Archive of Our Own

It’s amazing, how quiet the world can get after it snows.

As Parker walks down the street, she feels like she can hear everything four times as good as she normally would—the crunch of her boots, the occasional rush of the wind, the sound of her own breath behind the scarf she’s got wrapped around her mouth. She loves it. She’s always appreciated a good quiet—helps with cracking safes, of course, and gives you the brain room to plan how you’re gonna make your way through a laser display—but this is maybe her favorite kind of quiet; it’s got a kind of sharpness and clarity to it that’s unlike anything else.

It’s also amazing how beautiful the world gets after it snows, particularly when the snow is all still fresh and mostly unbroken. Things that might’ve seemed plain before suddenly look like something out of a vintage postcard: The pools of glow that the streetlights cast become friendly and inviting, liquid gold gathered in pockets along the marshmallowy sidewalks, and the trees look like they’ve been frosted, dipped in icing and rolled in sanding sugar that glitters in just the right light. Even the covered cars seem romantic. It’s one of the closest things to magic she’s ever known. She always wishes she could bottle the feeling up and save it for later.

Which is exactly why she’s taking her current walk as slow as she is. Normally it only takes about ten minutes to get to Mixed Results, but when she checks her phone she sees that she’s been going for sixteen, and she’s only about three-quarters of the way there. She just doesn’t wanna miss a minute of this, y’know? Yes, the forecast will be below freezing for the foreseeable future, so it’s not like the snow is going anywhere, but by tomorrow it’ll already start to look run-down. The cars will make the road slushy and gray, and the city maintenance people will shovel the sidewalks and leave the extra in messy heaps by the curb, nothing like the soft drifts that currently guard her on both sides. The sky won’t be the beautiful purple-ish-gray it is right now either.

So see? This won’t last. No, this is a special moment, something fleeting, and as such she has to appreciate it while she can. What a relief then that she feels comfortable despite the temperature—she’s got on a pair of fleece-lined leggings, her tall winter boots, Hardison’s biggest scarf, and one of Eliot’s beanies and his heavy Carhartt jacket. She could stay out here all night. She’s totally fine.

But she won’t stay out here all night, and that’s because even though her lingering pace might make you think otherwise, she is in fact on a mission: The reason she’s going to Mixed Results is because her and the boys need more treats to help them power through putting up the Christmas tree. They’d bought a whole box of stuff yesterday for this exact purpose, but then they all kept picking away at said box as the day went on, and before they knew it, they were very much sans treats. Whoops. Oh well—Hardison said it was fine that they had to go back so soon because by doing so they were supporting a local business, and Eliot argued that you had to enjoy baked goods right when they were fresh anyway, otherwise you’re not getting the full experience of them. Et voila, here she is, on her way to the bakery for the second time in as many days. The boys had offered to go with her, but she’d told them she could handle it—she wanted them to stay inside and stay warm. And secretly… she also wanted to have this beautiful, quiet snowfall to herself.

Listen: It’s not that she doesn’t like sharing the snow with the boys. She does! She loves going for winter walks with them, and going to the park with Hardison to build snowmen, and going to the ice rink for a skate with Eliot. All that jazz. It’s just that this really is a special moment. Almost sacred, honestly, and not just because it’s so quiet and beautiful—this is the first really big snow they’ve gotten this season. They’ve had flurries here and there but nothing like this, and that makes her want to savor it. A private time just for Parker. You get it, right? Right.

She keeps walking at her sedate pace, then, drinking in each crispy step her boots make, the way the cold air nips at the tops of her cheeks. Her hands are well-protected in the deep pockets of Eliot’s coat, and she can smell Hardison’s cologne on his scarf. Big, fat flakes are still drifting down from the sky, dancing through the beams of yellow cast by the lampposts she passes. To her right, a car will rumble past every so often, moving cautiously through the snow-packed streets. To her left, store windows shine into the evening, beacons of coziness. It’s December. It’s December and it’s snowing, and she’s bundled-up and everything’s quiet. Parker tucks a smile into her scarf.

Life’s never felt better.

When she finally arrives at the bakery, she’s the only one in the store. Makes sense, she supposes, since it’s about fifteen minutes to close. Normally Eliot says it’s rude to stop by somewhere less than half an hour before they flip the sign over for the night, but even he will admit that Mixed Results is an exception. Georgie frequently jokes that by this point, they’ve blown past being regulars and are more or less residents. Speaking of which, when the bell over the door tinkles, a body pops up from behind the counter. Georgie gives Parker a wave.

“Parker!” they call. “Back again?”

Parker stomps the snow off her boots on the mat and pulls her scarf down from around her mouth so she can take a deep breath of sugar and cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves. The sudden touch of comparatively hot air to her face makes her cheeks feel bright and flushed.

“Yup,” she says. “We’re putting up the tree and we need fuel, and we already ate all the stuff we got yesterday.”

Georgie whistles. “That’s just about the best compliment I could ask for. You want more of the same stuff you got?”

“Uh-huh. Whatever you’ve got left. With a couple extra crinkle cookies if you have some—Hardison really liked those. Ooh, and a few more gingerbread blondies too. And an extra cinnamon roll.” Parker thinks back on the requests the boys had made of her, and that’s the end of the list. “I think that’s it.”

“You got it, ma’am,” Georgie says with a salute. “Coming right up.”

As they pluck a few boxes from the shelf behind them and start loading them up, Parker wanders along the length of the display case. Things are pretty picked over, it being the end of the day and all, but there’s still more than enough to make her heart race—it’s a veritable treasure trove of wintry desserts, cookies and cakes and breads and candies filled with chocolate and peppermint and all the homey spices that’d wafted up her nose when she walked in. If she had to pick, this would definitely be her number one season for treats. It’s just got all the best flavors. Even the fruity stuff is yummy—she sure won’t turn down a cranberry bar or a spice cake with some candied orange peel (that second one is one of Eliot’s favorites things to bake during the winter; she should ask him to make one soon).

As a matter of fact: “Can you throw in another cranberry bar too?” she asks.

“Aye-aye,” Georgie replies. They grab the last one from its tray and pack it up. “Anything else I can get you?”

“Nah, I think that’s it.”

“Cool cool. Lemme ring you up.”

Parker strolls toward the counter. While Georgie keys in all her various selections, she runs her finger over the box of gift cards lined up by the tablet-slash-register, and pokes at the littlest of the yarn-made birds that are arranged in a semi-circle beside them. With the way their beaks are open and music sheets are held in their wings, they’re clearly carolers. Georgie’s wife Mel probably made them. Sometimes she hangs out in the squashy chair by the window at the far end of the bakery and crochets while Georgie works the counter, her fingers and her hook and her yarn moving fast as lightning. On more than one occasion, Parker’s just plopped herself down nearby and watched her go while Hardison and Eliot take care of ordering.

“No boys tonight?” Georgie asks as they continue plugging in pastries.

Parker shakes her head. “No boys tonight,” she says. She pokes at the next bird beside the littlest one, a brown one swathed in an orange scarf, booping the very tip of their open beak. “I told them they could stay home. I wanted to have the snow to myself.”

“It’s gorgeous out there. Can’t wait to get home and watch it from the couch.”

“Mmhm.”

Georgie chuckles. “Y’know, I feel like I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen one of y’all come in here on your own. Usually you’re all together.”

Parker looks up at Georgie. “Really?”

“Really. Not a bad thing, obviously!” they add quickly, even though Parker didn’t take it that way. “It’s cute. You’re like a packaged set.”

Parker looks back at the birds. It’s true. They are like a packaged set—the three of them are pretty much always together, as much as they can be. There’s occasionally stuff that takes them away from each other, like work or hobbies (or wanting to enjoy the first big snowfall on your own), but nothing that takes them too far if they can help it. They just like being together.

With the tip of her finger, Parker pets over the head of the bird whose beak she’d booped, stroking the pink hat they’re wearing. “Yeah,” she says. “If one of us is around, the other two usually aren’t far away.”

“I think that’s sweet,” Georgie says. “Everyone should be lucky enough to have something like that.”

Lucky. That brings a smile to Parker’s face. She might not need luck, but this is one place where she’ll take it anyway. It does feel like luck that she found her boys and that her boys found her. They were a present from the universe. A rare gift just for her.

“It is lucky,” Parker says. And then, suddenly buoyant, she kisses the end of her finger and touches it to the bird’s pink hat again. She also scooches the pink-hat bird and the orange-scarf bird and the littlest bird closer to each other, enough that their wings brush. There. Good thing they had a Parker show up to nudge them together—now they’re lucky too.

Georgie finishes ringing her up, and they grab a spare paper bag from the back to put the boxes in so she doesn’t have to balance them in her arms. They also insist that she takes home a tin of Mexican hot chocolate mix, free of charge; they got it as a neighborly gift from the new supermercado that opened the next block over, and neither them nor Mel were a fan of it. Georgie doesn’t like their hot chocolate spicy, and Mel—ironically enough for a baker’s wife—doesn’t like cinnamon. They don’t want it to go to waste, though, because it looks like high-quality stuff, so please will she take it? Well, twist her arm—she’d be willing to try it. And it sounds like exactly the kind of thing Eliot would love too. He’s a big fan of spicy chocolate. She sticks it in her bag on top of the boxes, patting it once it’s settled.

“Be careful out there!” Georgie calls as Parker starts to head out. “Don’t get swallowed up by the snow.”

Parker waves behind her. “Promise. Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” Georgie replies, and then the bell over the door tinkles as Parker opens it.

Just before she can step outside, though, something stops her—over the bakery speakers, a picky-strummy little guitar riff starts to play, backed by a swoon of strings. A few beats later, a rich croon comes in: “I’ll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me… Please have snow and mistletoe, and presents by the tree…”

Parker blinks. And blinks. And blinks. Her breath’s caught in her chest. Her heart feels like it’s beating three times faster than it should be. Her toes are tingling in her boots in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.

“Hey, Parker—love ya, but heating’s not free! In or out, babe!”

Parker shakes her head to rattle her thoughts free. “Sorry!” she says, and she steps out onto the sidewalk, Georgie’s door swinging shut behind her.

She can feel the motion of the night air moving across her cheeks, but there’s no nip to it like there was earlier because it’s like her face has gone numb. The world’s no longer just quiet—it’s silent. Apart from the blood rushing in her ears, that is.

She hasn’t heard that song in years. Not that version of it, at least. All she can see in her head now is the cover of the album it comes from: Red and green and black lettering, a jolly-looking man in a Santa hat with a bowtie made of holly. Different-shaped snowflakes dotted on either side of his head. It’s an album she’s studiously avoided since—

Well. Since her brother died.

Distantly, Parker hears a jingling behind her.

“Parker?” Georgie says. “You alright?”

Parker nods. “Yeah,” she replies, her voice just as distant to her as the bell on the door had been. “I’m alright.”

“You sure? Do you want me to have the boys come pick you up? If you give me one of their numbers I can call them.”

A head shake this time. She’s not totally sure why, but she knows she’s not ready for the boys, not yet. “No, I’m fine. Really. Thanks.”

“Okay,” Georgie says, but they don’t sound okay at all. They sound worried. Sure enough: “Hey, can I give you my number? So you can text me when you get home. It’s really starting to come down, I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

It’s not snowing any harder than it was when she got to the bakery, but Parker says “Yeah, sure” just to move this conversation along. Don’t get her wrong—it’s kind of Georgie to worry. But she really doesn’t want to keep talking to them.

“Okay,” Georgie says again. “Be right back.”

Parker waits, her heart still racing. Some indeterminate amount of time later—everything’s started to feel so liquid for some reason—there’s a touch to her arm.

“Here,” Georgie says.

Parker pulls her hand from Eliot’s coat pocket, and when she holds it out, Georgie presses something into her palm. It’s a scrap of receipt paper with ten digits and a note beneath them: Get home safe! it says. Don’t forget to text me when you get back please!! - G

“I mean it,” Georgie says. “Get home safe, okay? And please let me know when you get back. Otherwise I’ll just be glued to my phone all night stress-eating leftover cookies.” They say that last bit with a titter of a laugh that’s brittle and hollow.

“You got it,” Parker says.

“Thanks.” Georgie squeezes her arm. “See you later, alright?”

“Yeah. See you later.”

The door jingles again, and creeeeeeaks too, the old wood protesting like it always does.

Then she’s alone.

Parker knows she needs to move. She knows she needs to move her feet. But— But.

I’ll be home for Christmas… You can plan on me…

Something buzzes against Parker’s chest, the suddenness of it startling her. It takes her a few seconds to place it, but eventually she remembers she’d put her phone in one of the inside pockets of Eliot’s coat. She fishes it out and taps it to life. There’s a text from Hardison in their group chat between the three of them:

Mister 🧙🏿‍♂️💖: You on your way home yet miss ma’am? Not sure how much longer I can hold Eliot back from going out to look for you, he’s been pacing around and muttering like a crazy person for the last five minutes

Eliot’s reply to this is immediate:

Cowboy 🤠💓: I have not been doing any of that. Shut up, Hardison.

You okay though, Park? If it’s too snowy we can come pick you up.

