perfect scarlet nails. "Well, there’s the Transylvanian flexible steel vertebrae, the elastic polymer nervous system, your eyes..." He trails off, the joke hanging perfectly in the air, then opens one eye to catch the sharp, unimpressed look his husband is giving him. The look Brad reserves for truly atrocious public outfits or unscientific claims. Frank dramatically gasps. "My stretch marks?"
Brad lets out a loud, genuine burst of delighted laughter, reaching out to gently swat Frank’s thigh. "You’re incorrigible, Dr. Furter. Just continue packing, alright? We’ve got a lot of planning to finalize before the departure ceremony tomorrow."
Frank sighs theatrically, sweeping his hand over his forehead like a distressed heroine. "Must I? It seems so pedestrian for such a magnificent holiday. Can’t we simply arrive and let the cosmos dictate our movements?"
"No," Brad says firmly, already mentally triple-checking the luggage tags. "We cannot. Now, please get the coordinates for the museum passes."
The next afternoon, the air in Paris is sharp and cool, smelling faintly of diesel and fine, aged stone. They are settled in a cozy Haussmannian apartment near the Champ de Mars. Brad pulls on a thermal scarf, energized by the travel and the change of scenery.
"Frank, love," Brad calls, gathering Magpie’s jacket. "Magpie and I are heading out to find a small park or plaza near the Seine. Want to come? Maybe find a decent coffee shop?"
Frank is dramatically draped over the sofa, wrapped in an embroidered silk robe despite the chill outside. He cracks an eye open. "My dear, I am still processing the time differential. My magnificent neural network runs on European Central Time, while my muscles still operate on a lunar cycle. Besides," he says, gesturing toward the back room, "Magpie is entirely preoccupied with... whatever fascinating Parisian nature she’s hunting down. I mustn't interrupt her sensitive exploration."
Brad raises a skeptical eyebrow. He knows this routine. "Frank, you are literally looking at her right now, lacing her boots by the door. She’s vibrating with excitement. And it was Magpie’s idea to explore the ‘Parisian nature’ in the first place."
Frank shuts his eye again with a flourish. "How could she forsake me so quickly? Her own father, abandoned to the cruel whims of jetlag and foreign television! Go, then, but bring back proof of your betrayal."
Brad merely shakes his head, an affectionate smile playing on his lips, and takes Magpie’s hand. They walk for nearly an hour, past small bakeries and expensive boutiques, until they stumble upon a quiet cobblestone square not far from the shadow of the great wrought-iron structure. A small crowd has gathered around a trio of musicians—a guitarist, a violinist, and an accordionist—playing a fast, vibrant piece of gypsy jazz. The scent of roasted chestnuts (marrons chauds) and cold night air hangs heavy. Magpie doesn't hesitate. The music touches something deep and immediate in her. She drops her father's hand and begins to move, her limbs articulating in expressive, unselfconscious bursts, a perfect blend of a hyperactive eleven-year-old and an innate, theatrical grace.
Frank, having tracked their movements via a minuscule sensor in Magpie's boot (a detail Brad chooses to ignore), arrives minutes later, seemingly appearing from around a corner, sunglasses perched dramatically despite the encroaching twilight. He watches for only a second before the music lives up to its genetic claim. Frank’s silk robe is gone, replaced by an impeccable velvet jacket and a pair of trousers that shimmer in the low light. He fluidly joins Magpie, his movements pure, robust, and utterly uninhibited, translating every note into a sweep of his arm or a calculated pivot.
Brad feels his typical shyness rise, but it is a soft, manageable tide now. Over the years, he has grown accustomed to being in the audience, but tonight he wants to be part of the rhythm. He steps closer, reaching out. Frank spins and, without breaking stride, effortlessly takes Brad’s hand, pulling him gently into the sway. Brad is a little more stilted, his steps hesitant, but Frank's grip is solid and inviting, and for a moment, they are simply two people dancing in a cold, beautiful European night.
The Eiffel Tower begins its brilliant, glittering light show as the family finally starts their walk back, tired and slightly breathless. They are happy; the long, expensive journey feels entirely justified. A crepe vendor is packing up his stand, scraping the last bits of batter from the large iron griddle. He calls out a final sale. Frank, noticing Brad and Magpie’s hungry eyes, stops them.
"An excellent opportunity for an exploratory culinary endeavor!" Frank announces. "We must all sample something entirely new to us. No repeats. No safe choices. This is France, darlings!"
At Frank’s encouragement, each family member orders. Frank chooses a savory crepe with andouillette sausage and sharp mustard—a choice that makes the vendor raise an eyebrow. Brad, still thinking of dinner, orders a simple crepe with chèvre cheese and honey, hoping for savory comfort. Magpie, aiming for exotic decadence, orders the black sesame and coconut flake crepe.
A few steps later, they stop to taste their purchases.
"Oh," Magpie says, wrinkling her nose after a bite. "The sesame is like… eating charcoal sprinkles. It’s too much."
Brad grimaces, chewing slowly on the chèvre. "The cheese is lovely, but the honey is fighting it. I don’t think I like this combination."
Frank, however, is having a marvelous time, making dramatic noises as he navigates the pungent sausage. "It’s aggressive! A delightful challenge! Truly, a full-bodied journey of flavor!"
Magpie points a piece of her crepe at Brad. "Trade? Yours is savory, and I need savory to clear the charcoal."
"Deal," Brad says instantly, passing his honey-goat cheese creation to his daughter and taking the mildly burnt-tasting sesame one.
Frank watches his husband and daughter swap their unsuccessful experiments without a word or a fuss, a familiar tenderness swelling in his chest. Brad takes a bite of the coconut crepe, shrugs, and starts to enjoy it. Magpie devours the savory cheese one. The family’s differences are vast, but their comfort is absolute.
Frank beams, adjusting his scarf. "See, Brad? The cosmos provided. Even failed experiments lead to successful integration."
Brad takes Magpie's hand, his other hand linking naturally with Frank's. The glittering tower is behind them now, and the three of them walk down the cold, lamp-lit Parisian street, enjoying their swapped, slightly strange treats on the walk back to the hotel, perfectly in sync.