Mister 🧙🏿‍♂️💖: Speak for yourself, I’m staying cozy inside

Love you to the moon mama but somebody’s gotta be the welcoming committee when y’all get back

I wish there was an emoji that could capture the way Eliot just pinched his nose and shook his head

Cowboy 🤠💓: I hate you.

Mister 🧙🏿‍♂️💖: Love you too baby 😘

The familiar bickering is enough of a balm that when Parker types a reply, it’s with hands that are only trembling a little bit: I’m okay, you don’t need to pick me up. Thanks though. I was just enjoying the walk. I’m leaving the bakery now and I’ll be back soon.

Once again, Eliot’s reply to this is immediate, coming in what feels like less than a second after she hits send:

Cowboy 🤠💓: Alright, missy. You call us if you need anything though, okay?

Parker replies: Yes sir 🫡

Cowboy 🤠💓: Good. Love you.

Mister 🧙🏿‍♂️💖: Love you mooooooooooooore 💗💝💓💘💖💕💕💞💗💘💞💖💞💞💗💘💞

Walk safe and stay warm!! Don’t let any yetis or the krampus get you!!!

Cowboy 🤠💓: Those don’t live in this part of the country, dumbass.

Mister 🧙🏿‍♂️💖: Says you

Cowboy 🤠💓: Yeah, says me. Don’t listen to him, sweetheart. See you soon.

And that’s all.

Parker stares at the messages. Her breath’s still caught behind her sternum and her cheeks remain numb, but she tries to pick at the little threads of reassurance that are these particular arrangements of pixels on her screen: You okay? We can come pick you up. Love you to the moon. Call us if you need anything. Walk safe and stay warm. See you soon.

See you soon.

See you soon.

That’s enough to finally put Parker’s feet into motion. Her boys are waiting for her. She’ll see them soon. That’s definitely something to make her way toward.

As she walks, though, the bakery bag bumping against her leg with each step, she can’t stop thinking. She really hasn’t heard that exact song in years. As Eliot would say, there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell (Haha, she thinks detachedly to herself, winter joke) that she’d choose to listen to it on her own. And if there’s ever been a situation where it’s caught her in public—on a restaurant’s choice of radio station, maybe, or over a set of store speakers—she’s always beelined it out of there ASAP so she doesn’t have to hear the whole thing, regardless of what she was doing before it started. She just can’t bear the sound of it, because—

The corners of her eyes are suddenly stinging. Parker shakes her head and sniffles. She doesn’t want to think about it because it hurts too much. As you can probably imagine, that’s exactly the reason why she’s avoided confronting it for as long as she has. Unfortunately, though, it’s starting to seem like she might not have a choice in the matter—her brain is insistent, poking continually at the locked and guarded box that she keeps this particular memory closed-up in. Despite her best efforts to tug her attention away and fling it somewhere else, literally anywhere else, it digs its claws into the box and refuses to let go.

Parker sighs. She really, really doesn’t want to, but… Okay, fine. Maybe just this once. She’s better at handling things than she used to be, right? She’s learned a lot from the boys, from Sophie, even from work. Her feelings are no longer like hot potatoes that she shuffles frantically from hand to hand before ultimately flinging them away into the horizon. Instead, they’re, uh… cold potatoes? Normal-temperature potatoes. Potatoes she can now hold much more calmly and examine for more information.

Oof—the metaphor’s getting away from her, and also making her hungry. Potatoes aside, it’s easier now than it was even just a year ago to handle the painful things. So maybe it’s time.

Alright. Deep breath. She can do it.

She’s kept this buried so deep for so long that it takes some work to brush off all the dust and dirt and undo all the locks, but in time she gets it all undone. She pries the top off, and—

And she instantly comes to a standstill in the middle of the sidewalk. She has to—everything in her freezes. She can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything. Because in her head, all she can see is Nick.

At first it’s just him. Then, details start to fill in: They’re in Jan and Joey’s living room, foster home number four. A skinny little tree stands crookedly in the corner, having been decorated with a handful of ornaments that don’t look like anything more than an afterthought. The fireplace on the far wall is boarded up like it always was, no stockings to be seen, and a red and green chain of paper loops hangs from one corner of the mantle, the other end of it drooping to the floor. (Jan keeps forgetting to buy more tape to re-hang that end. Parker’s given up on reminding her.) There’s no lights on the skinny tree, so the room’s lit by the lamp next to the sagging couch instead. That and the crappy little TV that’s struggling through the static to show them a rerun marathon of all those old animated holiday specials. At the moment, Rudolph and Yukon Cornelius and Hermey are running away from the Abominable Snowman.

Jan and Joey were one of the better sets of foster parents they had. This wasn’t a high bar to clear, but at least they weren’t, like, total assholes who yelled at them all the time (or worse. They had some who definitely did worse). Jan and Joey were just… distant. Not around much. They left her and Nick to fend for themselves, more often than not. That was actually where this whole thing started—every Saturday night, Jan would go to her friend’s house to “play bridge” (she never took any cards with her, and she always came back smelling like too-sweet wine), and Joey would “go meet his buddies at the bar” (he always came back smelling like chicken wings and a nauseating amount of perfume). That would leave her and Nick with the run of the house. Mostly they’d just watch TV or bicker over whose turn it was with the NES, which had originally belonged to Joey and eventually got passed along to them when he got bored with it and it started collecting dust. Whatever they chose, they’d do that until Parker declared it bedtime and made sure Nick brushed his teeth before she tucked him in.

Then came that first Saturday of December when she was ten years old.

They’d found the discs in the back of the cabinet that usually held the NES games. Once Jan and Joey had left for their usual activities that night, Nick had declared he wanted to play Battletoads, and that’d required some digging on Parker’s part because they hadn’t played that one in a while. As she’d been pulling games out from the back of the shelf her fingers had landed on something skinny and plastic, nothing like the chunky game cartridges. Turned out they were CD cases, and when she pulled them out and flipped them over to see what they were, her heart had jumped: Christmas music! She hadn’t even known they had these! Maybe not that much of a surprise—Jan and Joey only did the bare minimum to celebrate the holiday (clearly), which she found personally offensive. Well, fine. If they didn’t want to celebrate, she and Nick could do it on their own.

Nick had only agreed to try one of the CDs after she swore she’d still find Battletoads afterward, she promised. They flipped through the slim stack, and they ended up picking the one they did because they thought the man on the cover looked friendly. The CD player by the couch was beat-up, just like everything else in the living room (and the whole house, really), and sometimes you had to smack it once or twice to get it going, but it worked for the most part. Once she’d popped the disc in, Parker pressed play, and her and Nick stared at the old hunk of scratched silver plastic expectantly.

It was spellbinding from the start: The twinkly sounds of bells and gentle strings, followed by one of the nicest voices she’d ever heard in her whole life. It sounded like… Jeez. She didn’t even know how to describe it. Like hot chocolate. Like a really good blanket. Like a candle in the dark. She wished she could put her arms around it and hold it. Even though it was just a sound, it made the room feel cozier, more homey. She hadn’t known music could do that.

They listened to one track, then two, then three. The man on the CD sang songs they didn’t know about silent nights and bringing people to somewhere called Bethlehem, and ones they did know like “Jingle Bells” and “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town.” By the time the album was halfway over they were up and jumping around the room, trooping in circles to the song that played like a march and swaying like palm-like to the one about Christmas in Hawai’i. When it was over they played it again, and again. By that last time they’d stopped jumping and were laying on the floor instead, picking at the pills in the rug while they just listened.

There was one song in particular that Parker went back to replay a few times, with Nick’s permission—in it, the man on the CD wanted to be home for Christmas, with snow and mistletoe and presents on the tree. Parker couldn’t decide if it was sad or happy. He said he’d be home and you could plan on him, but apparently he’d also only be home in his dreams. She didn’t know what to make of that. It sounded pretty, though, so she liked to keep listening until she figured it out.

As she was puzzling over it, Nick had poked the back of her hand, and he’d asked: “What’s a ‘love light’?”

Huh. Parker didn’t know what to make of that either. As the big sister, though, she had to have some kind of answer. She’d thought about it, and then she said: “Maybe… Maybe it’s like… Like when you leave the light on when someone comes home, or when they’re looking for you. So they know where to find you.”

“Oh.” Nick picked a few more pills off the rug. “Like when you turn your lamp back on after bed so I can find your room?”

Oh, yeah. That was exactly it. She always tried to do that if they were in a house where no one would wake up in the middle of the night and find out what she’d done and yell at her; she wanted Nick to know where she was if he needed her. And she didn’t want him bumping into any walls or anything in the dark on his way.

Parker nodded. “Yeah. Like that.”

Nick nodded too, like he was happy with that answer. “Okay,” he said. And then, when the song came to an end: “Can you play it again?”

For the rest of that month, they’d put the CD on while they had their Saturday night to themselves. It was only that first night where they listened to it just by itself, but it was still nice to have it playing in the background while they played Battletoads (Parker finally found the cartridge) or watched TV. When they got moved out of Jan and Joey’s house, Parker just went ahead and stole it and took it with them. It’d been hiding in the back of a cabinet, after all—they wouldn’t miss it, would they? Plus, she figured it was essentially hers and Nick’s by this point since they were the only ones who listened to it. It was practically her personal right to take it.

At some point they started listening to it outside of December too—they’d put it on to fall asleep to, or as something comforting when they were feeling alone, or scared, or both. Eventually Parker had the whole tracklist memorized. She could’ve sung you the entire thing front to back without stopping. She usually did whenever they put it on; so did Nick. It turned into one of those special things they shared together, like midnight toast on Thursdays, and reciting whole scenes of The Goonies to each other after one of them happened to make an off-handed reference to it.

And then the accident happened.

That following December she tried to listen to the CD for the first time since without Nick, and hearing even just the very opening notes of Track 1 had made her feel like she might throw up, or scream, or both. She’d very nearly buried the disc in the snow behind the house so she never had to look at it again, but then she had this feeling like she couldn’t leave it behind. If she left it behind, she’d be leaving a part of Nick behind too, and she couldn’t do that. So she kept it. She never listened to it, but she kept it, took it with her everywhere she moved. At this very moment it’s at the bottom of a box in the closet that’s hidden behind Eliot’s work boots. The plastic case is wrapped up in an old scarf she never wears, buried beneath some slightly less old hard-copy schematics of the Louvre’s very first digital security system. She hasn’t looked at it since she put it in there.

She’s pretty sure she never will.

It’s just… She can’t have it without Nick. She feels like she shouldn’t have it without Nick. Wouldn’t that be betraying him? Even if she could handle hearing the songs in the first place, which she can’t, she feels like it would be… disrespectful. It was something special they shared together, key word: together. If they’re not still together to share it, it just feels wrong.

And that one song in particular, the one she’d heard in the bakery… She’s never been able to think about it without remembering Nick’s question. Or without thinking about how she used to leave her bedroom light on for him. She still does that sometimes. Not all the time, but sometimes, when she really, really misses him. She knows it’s silly, but she always has the littlest bit of hope that maybe he’ll still be able to find her that way. Even if he didn’t want to say anything, even if she had no idea he was there. At least he’d have it to look for.

Parker doesn’t realize she’s crying until her cheeks suddenly start to hurt. When she reaches up to touch them she finds that they’re wet, and that’s when she notices that the wind has picked up too. It’s cutting across the tear tracks and making her skin burn. She does her best to wipe herself dry with the cuff of her jacket sleeve but it’s not a whole lot of use—the tears just keep coming, dripping down her cheeks, hanging off her jaw. Her chest is starting to ache too, like a chunk’s been scooped out of it. She presses her hand to her sternum like that might staunch the sensation but it feels like it just keeps growing instead. The snowy quiet abruptly feels horribly hollow instead of peaceful. She’s cold, and she hurts, and everything around her is empty.

And she’s alone.

Doesn’t matter that she’s not really outside of this particular moment, because she’s got people in her life now—lots of people—and two of those people are even currently waiting for her return. That doesn’t matter at all because even if she knows that in her brain, her brain’s not currently the one in charge. No, her heart’s the one taking over, because that’s something it can do since she opened it up and started letting things into (and out of) it. And her heart is… It’s definitely not happy about what’s going on. And it’s also deciding for some very upsetting reason to start pulling out old feelings from the dark corners in which Parker had hidden them away, just for something extra. Isn’t that fun? Ha-ha. Ha-ha-ha. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

Just kidding. Parker wishes she could laugh about it. She’s on the polar opposite end of the spectrum from laughing, though—instead her stomach’s churning, ribs starting to hurt as she begs desperately for all of this bullshit to leave her alone. The feelings just keep coming, though: It’ll always just be you, they say, and No one likes you and no one cares, and Nothing will ever feel like home, and Stupid stupid stupid, why would you ever hope for anything else? You had one person you loved and now they’re gone, there won’t be any more. You had your chance and you ruined it, just like you ruin everything, because there’s something Wrong with you.

So, uh, yeah. It’s awful. She’s small and she’s back to being ten years old and everything feels enormous and scary and she’s never felt more alone. And the worst part is that while she’s feeling so alone, she has to take care of herself because she has no other choice. All she has is herself. All she has is herself, even though all she wants some nights—when she’s feeling particularly small and alone—is for someone else to take care of her, just once. Even if it was just something little—wipe her tears away after she cries, bring her something to drink when she’s thirsty. They don’t even have to tuck her in or anything. Just something tiny. But she’ll never have that, of course, because it’ll always just be her. No one likes her and nothing will ever feel like home. Because something’s wrong with her, and she ruins everything.

This is just great. Everything feels so, sooooooo great.

So naturally this is when her phone would start ringing. Not just vibrating—ringing. And it’s the Doctor Who theme song that’s singing from her pocket, so she knows exactly who it is: Hardison.

She considers not answering. If she answers, Hardison will hear that she’s crying (because Hardison always hears everything she’s feeling, even when she’s not crying or stomping around or whatever and she’s just keeping it all inside), and then he’ll be gentle with her, which will just make her cry more. She’s not sure if she’ll ever get used to that gentleness. It can be too good to bear sometimes. Probably because it’s more than she deserves.

Her phone keeps ringing. OooooEEEEooooo, WOOOOOeeeeeoooooooo, it warbles.

She lets it ring.

She taps her right hand against her thigh.

She lets it ring.

Just before the last note plays, she fishes it out of her pocket; she swipes at her cheeks one more time and swallows whatever’s left of her tears, pulling out that old trick she hardly ever uses anymore where she shuts down everything on the inside and just whoosh. Calm and collected. When she does this, it’s the one time Hardison can’t hear her.

She takes a deep breath. She picks up.

“Hi there, mister,” she says.

“Heya, mama,” Hardison replies.

The instant she hears him, Parker’s glad she answered the call. She’s always trying to argue that Hardison’s voice could be prescribed as medicine—if your brain’s aching, listening to him is like wrapping it in a heating pad and giving it a deep-tissue massage. Having it over the phone admittedly isn’t quite the same as having it in person, but at a time like this it’s sure better than nothing.

In the background, Parker also hears Eliot’s voice: “That Parker?”

“Is that Par— Sorry, who else am I ring-a-dingin’ and calling ‘mama’?” Hardison sighs, and Parker can just picture him shaking his head. “Sometimes I’ve gotta wonder how many brain cells our beloved is losing every time he takes a hit. Hey!”

There’s some muffled sounds that definitely sound like slapping and smacking, and a lot of “Watch it” and “No, you watch it!” That manages to make Parker smile a little. When Hardison comes back to the phone, he huffs.

“So, I’ve just been beaten up within an inch of my life,” he announces.

That makes Parker smile even bigger. Only he could do that to her after a night that’s taken a turn the way tonight has; he’s the funniest person she knows.

“Baby,” Eliot scoffs.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am baby! I’m so small, and all you do is hurt me. It’s downright disrespectful.” Parker can picture another headshake here. “Anyway,” Hardison goes on, “we just wanted to check on you—you still comin’ home? I know we texted, but, y’know. Been a few. Just wanna make sure you’re alright. It’s cold out there.”

There’s that gentleness. Her boys wanna make sure she’s alright. Parker feels her smile go funny, those tears trying to climb back up her throat. She does her best to keep herself level.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she says. “Still just enjoying the walk. Sorry.” Hey, that was alright—she didn’t sound sad at all. One point to Parker.

“Don’t gotta be sorry,” Hardison says. “Like I said, we just wanna make sure you’re alright. You sure you don’t need us to come pick you up? ’Cause we can.”

“Oh, so you’re comin’ now?”

“Will you shut up? I’m trying to talk to my girlfriend—”

“Dammit, Hardison, our girlfriend—”

“Yeah, newsflash there, buster: I’m disowning you after that little display you just did.”

“What? That ain’t got anything to do with Parker—”

“Whom I’m trying to talk to right now, so! Shut your trap!! Jesus pleesus,” Hardison says, clearly to her and not to Eliot. “Sorry for all the interruptions. What I was trying to ask is: You want a ride?”

Parker takes a breath and thinks. She’s still got her hand to her chest, but the scooped-out portion feels smaller—as often happens, the boys’ bickering has soothed her. So has their clear concern about her journey’s progress, even if it’s also arguably unnecessary (she’s a grown-up and she’s less than a mile from home—she’s fine). They’re so silly; they’re so sweet. Her silly, sweet boys. They’re just the best.

So Parker shakes her head, and when she remembers Hardison can’t see her, she says, “No, I’m okay. I really do promise I’ll be home soon. I’m—” She looks around her to get her bearings, and when she figures out where she is, it turns out she’s closer than she would’ve thought. “I’m about six or seven minutes away. If I’m not home by then you can let Eliot off the leash, okay?”

Hardison laughs. “Roger that, ma’am. I’ll keep him here until then.”

“Y’all talkin’ about me?”

“Quit eavesdropping, babe. This is a private conversation. It’s not a good look.”

“‘Private’ my ass.”

“We can talk about your ass in a second. Just hold on.” Here, Parker swears she can hear Hardison roll his eyes at Eliot. Fondly, though. Definitely fondly. “Alright, babygirl,” he goes on, “you be careful coming home. I’m gonna set a timer, alright? We better be seein’ you soon.”

Those last words are said with a sternness that borders on comical, clearly an effort on Hardison’s part to make sure she gets that he’s just goofing around. Parker wishes he was right next to her so she could kiss him for it.

“You got it, mister,” she tells him. “I’ll be there before you know it.”

“Good, good. Okay, be safe. Love you love you, alright?”

Without planning the motion, Parker scoops those words right out of the air by the speaker of her phone and presses them to her heart. That pit in her chest gets even smaller as they fill some of it in.

“Love you love you,” she returns.

Hardison hums. “That’s my girl. Bye-bye, then. For now,” he clarifies.

“Bye-bye, then. For now,” she says back.

And the call ends.

Everything goes back to that quiet Parker had felt earlier. She stares at the screen of her phone until it goes black. Then she taps it, and when it wakes up and she sees her wallpaper, the sight of it loosens a knot in her heart that she hadn’t realized was there—it’s a picture of Eliot and Hardison knocked out on the couch. They’d fallen asleep re-watching an old episode of Taskmaster a couple weeks ago, Eliot on his back with an arm behind his head while Hardison curled up to his side and rested on his chest, and it had been so precious that Parker just had to take a picture (after she’d ducked into the bedroom to yelp into a pillow about it, of course).

She strokes her thumb over both their digital cheeks. They’re only a few minutes away. She’ll be with them before she knows it, just like she’d told Hardison. And she’s got yummy pastries to eat when she gets there. Somehow she’d nearly forgotten about that. Ooh, and the hot chocolate from Georgie. Eliot already had some going in the crockpot when she left, but she’s sure he won’t mind making the new stuff too. She really does think he’ll like it.

Okay. She’s got this. She’s less than halfway home. She can make it.

With the extra layer that’s come down since she first came this way, the snow’s even crunchier under her boots. She tries to focus on that as she goes. That and the comforting weight of her winter gear, the heaviness of Hardison’s big scarf and Eliot’s durable jacket. It mostly helps. But there’s still a corner of her mind that Nick’s tugging at. The suddenness of Hardison’s interruption had sort of nudged him away off to the side, but he’s back now, poking at her attention. There’s an old, worn-deep instinct that tells her to shove him and everything else back in that box it’d originally come from, to forget it about and just keep moving, to just whoosh—shut it down.

But the thing is, her recent conversation with Hardison notwithstanding, she doesn’t do that kinda stuff these days. She doesn’t just shut things down. Not as much, anyway. And she doesn’t run from things the same way she used to either. It really is something she’s gotten better at. The potatoes, remember? And yes, while she has definitely learned a lot from Sophie and from work, it’s really—

She pauses mid-step and takes out her phone to look at her wallpaper one more time, at those two boys she loves so very much. Because those two boys? They’re the biggest reason she doesn’t run anymore. All those feelings or potatoes or whatever you want to call them that had always been too big for just her own two hands, everything that’s felt too scary to face alone—it’s all easier to hold and to look at when you’ve got two more people to do it with you. Two more people who have big, steady hands, two more people who are the bravest and strongest you know. Now, don’t get her wrong: She knows she’s brave and strong too, even more than she used to be. But sometimes it’s not about using that bravery and strength to take on everything yourself.

Sometimes it’s about having the bravery and the strength to work with a team.

Parker puts her phone back in her pocket and resumes walking. She has a team. And because she has a team, all of a sudden there’s a thought brewing in her mind, one she takes a few blocks to taste and chew on. The thought initially sprouted because she doesn’t think Nick deserves to get shoved back in the box. It feels cruel to make him go back into hiding after she’s finally let him out. Kinda like it had felt cruel to listen to their music without him. Operative word being “had,” though, because the other part of that thought she’s chewing on… It’s a snagging thread hanging off her heart, one that begs to be picked at like a fraying shirt seam. Now that she’s given herself a chance to remember it, she’s missed that song, y’know. She’s missed its old-fashioned comfort. It’s too early for her to feel confident in committing to anything yet—everything’s too fresh—but… But. It’s a thought. A possibility. And maybe even one she can make a reality. As long as she’s with her boys, y’know, she can do anything.

In what feels like no time at all she’s arrived on their street, their apartment building waiting for her halfway down the block like it always is. She starts walking as fast as the snow-covered sidewalks will let her, and when she’s mere yards away from the front door, she stops. All the way up to the top floor, and one, two, three windows in… There. That’s their place. And there’s a light on up in their place, in the kitchen, to be specific. Usually Eliot hates leaving lights on when no one’s in the room (“It’s a waste of electricity! We weren’t raised in barns, were we?”), but he must’ve kept it on because of the crockpot so he could go in and check on it every so often.

Parker stares at it with her breath caught in her chest again, but for a happy reason this time: A love light gleams into the night for her, bright and inviting through the dark and the cold and the snow, guiding her home.

She races to their building’s front door.

Once she gets inside, she’s moving so fast that she barely gets time to wave hello to Doorman Steve. The thought of waiting for the elevator and also waiting inside the elevator sounds miserable, so she books it to the stairs and takes them two at a time, rounding the corners to each new flight at top speed. She feels like lightning, like the shimmery, sparkly trail of a firework as it shoots into the sky, and when she gets to the very last landing, her heart’s racing both from zooming around and from anticipation. She bursts into the top-floor hallway, big-steps it all the way to their apartment, and she throws their door open.

The bakery bag lands at her feet. Her still-thawing skin prickles all over at the sudden wave of warmth that is their toasty home. And when she sees the sight in front of her, her stomach flips over itself.

The boys—her boys—are standing by the tree and bickering still, like they hadn’t even paused since she got off the phone with them: Hardison’s saying “I’m telling you, man, we should do another string of lights,” and Eliot’s saying “And I’m telling you, man, that if we do it’ll be a fire hazard,” and then Hardison’s going on about the reinforced power strip he made just the other day for this exact occasion. Just like they had been when she’d left, they’re wearing their sweaters; she’s made it a tradition to present them each with new ones on December first, both because she wants them to stay bundled-up and also because they both look so handsome in a nice sweater. It’s a treat for them and their bodies’ continued homeostasis and also a treat for her eyeballs. She goes back and forth between getting them something stylish and something funny, and this year’s a stylish one—Hardison’s wearing a turtleneck that’s heather gray with colorful specks all over it like it got dipped in sprinkles, and for Eliot she got a mossy green crewneck with a pattern of different-colored trouts.

They’re the most beautiful, cozy things she’s ever seen.

As she’s standing there staring at them, the door shuts behind her. The sound gets their attention and they look up at her. Their eyes are soft and their smiles are beautiful, relief written big and bold in the relaxed lines of their brows. And when Parker sees all that, she— She—

She chokes on a sob.

Oops.

Hardison gets to her first because he’s closest—he strides over in what could only be three or four huge steps, and as soon as she’s within reach he immediately folds his arms around her and pulls her right into his chest, one hand resting protectively on the small of her back while the other cups the base of her skull and holds her head to his shoulder. Eliot’s not far behind him either, and he slips his arms to curl around her middle while his face presses to the nape of her neck. At their touches, it’s like Parker’s whole body flips inside-out and folds itself into all kinds of funny angles, the weirdest, most incoherent origami imaginable.

It’s too perfect to handle, finally being held between them like this. She’s not alone anymore. She’s home. Because she does have a home, and not just in the sense of this apartment, although that’s definitely her home too—right here between Hardison and Eliot is home. Wherever they are is right where she belongs. So she’s doubly home, then. She’s home-home. It’s enough to destroy that facade of supposed “calm and collected” that she’d constructed earlier (it was way flimsier than she realized, clearly) and send her to pieces.

Above her, Hardison tuts and curls a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Parker Hardison-Spencer,” he says, “you damn dirty liar.” He sounds worried and chastising but still tender, still full of all the love in the world. And there’s that medicine voice in person, an instant dose of comfort. “You did your trick, didn’t you? This is not what I’d call ‘okay.’”

“Nuh-uh,” Eliot agrees. “Me neither.” He tightens his arms around her tummy. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Another sob escapes her, coughed out of her lungs like a cat with a hairball (in other words: not elegant and in fact pretty yucky-sounding). She hugs Hardison so hard it makes her muscles hurt, because there’s not much that hugging Hardison can’t fix—his solidity and the way he burns like a furnace are both so grounding, and that solidity also means he can take a lot of hugging. No hug’s too squeezy for him. Once her arms are sore, she lets one of them leave him so she can get a hand over Eliot’s own where they rest just above her navel. She grips at his strong fingers, and her chest aches when Eliot does one of his doggie purrs and tries to get even more pressed up against her back.

“I am okay,” she insists. “Or I will be. I just—” She sniffles. Her heart and her brain and her everything are suddenly so tired. She wants to tell the boys about what happened, she does—no more running, right?—but she can’t do it right now. She needs a chance to decompress. “Can we hold on for a minute?” she says. “I just got back.”

Hardison definitely hesitates (Parker can feel it in his posture) but then he says, “Alright. You wanna go sit down?”

Hmm… Yes. Yes, she does wanna sit. Being held up here between the two of them is really nice, but sitting sounds better. She nods into Hardison’s shoulder.

“Alright. Here, let’s—”

The boys step away from her. It’s automatic for Parker to whine and clutch at them both to keep them from getting too far, but Hardison hushes her and Eliot kisses the corner of her jaw, so okay, fine—she supposes she can let them do what they’re doing. What they’re doing, it turns out, is getting her undressed: Eliot takes the beanie off her head and Hardison unwinds the scarf from around her neck, and then Eliot’s helping out of his—her—their jacket while Hardison unlaces her boots and guides her to step out. This leaves her in just her leggings and her socks, and the too-big sweater she stole from Hardison’s side of the closet that morning (last year’s funny one—it’s a Dalek that’s trying to disguise itself as a snowman). Suddenly she feels lighter without the winter clothes sheltering her, almost like she might drift off if she’s not careful; just in case, she curls her toes into the doormat.

Hardison’s hand comes to her elbow. “Okay?”

Parker nods.

Hardison nods too. Then, with a gentle tug on her arm, he guides her to follow him to the couch.

The whole time they’re walking, Hardison doesn’t take his hand off her elbow. Thank god. And as if that wasn’t enough, Eliot also gets his hand on her waist. Phew. She won’t drift off as long as they’ve got her. Nor will she as long as they’re cuddled up, which is what they do next as soon as they’re at the couch: Hardison sits down first and pulls her down next to him, and once Eliot’s on her other side, he grabs their biggest blanket and gets them all beneath it. Parker wriggles into just the right position between them, her legs in front of her with her feet against Hardison’s thighs and her knees against Eliot’s. She puts her head on Eliot this time and enjoys the texture of his sweater under her cheek. There’s a whiff of his cologne here too, the pine-y one that he always brings out once it starts snowing.

They’re still. She can feel the rest of the cold fading fast from her bones and her veins. The only sound she can hear other than all their breathing is the jazzy music that she remembers Hardison putting on as she was leaving for the bakery. She gets her arms around Eliot’s bicep and holds it tight to her chest, just like she holds Bunny when she sleeps. Eliot brushes his lips over her forehead and then lets himself rest there. His breaths come through his nose, regular little puffs of air washing like waves over her hairline.

Parker closes her eyes. Now that she’s sitting down, the emotional back-and-forth of the last half-hour or however long it’s been feels like a ping-pong ball ricocheting around her ribcage. She squeezes Eliot’s arm tighter while she waits for it to wear itself out. When it comes to a stop, she sighs.

Eliot finds her knee and starts rubbing circles over it. “Okay?”

Parker nuzzles into him. “Mmhm.”

Behind her, Hardison fully drapes himself over her back. The weight of him is immediately comforting, as is the way that this move essentially blankets her with his whole aura, which is the most calming she’s ever known. It’s exactly what she didn’t realize she needed until this very moment; of course Hardison would know that she needed it, though. Hardison always hears everything she’s feeling. He smooches the shell of her ear and her temple, and then he stretches around to get the corner of her mouth. “Need anything else?” he asks.

Now? No. Later, yes. Later she’ll need those pastries she’d ventured out to get in the first place, and she’ll also need some hot chocolate, and some time to work on the tree. And she does still want to tell the boys about what happened on the walk home, as much work as that’s starting to sound like now that she’s let herself come to a stop. Hardison’s always telling her and Eliot “better out than in,” though, and that’s definitely a line from Shrek that has nothing to do with talking about feelings, but Hardison’s also always right about basically everything—especially everything feelings-related—so she’s come to trust him on this one.

But that’s later. Right now? Right now she’s got her boys and all their restorative energy, and that’s all she could possibly need for this particular moment in time.

“Mm-mm,” she says. “Just my boys.” But she does also add that “For now,” just so they know this won’t be it for the night.

Hardison makes a happy sound, high and pink at the edges. Eliot makes another low and rumbly purr.

“You got it, mama,” Hardison murmurs. “You got it.”

And they all go silent.

Tucked between her two angels, secure as can be, Parker tries to let herself come down from what the evening’s been so far, because it’s been a lot. Eliot’s still rubbing her knee, and Hardison’s started scritching at her stomach, and the steady, repetitive motions of both are wonderfully relaxing. Also speaking of Hardison, she’s not sure where he found this music, but it’s really pretty. Sounds just like winter with its easy piano and syrupy strings, warm like cookies fresh from the oven and a cheerful fire in the fireplace. It’s so soothing, in fact, that she suddenly feels one-hundred percent certain that she could fall asleep right here with very little effort. Not for the whole night, because pastries and tree and feelings, etc., but she could take a cat nap. She’s already had a bunch of feelings tonight, and she’s not sure how many more she can feel without having a break in between first. It really is tempting. Yeah, maybe just a little—maybe she’ll just let herself doze for a little bit. Just… Just a little bit…

Eliot presses his cheek to the top of her head, and Hardison scoots in even closer, and that’s enough to get Parker dipping beneath the surface. Everything’s muffled here, muffled and foggy; fatigue is stealing over her. The waves of it lap at her body and her thoughts and set her adrift in an easy current. Things get dimmer… and dimmer…… and dimmer……… and di—

Something pulls at her sleeve.

Huh. Hardison and Eliot are unmoving to either side of her; she hasn’t felt them shift. Neither of them have tugged on her sleeve. But something’s tugging at her somewhere, trying to get her attention. She opens her eyes to just barely a squint, looking for what it could be. She looks to the left, looks to the right. Looks up, looks down. Oh. There was something tugging at her sleeve.

It’s Nick.

Well, kinda. She knows it’s not genuinely him. She knows if she reached out a hand to him she wouldn’t feel anything. But this happens sometimes where she can just picture his presence beside her as clear as day. Maybe he saw the kitchen light too. She hadn’t even done that intentionally for him, but it still worked.

She looks at him. He looks back. She doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything.

He tugs on her sleeve again. Even though Parker knows he’s not truly touching her clothes—even if he really was here, it’d be physically impossible with the blanket over her—she still feels it, more in her brain than her actual body.

Oh, she thinks. Okay. Sorry, buddy, I know—won’t make you wait anymore. Here, c’mere.

Against Eliot’s side, Parker stirs. “Hey,” she says. Her voice is rough with how sleepy she’d gotten.

“Hey,” Eliot says back. “Alright?”

They keep asking her that. Despite the fact that she’s already answered them, they keep wanting to know how she’s doing. They’re so good, her boys. Parker just has to kiss Eliot’s shoulder for it.

“Can I tell you what happened now?” she asks.

Hardison’s arms wind tighter around her. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Parker says. “I think so.”

“Alright. Lay it on us.”

Parker takes a breath. The boys already know the whole story about Nick and the music because she’d basically had no choice but to share it the very first Christmas they’d all spent together as Them. See, Eliot had asked Hardison to put on some classics while they got the tree set up, so Hardison had pulled up the first playlist he found, and the first song that had played on that first playlist had been The Song. One thing had led to another and she’d bolted out of the room and hidden herself under the bed, so, y’know. Explanations had to be made. Okay, maybe not had to be made, because after the boys crawled under the bed with her they’d told her that she didn’t have to talk about it if she didn’t want to. That said, they were all trying really hard at that point to work on being more open with each other, so she’d wanted to do that for them, and she did.

And she can do it again. She can be open. There’s a nervous flutter in her belly as she considers the words that are starting to crowd up behind her teeth, but she’s pretty sure it’s just because she’s not sure if saying them will scoop another chunk out of her chest. She reminds herself that these are her boys, though. Her boys who asked her twice if she wanted a ride home. Her boys who keep wanting to know how she’s doing. She knows they’ll take care of her. It’ll be okay.

Thoughtfully, Parker pushes up Eliot’s sweater sleeve and brushes her fingertips back and forth over the delicate inside of his wrist. She also presses the bottoms of her feet more firmly against Hardison’s thighs. Softness and a solid foundation. She’s got this.

She clears her throat. “I heard the song when I was at Georgie’s,” she starts. “Y’know. The Song. The one that… The one that makes me think about him.”

Hardison and Eliot’s reactions are immediate: Hardison makes a sympathetic sound, and when Eliot gathers her up and gets her into his lap, Hardison quickly fills in the space she’d left behind—he gets right back up to her, and his chin hooks over her shoulder while Eliot’s forehead presses against her temple. Like things had gone on the phone, it’s maybe more than she needs—she hasn’t even started crying again, guys, c’mon—but that’s okay. She likes the insistence of their bodies, the feeling of them closed in around her. As a matter of fact, she almost feels soothed as she wriggles into a better position against Eliot’s chest.

“So how’d it go?” Eliot asks her.

Nope, just kidding, no soothing—that nervous flutter in her belly perks back up. There’s also an echo of that pit from earlier, and her eyes are threatening to water too. She’s alone again, all by herself in the cold and the snow. Try as she might not to let it show, she feels herself starting to freeze.

Of course Eliot notices this, because Eliot notices everything (him and Hardison are simultaneously annoyingly and endearingly similar on that front). You can’t move a hair without him feeling the shift like a gust of wind. But he’s subtle about noticing it—under the blanket, he simply finds her waist and he squeezes it. Just gently, just once. Without any words, Parker knows what it means: You’re alright, darlin’. I’ve got you. The words reverberate through her mind in his voice and everything. And she knows they’re true—Eliot will always have her. Water is wet, the sky is blue, and Eliot will always be right there to catch her. Or to hold her up, or whatever else she might need. It’s one of the most basic facts of the universe.

In through her nose and out through her mouth, Parker takes a calming breath. Inhale the calm, exhale the negative. Just like Sophie would tell her to do. She leans both back into Hardison’s front and sideways into Eliot’s chest. And when she opens her mouth, she says, “It was… It made me sad. It made me think how much fun we had when we listened to it, and it made me think about what it was like after… you know. And then that made—” The words nearly tumble out of Parker’s mouth, but she catches them on instinct before they can get too far because she’s not sure if she wants to relive them. God, it’s just back and forth, back and forth. She’s okay, she’s not okay. She’s okay, she’s not okay. She can talk about it, she can’t. Ping-pong again. It’s exhausting.

Hardison and Eliot both wait. It feels like it has to be at least a full minute later before Hardison cautiously says, “And then that made…?”

Parker tries to breathe. Hardison’s head is a nice weight on her shoulder, and Eliot’s legs are so sturdy beneath her. As much as she can, she lets those things tether her to reality.

“It… made me think of a bunch of old stuff,” she says. “Made me feel old feelings. Feelings I haven’t felt in a long time. Bad feelings. Feelings I— Feelings I don’t like.”

Waiting, waiting. The jazz keeps playing in the background.

“Feelings like…?”

That nervous flutter has turned into a flapping. Parker blinks rapidly. “Feelings like… Feelings like…”

Dry mouth, tacky tongue. Better out than in, though, better out than in. She can do this. She can do anything as long as she’s with her boys.

When she opens her mouth, Parker has every intention of sounding casual and fine and just goddamn normal. Instead, her voice is brittle and already halfway to shattered when she says, “Feelings like… Like I’m alone. Like no one likes me. Like no one cares. Like I—” Parker’s breath stutters, and her voice is getting wet, her lashes are getting gluey, she wants to stop but the words just keep coming, beyond her control: “Like I don’t have anywhere that feels home, and I never will. Like something’s wrong with me. Something’s wrong, and I had someone I loved and then I lost them, and I’m never gonna have anyone else and I—” A sob, and then another, and when she says “I just miss him, and I wish he was here so we could listen to our music,” the words warble and slip from between her lips as wet and small as the fresh tears that start rolling down her face.

Hardison makes a pained sound this time, and he tucks his face into her neck. “Awww, baby,” he murmurs. “Baby, baby. C’mere, you’re okay. Shhhhh, shhh-shh. It’s alright.” Eliot, meanwhile, strokes his hand up and down her side, and he says, “Hardison’s right, it’s alright. Deep breaths, darlin’. You’re gonna be fine.”

Parker nods. Deep down, she knows this. It’s alright. She’s gonna be fine. She’s always gonna be fine when she’s with her boys. But she knows—has learned from her boys, from Sophie—that she can also be sad first. And she is. She’s sad. Now that she’s said all the words out loud, now that she’s voiced her fears and admitted that she misses Nick and wishes he was here, she’s really feeling their full force. She’s back in that crummy living room, picking pills out of the carpet with her little brother. She’d assumed they’d be together forever. Why wouldn’t they be? They’d always be partners in crime.

Yeah. Apparently not. And that sucks. It really, really sucks.

So Parker cries about it. She cries, and she cries, and she lets the sadness ache through her because there’s just nothing else to do with it. Nowhere else for it to go. She’s just… She’s sad. She’s sad, and she hurts, and that’s that. And she feels small again, young, like she had on her walk. Like she had when she lost her little brother. It’s funny, isn’t it? The way people will say you’ve “lost” someone. It makes it sound like they’ve just gone somewhere else with the intention of coming back at some point. If only. Sure would be nice if that was true. Mad as she’d (briefly) be at him for having disappeared for so long with no word, no sign that he was actually alright, she’d give up a lot of things if it meant she could turn a corner and just see Nick standing there, a few decades older but still looking like himself in the way those dimples punctuated his cheeks, the way that one lock of hair liked to curl over his right eyebrow. Sure, that time they hadn’t been able to share would forever be missing, but they could start making up for it, at least. They’d have nothing but time at that point.

But that’s just not the way it works, and the knowledge of it feels just as cruel as it had the first time around. It makes her feel smaller and younger still, powerless in the face of an indifferent world that really couldn’t have given less of a damn about the fact that it’d taken from her the one light she had. She’d just have to find her way through the dark on her own from then on. Oh, she didn’t wanna? Hah. Tough. Too bad, so sad. Sucks to suck. Put on your big girl pants and get over it. Don’t cry, don’t whine. You just need to shut up and be brave.

Well, that’s exactly what she’d done, and look at her now. Still full of all those old feelings because she never got rid of them in the first place. Ain’t that just the way. And she’s just gotta let it ache through her because she’s gotten herself in the thick of it and there’s nothing else to be done.

She really couldn’t tell you how long the whole thing goes on; all she knows is that eventually her tears die down to just sniffling and hiccups. Hardison responds to this by kissing her cheek, and Eliot nudges just beside her eye with the end of his nose.

“How y’feel?” Eliot asks.

There’s only one word for it: Owie. That’s how she feels. Her eyes are puffy and swollen, her nose is so stuffed up she can barely breathe through it, and her head aches and she’s thirsty. Plus there’s that vintage feeling throbbing through her where she’s a Little Parker who just wants someone to be nice to her for once. That might be the part that hurts the worst. She crumples further into Eliot’s lap.

“Owie,” she answers. “Hurts.”

“Mmm,” Hardison hums. “I know. Here, you should—” He grabs Eliot’s water bottle off the coffee table and hands it to her. “Have some water.”

Yes, she definitely should. Amen for Hardison. She takes a few long, greedy sips; the metal of the bottle is chilly beneath her hands and the water inside is chillier still, sharp and clean all the way down. As she drinks she runs her fingers over the outlines of a few of the stickers that Eliot has let her and Hardison put on there, feeling out their familiar shapes. He always insists to Nate and Sophie and anyone who will listen that when he lets them put the stickers on, he does so “begrudgingly,” but she knows he likes them—he smiled over the puppies she added the other day (she picked them ’cause he’s like a puppy, duh), and he full-on grinned with teeth and all at the ALLEZ CUISINE!!!!! one Hardison slapped on a couple weeks ago. He’s so goofy with the way he pretends with that kinda stuff. Maybe one day he’ll finally stop acting like he doesn’t love all the adorable stuff they do to him.

When she hands the bottle back, Hardison sets it on the table again.

“That help?” he asks.

Parker nods. She’s no longer parched, and the cold water has sobered her a bit.

“Good.” Hardison brushes a stray tear off her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know it sucks.”

Parker sighs. “Yeah,” she says. “It does.”

Hardison makes another sympathetic sound, and he nuzzles into the corner of her jaw. “Hey—you know you’re not alone, right?” he says. “And lots of people like you. Sophie likes you. Nate likes you. Nana likes you. Amy and Peggy like you. Georgie and Mel like you. The mail lady likes you, and the garbage lady, and Doorman Steve. Mrs. Anderson’s puppy on the first floor likes you. And me and Eliot? We like you more than all them people combined.”

“Damn straight we do,” Eliot says.

“Uh-huh. Matter of fact, we love you. And you love us, right?”

Parker nods, fast and desperate. Of course she does. She loves them more than anything in this universe and all the next.

“Thought so. So see? You don’t just get one person to love. I know it doesn’t change what happened with Nick, but you’ve got us.” Hardison’s hand finds its way to Parker’s chest then, coming to rest over her heart. “And there’s nothing wrong with you,” he says, fierce but tender in that way he talks about things when he’s just burning up about them. “You’re the best. You’re special. Did you know the ‘P’ in ‘Parker’ stands for ‘perfect’?”

Parker’s eyes pulse with the threat of fresh tears. She shakes her head. “No,” she croaks.

“Believe it or not—and you better believe it—it does. Perfect, amazing, radiant, kick-ass—the A is silent—exceptional, and, uh…”

“Resplendent,” Eliot offers.

“Resple— Where the hell did you learn that word?”

“I read books, Hardison.”

“Right, but I didn’t think your Westerns used ten-dollar language like that.”

“You wanna say that to me one more time?”

“Okay, okay,” Hardison backs off. “Anyway—yes, resplendent. All that is absolutely what Parker stands for.”

The couch seems to dip and tilt beneath Parker. Hardison’s words are so bright she feels like she can’t look at them head-on. (His words are like that a lot.) “Really?” she asks.

“Uh, yes. What, you don’t trust me? Tell her I’m right, Eliot. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“’Fraid he is,” Eliot says.

“Thank you.”

Try as she might to keep it still, Parker’s chin wobbles. Would you look at that—Little Parker hardly had to wait any time at all for the niceness. No one’s ever been as nice to her as Hardison and Eliot are. No one’s ever believed in her so fully or thought of her so fondly. It’s like they think she hung the moon. Hardison’s actually said that to her more than once: You hung the moon right up in the sky, didn’t you? he’ll say when she brings him a grilled cheese while he’s working because he always gets hungry right around one-fifteen in the afternoon, or when she just takes his hand right into her lap and starts massaging it after he plops onto the couch next to her after a coding marathon. You put that thing right on up there. That’s how good you are. Parker’s not always entirely sure she’s all that. But Hardison’s consistently insistent, so maybe she can try to start believing him.

“And Park,” Eliot picks up, “I…” He pauses. “I hope you know you’re home,” he says. “This’ll always be home for you, as long as you want it. Right here”—Eliot waves his hand as if to encompass the apartment—“and right…” He takes her hand and puts it on top of Hardison’s over her heart, and he stacks his on top of hers. “Right here,” he says. His words are barely more than a whisper now, and rough around the edges too. They get like that whenever Eliot pulls something right out of the depths of himself. “Long as you want it.”

As long as she wants it? The idea of there ever being a time where Parker wouldn’t want this apartment or her boys to be her home is simply unfathomable. She knows Eliot’s probably only saying it that way because he has this thing where he seems to never want to make her or Hardison feel like he’s trapping them with him (despite the fact that her and Hardison would both like that very, very much, because they don’t ever want Eliot to ever let go of them ever), but still—the potential of them not being permanent makes her feel nauseous. She clutches at both the boys’ hands to keep them pinned to her.

“No duh I want it,” she says. “I want it forever, okay? Neither of you are ever allowed to go anywhere. You’re mine and I’m yours, forever and ever and ever. Got it? Forever.” Her voice cracks in the middle of that last word.

“Oh, we got it,” Hardison says, smooth and confident. “Don’t you worry ’bout a thang—forever is exactly what I’ve been planning on.”

There’s a scratchy feeling against Parker’s cheek. It’s Eliot’s stubble—he’s rubbing his face against hers. She does that with him a lot (“like a damn kittycat,” he always teases), but he doesn’t do it too much in return, even though she knows he likes it when it happens. I’ll leave that to you, he tells her. Every once in a while, though, he’ll be the one to initiate, and it’s—

The back of Parker’s neck tingles. It’s usually when he wants to make her smile.

“That’s what I’m planning on too,” Eliot tells her. “Forever.”

Quite frankly, between the face rubbing and these promises being made to her, it would be impossible for Parker not to smile. Forever. It’s not a surprise to her, exactly—she knows in her bones that she and her boys will be together for always, has known it for a long time—but the confirmation never hurts. She wishes she could pluck the word right out of the air and gobble it up; she knows it’d be sugary on her tongue, rich with promise and love and hope for the future.

Forever. They’re gonna be Them forever. There’s nothing she could ever want more. Parker puts her other hand on top of Eliot’s and squishes all their hands together as hard as she can. When the boys both press down harder too, she feels like she could fly.

Somehow they all manage to stay on the couch, though. After a few breaths, Eliot clears his throat.

“So,” he says, “seeing as we’re here forever—anything else we can do for you?”

There’s so many potential answers to that question. When Eliot asks it, though, the first thing that comes to Parker’s mind is that thought she’d had on her walk. Metaphorically, she pops it back in her mouth and resumes chewing on it. There’s no question in her mind that the boys would support her with it—it’s just a matter of whether or not she feels ready. She hadn’t wanted to commit earlier even just in her own mind because she hadn’t known how she’d feel once she got home. Now that she’s home, though… She might be ready. That heart thread still wants to be picked at. And she knows she can do anything as long as she’s with her boys.

And maybe most importantly, Nick’s still beside her. He’s no longer tugging at her sleeve, but he does still have the fabric in his fingers. When she looks down at him, he looks back up at her with an expression that she could swear has a little hope coloring in the very edges. It’s the nudge she needs to open her mouth.

“I had an idea,” she says. “I was thinking.”

“That’s dangerous,” Hardison replies.

Parker snorts, and she pinches the back of Hardison’s hand.

“For you, maybe,” Eliot adds.

“Now hey now—”

“Shut up,” Eliot interrupts. “Don’t get your titties all twisted. Parker’s talking.” As much as he can with the way they’re all crammed against each other, Eliot inclines his head like he’s bowing. “After you, m’lady.”

“Thank you, m’lord,” Parker croons.

Hardison sighs, unquestionably at the two of them, but he kisses her cheek again nonetheless. “Okay,” he says. “What were you thinking about?”

Parker takes another breath. In through her nose, out through her mouth. Inhale the calm, exhale the negative.

“I was thinking…” She swallows. “I was thinking maybe we could try listening to the song?”

Both the boys are… quiet. Parker isn’t sure what this means. Half of her wants to turn to look at Eliot’s face, or twist around to try and see Hardison’s. The other half of her wants to stay this way forever so she never has to know either of their responses. She doesn’t think it’s something bad, necessarily, because neither of them would do something like that to her. But it’s something unknown, and that she does not like. Not after the emotionally fraying night she’s had.

Eventually, Eliot speaks up: “You sure?” he asks.

His voice is even. There’s no judgement in it—just curiosity. He’s just checking. Same way he does when he wants to make sure she really does want him to lay right on top of her without holding himself up at all (yes, obviously—Eliot the Human Weighted Blanket is one of her favorite things in the whole world). Same way he does when he wants to make sure she’s not joking about having him push her off the roof (um, duh—it’s even more fun when you’re not expecting the drop, and she’s all rigged up, of course, so she’s totally safe).

Parker nods.

“You really sure?” Hardison pushes.

No judgement in his voice either. Emphasis, sure, because Hardison’s a worrywart and he usually can’t take just one yes for an answer. But she knows that if she gives him the second yes he needs, he’ll take it. It’s the same way he double-checks with her when she wakes up from a bad dream and tells him she needs to hide in the vents for a bit before she has cuddles (yes, she promises she just needs a second). Same way he double-checks that she’s borrowed the right clothes ahead of him leaving for a convention or a long weekend at Nana’s (yup, these are perfect—they’ll be just the right sweatshirt and socks to wear until he gets back).

“Yeah,” Parker says. “I want to.”

There’s a sensation like this particular slice of time is hanging in the air, suspended in wait. Then Parker feels Hardison shifting, fabric rustling as he moves. He reaches around her, and in his hand is his phone, his music pulled up.

“I’ll leave it to you, mama,” he says.

Parker stares at Hardison’s offer. When she finally takes it, she’s proud that her hands aren’t shaking. She types and scrolls until she finds the right song, and—

And she hesitates.

All of a sudden this feels like a big deal. Should she have planned this? Was this too spontaneous? Should she be— Oh, she doesn’t know. Should she be wearing something different? Something more serious than a snowman Dalek sweater? Should they still be sitting? Should they be standing for something like this instead? Honestly, she’s not sure if she could stand. Her legs might wobble. That would be bad. Wobbly legs are bad. She needs to be brave for this. She needs to be strong. If she’s gonna do this, she has to be brave and strong for Nick—

Hardison’s hand comes to cradle hers. That gesture slows some of the swirling of her thoughts.

“Alright?” he asks. “You still wanna do it?”

Parker nods again, the movement jerkier than before. “Yeah,” she says, trying to sound confident, but the word comes out a croak. Still, she pushes on, because she needs to make this clear: “Yes, I wanna do it. I promise I do.”

Now it’s Eliot’s hand coming to cradle Hardison’s, his thumb smoothing over the inside of her wrist this time. Her thoughts slow even further.

“You can do it, then,” he tells her. “You’ve got this. And we’ve got you, right?”

Right. Right. Of course he’s right. She knows this. They’ve got her. They’ve— They’ve got her.

Parker’s thumb hovers over Hardison’s phone. She waits, waits. She breathes in, breathes out. Inhale the calm, exhale the negative. She presses down.

The song starts to play.

A picky-strummy guitar riff and a swoon of strings. A rich croon: “I’ll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me… Please have snow and mistletoe, and presents by the tree…”

The next breath Parker takes is shaky. Hardison’s phone is plucked from her hand and set elsewhere, quick to be replaced by Hardison’s palm. She clutches at it, fingers grasping his. This is as far as she made it last time. Her ribcage shivers with anticipation.

“Christmas Eve will find me where the love light gleams…”

Blurry vision. Her eyes brim with tears and then overflow when she blinks, fat, wet tracks running down her cheeks. In her head, she sees her bedroom light she’d leave on at Jan and Joey’s house, and all the bedroom lights she’d leave on after that. There’s their kitchen light too, bright and right there to greet her after her journey home. They bob and turn in her mind like they’re on a carousel.

“I’ll be home for Christmas…”

She knows what’s coming. In a second, the strings will swell, and—

“If only in my dreams…”

There it is. The strings swell, and Parker’s heart wads up into an itty-bitty ball. On the same wave in which the strings and the emotions rush in, Parker sees more pictures, ones she’s surprised to find she doesn’t recognize: Her and Nick watching the snow fall through a front window with their faces so close to the glass that their breath fogs it up. Her and Nick stealing glasses of the eggnog they’d been told not to touch until the Christmas party that weekend. Nick walking around with a shiny red bow stuck to the back of his shirt, one that she’d secretly put there just a few minutes ago. She’d forgotten about these. How had she forgotten about these? They must’ve been buried in the box too, shoved so far down that they’d just been wiped from her brain. Frantically, she gathers them all up in her arms and clutches them close. She won’t forget them this time, she promises. Really, she does.

The song continues playing, and Parker can’t stop crying (again). Belatedly, she realizes she’s shaking too, and it’s only because Eliot asks her if she’s cold, and when she makes a confused sound, he tells her her teeth are chattering. She shakes her head. Eliot pulls her in closer at the same time that Hardison curls more protectively around her back, and that makes the tears come faster. She’s still holding Hardison in one hand, and with the other, she finds Eliot’s forearm. When she grabs at it she can tell that she’s more or less throttling him, but Eliot doesn’t say a word—he just rumbles reassuringly and squeezes her tight.

It’s just… It’s a lot, y’know? All the memories. All the feelings. She’s become too big for her body. Ever since her and the boys became Them, she’s gotten better at missing Nick; Hardison’s really good at talking about him with her, and listening when she has something she needs to share, and Eliot’s good at talking about him too but he’s even better at holding her exactly the right way when she doesn’t have any words, when what she needs instead of talking or listening is to be hugged back into the right shape. She feels like she has room with them to let herself hold all those memories and those feelings and sort through them so they’re not so overwhelming, and she’s got more support than she could ever imagine when she’s not sure she can hold and sort them all on her own. After all, she’s working with a team, isn’t she?

But somehow this feels different. Maybe because she hasn’t let herself look at any of this for so long. It was the only way she could make it through this time of year, though—her favorite time of year—without being scared she might trip over an old thought and fall and hurt herself. So now, for the first time in— Jeez, two decades? For the first time in a long time this is all hitting her, and it’s hitting her hard. Just one big onslaught of— How does she even describe it? It’s like, WHUMFPH. Like when a big pile of snow slides off a roof and BWOMP. Plops right onto the ground. Heavy. Very heavy. It’s very heavy and very cold on top of her, so much so that she has a flash of fear that it’ll suffocate her. She’s still got her arms full too, remember. All together it threatens to bury her.

Even so… She’s got a big, broad Hardison covering her back. And she’s got a very solid Eliot giving her a spot to sit and something sturdy to lean against. Hardison’s holding her hand in both of his now, sandwiching her palm and fingers, and Eliot’s still stroking over the inside of her wrist, his touch so light it makes her feel tingly. They’re taking care of her. They’ve got her. They’ve both got the muscles for shoveling snow, and they’ll dig her out from underneath it if that’s what needs to happen. They won’t let her be buried. And Nick’s right with her too—she doesn’t feel like she’s listening to it without him. He’s right beside her, the two of them still together.

All that lets Parker take a deep breath. And when she takes a deep breath, she inhales some of the song and lets it soak into her too, and… She likes it, honestly. She really has missed this. She knows why she let herself go so long without it, but she’d rather not do a repeat if she can help it. That old-fashioned comfort feels as good as it always did; it’s nice to sit with something she still knows by heart. Turns out it’s not all pain like she’d been afraid of. She doesn’t feel like screaming or throwing up. And even with the ache, there’s a relief in it too. She still loves this song—that hasn’t changed—and just as much as there’s a part of her that’s sad about the memories it brings up, there’s also a part of her that’s happy to hear it again.

When Parker exhales, a weight leaves her shoulders. She did it. She’s not gonna suffocate. She’s not gonna get buried.

She’ll make it through this.

Eventually, the song ends. The next one starts, but Hardison stops it just a few seconds in. He reaches up to peel away a few strands of hair that are tear-glued to her cheek.

“Hey, baby,” he says. He talks like he’s picking up a broken-winged bird or a trembling fawn. “How you feelin’?”

Parker sniffles. Her voice is still wibbly and waterlogged when she says “Owie,” because it is still owie, but then she adds “But better too,” because that’s also true.

Hardison mmms reassuringly. Eliot doesn’t even ask before offering her more water, and when she’s had her drink, he slips his hand under the hem of her shirt so he can palm her bare waist.

“That’s good,” Hardison says. His lips brush over the slope of her neck. “That was really brave. I’m proud of you.”

“Me too,” Eliot agrees.

Those are two little candles glowing in the cavern that Parker’s chest has become. Two literal love lights breaking up the echoey darkness. They’re proud of her. She’s proud of her too—she likes this new lightness. It’s like when you clean up a corner of a room that you’d gotten used to seeing messy. All of a sudden, things just feel… clearer. Something in you settles. You feel like you can think better.

Parker looks at that dirty, dusty box in her head with its hanging-open locks. After she stares at it for a few breaths, she bats it away with her foot. It slides off into the darkness. There’s a sound like an object falling and crashing to the bottom of a pit, and after she hears that, a piece in her chest that she hadn’t known was misaligned clicks back into place. Beside her, Nick also squeezes her hand. She squeezes it back, and she bends down to kiss the top of his head too. When he throws his arms around her legs in a hug, her heart skips.

Still sniffling, Parker brings Hardison’s hand up to her face and uses his long, pretty fingers to wipe away her tears. He chuckles, and after she’s taken a whiff of his palm for luck—that same tropical coconut as always—he pinches her cheek and cups her jaw so he can turn her toward him. His lips press soft against hers, and then they shift to brush more kisses over her drying cheeks. It’s so wonderful that Parker wants to burst into glitter. Same as the niceness, this is another first: No one has ever been as delicate with her as Alec Hardison is.

Except Eliot Spencer, that is, who’s now cupping the other side of her jaw once Hardison’s done and turning her toward him for a kiss of his own. Ooh, that’s new—the way the boys are moving her around is giving her goosebumps. Normally she likes being the doing that, getting the two of them where she wants them to be, but right now she’s liking the roles being reversed. She’s so, so tired, and as such, the thought of letting someone else handle things sounds very appealing. Which is funny, because there used to be a Parker who hated that, was even scared of it too. The first time she got sick around Hardison and he tried to be her doctor, she skittered off and hid in one of her warehouses until she felt better, because his attentiveness had felt like too much. No one takes care of her because she takes care of herself. She can’t trust anyone to take care of her.

But she trusts her boys these days. At this point, it’d be impossible for her not to trust them. They’ve simply proven themselves too trustworthy too many times.

After Eliot breaks their on-the-lips kiss, he smooches the apple of her cheek too before he sits back against the couch cushions. The blue of his eyes is sharp, discerning.

“What now, mastermind?” he asks her.

That’s a good question. She’s decidedly wrung out; she could definitely use one of those pastries. And the hot chocolate. And after that she’d like to watch Eliot and Hardison start putting together the Christmas tree. She won’t let them do the whole thing on their own because she has to help too, obviously, but she’ll let them do the lights, at least. Especially because Eliot will probably stretch up onto his toes to try to get the higher branches since he refuses to use a stepladder (“I’m fine,” he’ll say, “I ain’t that short”), and that’ll make his shirt ride up and show off a few inches of his soft stomach. Then Hardison will tell him yes, he is that short, and he’ll come to stand behind Eliot so he can tower over him and crowd him in while he wraps the lights around the top branches himself, and when Eliot gets all huffy about Hardison calling him short and doing his job for him, Hardison will kiss him to make it better, and Eliot will melt like a cheap candle beneath Hardison’s hands and his mouth. Mmmmm. That’s that stuff she likes. She’s feeling less owie and wibbly already.

Although…

She did listen to The Song. This is true. But that had mostly been about trying to survive it—she feels like she didn’t really get to appreciate it. It’s possible she could now, though. She really is feeling less wibbly. She’s about seventy-three percent sure she’ll be alright if they…

Parker fiddles with Hardison’s fingers. “I think,” she says, and then she stops. She rubs over the bottom knuckle of Hardison’s pinky. “I think—” She chews on the inside of her cheek. “I think I wanna listen to it again.”

“Yeah?” Eliot says.

Parker thinks she hears a note of that pride in Eliot’s voice that he had mentioned moments ago. That bolsters her.

“Yeah. One more time. And—” She flips Hardison’s hand over so she can doodle over the lines in his palm. “Can you hum along? Both of you?” It just never hurts to have the boys as backup. Bumps that seventy-three percent up to a ninety-one.

With the way he’s still behind her, Parker can’t see Hardison’s face, but she can hear the smile on his voice when he says, “Baby, you don’t even gotta ask. You in, E?”

“Hardison, don’t ask me stupid questions unless you want stupid answers.”

Hardison blows Eliot a raspberry. For the first time since she got home, Parker laughs.

“Alright, girlie,” Hardison says. “Just gimme one sec—” He grabs his phone, and there comes the strings and guitar. Then…

Against her spine, Parker can feel the vibrations coming from Hardison’s chest. Against her right arm, she can feel the vibrations coming from Eliot’s. They’re both right in her ears, their voices low and rich and sliding through her veins and warming her up from the inside out like a hot drink on a snowy morning. New tears wet her lashes, but they don’t fall; her chest still aches, but it no longer feels cavernous. There’s no flood of memories, no avalanche of feelings. Nick’s calm beside her, and those pictures she’d seen are laid out at her feet now, no longer frantically clutched to her chest. They’re not organized yet, but she’s sure they’ll get there—there’s always tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that too. There’s no rush.

These last several years are the first time she’s ever felt like that. Prior to that, she was always running. Running to something, running away from something. Running away from herself. Now she feels like she can sit, take time to figure things out. And she’ll figure those things out with her team—Detective Alec and Detective Eliot will be on the case with her. As always—as forever—they’ll help her put it all together. Soothed by the thought of that, Parker huddles even further down into Eliot’s lap. She savors every word and every note of her and Nick’s song, every melody and every feeling it gives her, and she lets her boys sing her calm.

When the song comes to its second end, Hardison lets the album keep playing this time—a spirited piano riff skip along with jingling bells behind it. He rubs his nose into the back of her neck.

“That help?” he asks.

Parker nods. “Mmhm. Thank you.”

“Anything for you,” Eliot murmurs. “Once more with feeling?”

“No, not right now.” That was good, but she’s finished for now. “I want pastries,” Parker declares instead. “Is it pastry time?” She takes her head off Eliot’s shoulder and looks up at him so she can bat her lashes alluringly.

A grin cracks across Eliot’s face, one so big it makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “’Course it is. There’s the hot chocolate too.”

“Oooohhh,” Parker croons, “yummy. Actually, speaking of that—Georgie gave me a sample thing she got from the new supermercado. Mexican hot chocolate.”

Eliot raises his brows. “Seriously? That stuff’s good.”

“I knew you’d like it.” Parker boops Eliot’s nose, and when he snaps his teeth after her finger (playfully, not at all serious), she boops him twice. “Okeydokey, my sugarplums—snack time. Follow me.”

They extricate themselves from the couch and grab the bakery boxes from where they’d been dropped at the door. As Hardison and Eliot start carrying them off to the kitchen, already bickering about what they want—Hardison’s claiming that all the crinkle cookies are for him and him alone, and Eliot’s trying to remind him that good boyfriends know how to share (Hardison says he’s never claimed to be good, and Eliot says he’s well-aware of that)—Parker remembers that she was assigned an important task as she’d left Mixed Results. She fishes her phone and that scrap of receipt from the pocket of her and Eliot’s jacket, and after she adds a new entry to her contacts, she texts: Sorry it’s late—made it home! Thanks again for the treats. Eliot and Hardison are already fighting over them. See you soon probably.

Those three little gray dots immediately start flash-flash-flashing, and a response comes mere seconds later:

Georgie 🥐🍪: GIRL YOU HAD ME WORRIED LOL!!!!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭 so glad you got home!!!!! tell eliot and hardison i said no fighting, my wares are only meant to cause happiness. make love not war etc. stay warm and enjoy your treats!! see y’all next time you’re in!!!!

Georgie also sends her an animated sticker of a squishy-looking cat sipping from a steaming mug, so Parker sends them back a sticker of the same cat wrapped in a blanket burrito. Then she puts her phone back in her and Eliot’s jacket pocket to be forgotten for the rest of the night, and she goes to join her boys in the kitchen.

Luckily, Hardison ends up being generous enough to share the crinkle cookies, meaning they narrowly avoid World War III. Eliot also makes Georgie’s Mexican hot chocolate, and after he pours it into a mug each for him and her, he leans close to Parker’s ear and says, “You wanna spice things up a bit?” Of course she says yes, and she watches as he reaches for the cabinet beside the fridge and pulls out the RumChata. After he’s dosed some into her mug she takes a sip, and it’s spicy and sweet and homey, pure comfort all the way down; she can’t help doing a happy dance, nor can she help flinging her arms around Eliot’s neck so she can plant one on him.

Eliot kisses her back with a chuckle. Then Hardison’s whining where’s his attention, so she has to kiss him too (gets to kiss him too), and she’s gonna need to get more mistletoe in the kitchen because it’s just delicious being all tangled up here against the countertop, Hardison’s lips on hers and her hips pressing faintly against his own just for the pressure of it while Eliot holds her from behind and his hands flirt with the creases of her thighs. Ooh, and then she can steal even more kisses from Eliot while he’s cooking. And also from Hardison when he lurks behind Eliot to try to steal some of whatever he’s cooking. (The reason she’s already in there too is because she’s also looking to steal. Duh.) Yeah, this is definitely happening. Mistletoe everywhere forever.

Once they’ve all been thoroughly smooched and they’ve got their drinks and desserts, they make their way back out to the living room, and just as she’d hoped for, Parker gets to lounge on the couch while the boys get the lights on the tree. Because she’s psychic and can read her boys like a picture book, her exact scenario plays out: Eliot reaches for the top branches and grumbles about how he’s totally got it (soft tummy: spotted), Hardison reaches up and over Eliot, Eliot grumbles more, and Hardison kisses their cranky cowboy until he’s liquid and blushing pink. Parker cackles as she watches it all go down, and when Eliot stalks over to the couch to push up the hem of her sweater and sprinkle ticklish kisses all over her stomach, she just cackles harder. (And don’t worry—she gets him back where his own shirt is still ridden-up too.)

After the lights are on she joins them for ornaments, and then they’re all orbiting around each other, working in sync as they pick baubles and figurines from their boxes and find just the right places for them. There’s singing too as they work—once they’d returned to the living room Hardison had re-offered her his phone, and she’d decided she’d just pick back up where they’d left off. She still knows the words to all the songs, of course, and the boys chime in with what they know too. And it’s funny: Over the course of the album, Parker finds her emotions wandering back and forth, picking up and dipping back down. Sometimes she’s laughing and bopping around, thrilled to be revisiting something that was such a bright spot during days that otherwise were very much the opposite; other times she finds herself sniffling, unable to move as a new wave of grief hits her. And there’s really no way for her to know which reaction she’ll have at any given time, which is suuuuuuper fun (not).

Maybe it doesn’t matter that there’s no way for her to know, though. Either way, Hardison and Eliot are with her for all of it. She catches them staring after her when she’s happy, and when she needs a second, they go right to her side as if pulled by a magnetic force and they hold her until she feels okay. Through it all, she’s not alone. They’re right with her for whatever she needs, high or low, and she’s more grateful for that than just about anything. She’d really been serious earlier: She may not need luck, but that doesn’t mean she won’t take it when it’s offered to her, particularly when it comes to something like this. No one’s ever been as lucky as her to have two people as perfect as her boys are.

And she feels lucky too that… She really had been worried that if she ever tried to do exactly what she’s doing now, it would be a disaster. There’d been a real fear that all she’d end up doing was making herself feel sick and miserable and poisoning what could’ve potentially eventually—with enough time—become a fond (if bittersweet) memory. Now, as you can tell, this whole endeavor certainly hasn’t been one-hundred percent sunshine and roses. But instead of sickness and misery, Parker feels… hope. She feels like this might be turning out alright. Amongst all the hard parts, she’s also making new memories, different memories, giving the songs enough fresh images and feelings that she’s starting to believe she might be able to do this again. It started with Nick, but she could fold it into her traditions with the boys too. Carry it on and use it to honor him at the same time that she gets to bring fresh life to it. She’s got two hands; she can hold both things. If you’d asked her if she thought that was possible even an hour or so ago, she probably would’ve told you you were nuts.

Good thing you didn’t ask her an hour or so ago. Normally she loves being right, but here? She’s happy to be wrong here.

By the time they’re done with the tree, they’ve made it through the whole album—The Song starts playing again right as Parker hangs the last ornament. It’s three little dogs stacked on top of each other, one black and one brown and one yellow; it was one of Nate’s presents for their first Christmas as Them because he’s always telling them they act like puppies together (the words made that sound like it was something annoying, but the happy look in Nate’s eyes said otherwise). Parker smiles at it as she nestles it among the branches, and she smiles even bigger as she feels one arm come around her waist, followed by another on top of it.

“Check that shit completely out,” Hardison says.

“Language,” Eliot warns.

“Man, shut the fuck up.”

“You kiss your Nana with that filthy mouth?”

“I’ll kiss you with that filthy mouth—”

“I think we crushed it,” Parker cuts in, because if you don’t stop the boys when they get going like this, they’ll just go for eternity. Normally she’d love that, but she right now she wants to admire their tree. Thankfully, this does make them stop squabbling and go silent.

“Yeah, I’d sure say we did,” Eliot says.

Parker turns to look at each of her boys. Their faces glow in the shine from the string lights, prettier than any picture, and she just has to squash them both to her sides and wiggle around about it. Somehow this turns into them swaying together, and that gives Parker an idea. She pokes Hardison’s stomach.

“’Sup?” he says.

“Hey. Can we do a little dance?”

Hardison shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Girl, what did I tell you? You don’t even gotta ask. And speaking of asking, I won’t ask Eliot what he thinks this time.”

“Right choice.”

“Oh, quit it,” Hardison says to Eliot. “Such a pill. You’re lucky you’re sexy.” Then, to Parker: “Alright—how you want us?”

Hmm. How does she? A sandwich is really the only option that makes sense. She’d liked how they were right when she got in the door, her front to Hardison’s while Eliot covered her back. Yeah, that sounds like the move.

“Can we do like we were earlier?” she asks. “When I got home.”

“Roger that,” Hardison says. He turns to face her and pulls her up close to him. Eliot immediately steps up behind her.

“Like that?” Eliot asks.

“Yeah. And we can—”

Parker takes Hardison’s hand and holds it up, and she doesn’t even have to tell Eliot to cover her hand from behind. She puts her other hand on Hardison’s waist at the same time Eliot does the same to her, and then Hardison’s rests over Eliot’s just like it had before.

They’re all pressed just right. Parker can feel Eliot’s stomach rising and falling at the small of her back as he breathes. When she tilts her head down to rest it on Hardison’s shoulder, she can smell his cologne like she had on his scarf. Lemon and rosemary, bright and fruity. She gets her face to Hardison’s throat so she can get an even better and bigger lungful of it.

Hardison’s cheek rests on the top of her head. “How’s this?”

How’s this? It’s everything. Parker’s not sure she’s ever felt better. Her boys are so cozy, and she knows that if her legs were to finally wobble, she wouldn’t go anywhere—they’d catch her right between them and keep her upright. She’s pretty sure she’s alright, though. She can still stand. Although that does give her one other idea: “Can I be on your feet?”

“You can be wherever you want, angel.”

A few stray butterflies start flapping around Parker’s stomach. It’s only recently that the boys have started calling her that, so it still catches her by surprise. She wasn’t sure if she was a fan at first—she just didn’t know if it really felt like her—but there’s a particular way that they say it that she likes. It’s not “angel” like she’s all pure and flawless—it’s more “angel” like she’s bright and she lights up their lives. And that’s something she likes being.

She steps onto Hardison’s feet, and now that she’s even closer to him, he’s just so solid. He’s like a stone pillar, or a marble statue. Warm, though, which is way better, obviously. Warm and alive. He’s so good to be close to. Like, so good. Ah, screw it—Parker wriggles her hand out from between Eliot and Hardison’s in favor of just getting both arms around Hardison’s middle, enveloping him in her hold. To her delight, the boys copy her: She feels their embraces close around her so that she’s entirely cocooned. God, she loves it. She buries her face even further into Hardison’s throat and makes a pleased sound.

“Happy?” Hardison’s words buzz against her forehead.

“Mmmm,” Parker confirms. “Happy.”

“Excellent. Wanna hear your song again?”

“Yessir.”

Parker’s eyes are closed but she feels Hardison moving. The Song starts playing fresh from the beginning, and Hardison’s back to holding her.

“You ready, cowboy?” Hardison asks.

“Yeehaw,” Eliot replies.

And they dance.

Okay, “dance” is maybe a generous term for it—they’re really just swaying to the music, Hardison and Eliot’s feet stepping around in a small circle. Parker doesn’t care, though. To her, this is absolutely dancing, and the best kind of dancing too. There’s few things she loves more than being pressed against her boys like this. And pressed between them too. Another one of those things that a different Parker would’ve hated—she would’ve felt trapped or caught. Not this Parker, though. It’s that feeling of insistence again, of being closed in. Like being up in the vents, but soft. Soft and full of love.

It feels right all the way down to Parker’s marrow too that it’s the three of them doing this. She has memories of being held in Hardison’s arms in that high school gym, of shuffling on heavy feet around that hotel room in Dubai, and don’t get her wrong—those were great at the time. When she thinks back on them now, though, they feel… uneven. And she knows exactly why: Things don’t feel right anymore if Eliot’s not there. They’re not fully Them without him. They’re a packaged set, just like Georgie said; third one’s the charm. It’s their perfect trio and no one else. Which just makes her all the more glad they have him now—he’s right where he should be, lined up against her back with his hands on Hardison’s waist. They’re all where they should be. Right in their right spots.

As they sway, Eliot’s head comes to rest on her shoulder. His hands also come to her wrists and nudge upwards, because whoops—her arms were apparently starting to fall. She hadn’t even registered it until Eliot corrected her. Now that she thinks about it, she’s starting to feel sleepy. Long night. The boozy hot chocolate is starting to get to her too, making her feel like she’s drifting through water. Maybe she really will wobble. Hard to stay appropriately focused on her legs when she’s got a Hardison doing all the moving for her.

“Droopin’ a bit there,” Eliot teases.

“Oops,” Parker says. Then she feels Eliot adjusting her arms further, and a zip goes down her spine at feeling like she’s a puppet for them to arrange. “Hey,” she mumbles. “I like that.”

“Like what?” Hardison asks.

“That. The— Y’know. Movin’ me’round. Like earl’r.” Ooh, yeah, the long night and the RumChata are definitely hitting her. It’s getting harder to talk.

“Like earlier?”

“Mmhm. When—” Parker yawns. “When y’were kissin’ me. Movin’…Movin’ m’head. Feelsgood. When y—” Yyyyyaaaaawwwnnnnn. “When y’move me ’round.”

The song keeps playing. The boys keep shuffling.

“You want us to keep doing it?”

Eliot’s offer is light, like he’s not expecting anything one way or the other. It doesn’t hit Parker like it’s light, though—it hits her like her drink and the boys’ humming had, pure comfort all the way down, heating her up at her center and radiating outward to make her feel heavy and sated. In this moment, there’s nothing else in the world that she wants as badly.

When Parker says “Please?” she means for it to be… normal, y’know? Normal volume, normal level of want. Instead it comes out small and childishly hopeful. She sounds like a kid asking to be picked up. She feels like a kid asking to be picked up. It’s been a long night and Little Parker is back and maybe she’d like to be taken care of. Maybe. Doesn’t sound too bad.

Behind her, Eliot makes a sound of what Parker can tell is definitely approval, and that makes her feel a wave of relief she didn’t even know she was waiting for. “How ’bout this,” he says. “Hardison?”

“Yes, chef?”

Parker can practically hear Eliot roll his eyes. There’s a smile in his voice, though, when he says, “You keep an eye on our girl. Keep dancing with her. I’ll go refill our drinks and grab snacks, and then we’ll get her all situated on the couch and we’ll watch a movie. How’s that sound?” This last part is meant for her—Parker can tell by the way that Eliot noses at the shell of her ear as he says it.

The truth is that it sounds like everything she could ever hope for. Scratch what she just said—there’s nothing else in the world that she wants as badly as this. This is the only thing in the whole universe that matters. She can’t help the whimper that escapes her as she nods into Hardison’s shoulder.

“Yesplease,” she says.

“Good. I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Okay.”

Eliot kisses her cheek, and then he starts to shift away. Before he can get too far Parker takes hold of his wrist, because she just thought of something very important.

“Need somethin’?”

“C’n I have p’jamas too?”

Eliot slips his arms back around her for one last hug. “Whatever you want. Anything in particular?”

Parker’s so bowled over with happiness that Eliot’s gonna get her PJs that she can’t even begin to consider options. And anyway, she trusts him to make the right choice. “Uh-uh. You pick.”

“As you wish. Be back in a sec.” Another nosing at her ear, and he’s gone.

This leaves just her and Hardison. Hardison’s still shuffling, has been this whole time; Parker does her best to melt even further against him, letting him hold all her weight. Hardison’s big. He can take it.

“Hi there, babygirl,” he says.

“Hi there, babygirl,” Parker mumbles.

Hardison snorts. “You cute. And tired.”

“Mmmmmyep.” She really is, even more than she’d already been—she feels like she could drop off in no time at all. As much as she loves Eliot’s idea of a movie, she’s not sure she’ll even be able to make it through one, but that’s okay. The only thing better than falling asleep between her boys in their big bed is falling asleep between her boys on their big couch while a movie’s going in the background.

“Mmhm. Well, you just relax, alright? I’ve got you.”

That makes the tips of Parker’s fingers tingle. It’s not anything Hardison hasn’t been doing already—him and Eliot have had her ever since she got home, and for a long time before that too—but hearing it still never fails to light her up. She’s got—and she’s been got—by the two best people in the history of forever. Can she get an amen?

“Okay,” she says. “You got me.”

When she says that, Hardison grips her so tight that it lifts her off her feet, leaving just her toes touching his ankles. Once again she’s grounded by how solid and warm he is, and also thrilled to feel his strength and his muscles. Even with those muscles, though—he’s so “cut,” as Eliot often says—he’s still squishy. He’s made like a memory foam mattress: He hits you firm at first, and then you just sink right into him, your body melting right into his. The only word Parker has for it is… “scrummy.” Yeah. Hardison’s so scrummy it makes her mouth water.

“You got that right, girlie,” Hardison tells her, and his voice is thicker than it had been a second ago (Parker won’t tell, though—she loves the sound of it). “I’ve got you.”

Hnnngnhngnghn. Parker has to be careful not to start drooling on Hardison’s shoulder. The man’s just everything sunny and terrific in the world brought to life. She wants him to squish her up all tiny and let her live inside his heart. Or his brain. Both are magnificent.

If only. Sigh. In the meantime, there’s one other thing she can do: Parker tips her face up so she can nip at Hardison’s chin for attention, and when he looks down at her and says “Yeeeeees, kittygirl?” she takes her arms off him only so she can raise them straight up with her fingers spread and say “Uppies?”

Hardison looks like Princess Leia just materialized out of thin air and kissed him right on the lips. There’s not a single wasted moment: Hardison gets his arms under her butt so he can hoist her up, and when her legs are wrapped around his waist and her own arms have slithered around his neck, he buries his face in her hair.

“Like that?” he asks her.

Parker chirps happily in answer. Eliot’s not the only one who thinks she’s like a kittycat, clearly—the whole reason there’s “uppies” is because the first time she came to Hardison with her arms up and her fingers spread and asked him to pick her up, he laughed and told her there was a word for that and everything. After he’d lifted her up and carried her off, they spent the next ten minutes watching videos of cats asking for uppies, and it did indeed look exactly like what she’d done to him, so now that’s what it is: Uppies.

Heehee. Little Parker did get picked up. Noice.

Hardison sways the two of them back and forth. “I love you,” he whispers after a few sways.

That gives Parker an all-over shiver. She burrows into the side of Hardison’s neck. “Love y’too,” she whispers back. Then, on an impulse: “Am I y’r Parker?” She already knows what Hardison will say because she asks this question a lot and the answer’s always the same, but she still wants to hear it anyway.

Hardison hoists her up even higher. “Of course you’re my Parker,” he says.

Well. There’s not much else to do in the face of that but melt, is there? So Parker melts, and she melts, and she melts, and she hopes she never un-melts away from Hardison ever again.

Hardison keeps shuffling them around. After a dozen or so steps, Parker remembers she’s got a line in this scene too—she has to scoop enough of her brain together to be able to form words first, but once she does, she says, “Y’r my Hardison too, y’know.”

Into her hair, Hardison nestles three very slow, very loving kisses.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he repeats.

And he does. Parker’s never been more sure of anything in her life.

She’s not entirely sure how long it’s been by the time she registers Eliot’s presence again; she’s so far under that she’s not even keeping track of what songs are beginning and ending. All she’s known for the last however long is Hardison, broad and toasty beneath her, her flawless pillar of strength. His feet have still been shuffling steadily, his hold on her still solid. But then she feels a new touch: Fingers brushing between her shoulder blades, just enough for her to know they’re there but not so heavy that they’re sudden or startling.

“Eliot,” she greets him.

“Hey there, sweetheart. Got your stuff.”

Okay, time to un-melt, she supposes—Parker finally peels her cheek away from Hardison’s shoulder and blinks her eyes open to see Eliot standing beside them with a pile of clothes in his hands. He’s changed into pajamas too, a pair of plaid pants and one of her own sweatshirts. To see him in her clothes makes her feel full of rainbow-shiny bubbles all the way down to her toes.

“That’s mine,” she says. It’s a little easier to talk now that she’s had a chance to rest in Hardison’s arms.

“It is,” Eliot says back.

That’s her boy. Her boy in her clothes. Her Eliot. “You’re mine too,” she goes on.

Eliot’s expression softens. “You bet I am.”

“And I’m yours? I’m your Parker?” She knows this answer too but she still wants to hear it to complete the set.

“Yes ma’am,” Eliot says. He reaches out to card a hand through her hair that eventually falls to drift down the line of her spine. When he finds her waist, he squeezes it. “You’re my Parker.”

Parker just has to dig her face back into Hardison’s shoulder because she can’t contain her joy. Hardison rubs a few circles over her back in response, and then he’s saying “Alright, mama” and carefully setting her down, so Parker says “Alright, mama” and puts her hands on his shoulders to keep herself steady, and that gets the boys giggling too. She’d fist-pump in victory if it didn’t mean she had to take a hand off Hardison.

Without any words exchanged to decide this is what they’ve gotta do, Eliot and Hardison start to undress her: Eliot says “Arms up, darlin’,” so Parker lifts her arms up and he gets Hardison’s sweater and also her sports bra off in one smooth go, and Hardison tugs her leggings down and taps her calf to get her to step out of them. It’s kinda chilly in just her underwear but not for long, because in no time at all Hardison’s helping her into a pair of pants, and Eliot’s getting her into a shirt and a sweatshirt just as quickly. Their efficiency disappears once they’ve got her re-dressed, though—after he’s gotten the sweatshirt on, Eliot pauses to finger-comb her hair back into place, and once the pants are pulled up, Hardison strokes his hands soothingly up and down her calves.

Parker doesn’t even need to look at any of the clothes to know exactly what they are, because she’d know the feels of these fabrics anywhere: The pants and shirt are Hardison’s, the comfy cotton of his dark gray joggers and the worn-to-butter material of his favorite Star Trek tee that he’s had for as long as she’s known him, and the hoodie is Eliot’s, specifically his navy one that he’s been wearing a lot this week. This means that when she pushes her nose into the collar of it, it smells overwhelmingly like him—that pine-y cologne and the honey and vanilla of his shampoo too, trees covered with frosting. God it’s good. She wishes she could eat it. Matter of fact, she takes the fabric between her teeth and bites down. Yummmm. Definitely not as good as eating it, but getting there.

“I take it I didn’t do too bad?” Eliot asks. He sounds amused, his voice pitched to that level he so often has with her that she knows means You’re so weird and I love you.

“Nope. Great,” Parker says, but the fabric in her mouth garbles her words, so it comes out more like “Nhoh. Hreat.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Should we get you on the couch, then?”

Yessssssss, couch time. Couch time couch time couch time. “Yes, chef,” she tells him, with a sharp salute to boot.

Eliot shakes his head. “Y’all two,” he mutters, and then he’s scooping her into his arms, so fast and with such certainty that Parker hiccups. Another crinkly-eyed grin takes over his face, this one so big it goes lopsided under its own weight. “Hey,” he says to her.

Parker’s arms had automatically come to loop around Eliot’s neck amidst the surprise scoopage; she tightens her grip as she stares blankly at him. “Hi,” she says back.

“Alright?”

Parker decides she’ll be honest: “No,” she says as she shakes her head. It’ll never not daze her when Eliot just picks her up like that, just looks at her and goes scoooooop. She’s kinda sorta gotten used to the feeling of Eliot picking her up when she’s expecting it, like she has with Hardison, but when it’s a surprise? It’s so much. The sudden sturdy cradle of his arms, the way her body gets gathered against his soft chest… It’s a lot.

Eliot laughs and gives her a roguish wink like he’s a swashbuckling pirate captain who’s swept her off her feet, and that means she has to kiss him, obviously. She can still feel him grinning against her lips, and even though the glow from the Christmas tree isn’t the best of lighting, she can tell there’s pink in his cheeks when they part.

“Alright, Mr. Knight in Shining Armor,” Hardison says. “Quit showin’ off.”

“You’re just jealous it ain’t you,” Eliot counters.

There’s a pause.

“Okay, fine,” Hardison says. “You got me there.”

Eliot chuckles in that husky way he does when he’s emerged victorious over Hardison on something (it’s a very distinctive laugh—Parker would know because she hears it at least once a day). “Don’t you worry, sweet stuff,” he says, “I’ll get you later. Oh, and I got you some PJs too—right over there,” Eliot says, nodding toward what Parker can only assume is the other end of the couch. She refuses to take her eyes off him to check.

But then she does have to look away from Eliot because he’s turning the both of them so they can see Hardison, and one never passes up an opportunity to watch Hardison undress. She wolf-whistles as soon as he reaches for the hem of his sweater, and exactly as she’d hoped, this immediately turns the process into a show: Hardison shimmies his torso as he strips off the turtleneck and his undershirt too, striking a few bodybuilder poses once he’s half-naked, and when he moves on to his jeans, he turns around so he can shake his ass in their direction as he slides them down. Eliot gripes and groans the whole time (with that grin of his being very poorly stifled, she might add), but Parker’s back to giggling, unable to stop. She even booooooos once Hardison’s got his jammies on (although she’s thrilled to see that his outfit matches Eliot’s: a pair of his own pants and one of her sweatshirts), and when he gives them both a sweeping bow and a delicate curtsey, she claps wildly.

“Jesus Christ,” Eliot huffs. “Is the show over? Clown.” This last word is said in probably the fondest grumble in the history of ever.

“You’re just jealous it ain’t you,” Hardison parrots.

“That don’t make any sense.”

“Does too. I’ll give you your own private show later, cowboy. How’s that?”

Eliot doesn’t respond verbally to Hardison’s proposal, but he does get that carefully neutral expression on his face that means he’s feeling very horny about something ridiculous Hardison’s just done and he capital-D capital-N Does Not want Hardison to know about it. This is, of course, an expression that Hardison is very familiar with, and thus he knows exactly what it means (distinctive!! Parker probably sees it… Hmm, more like half a dozen times a day), so he whoops and bounds over to fling his arms around both of them. He leans over Parker’s shoulder to smack a big, wet kiss right on Eliot’s cheek.

“I hate you,” Eliot lies, quickly ducking in to peck Hardison on the cheek in return.

“Love you too, babycakes. Now, back to the matter at hand.” Hardison turns his attention to Parker, gently bumping their foreheads together as he does. “We have a very wonderful girlfriend to tuck into the couch, don’t we?”

As she tries to look back at Hardison, Parker’s eyes cross, and she’s not sure if it’s because of how close his face is or if it’s because of how loopy she is with both exhaustion and glee. She’s still so, so tired, but her boys are also so in love and so adorable together that it makes her stomach hurt. She wishes she could smush all three of them together until they explode.

“You good, mama?” Hardison asks.

Parker blinks. “Huh?”

“You’re just starin’ at me.” Hardison waggles his eyebrows. “Am I just that pretty?”

Parker scrunches up her nose. “Obviously,” she says, because even if that’s not originally what had distracted her, that’s definitely why she’s staring now. No duh he’s just that pretty—Hardison’s one of the most beautiful people who’s ever existed. Those thoughtful and sparkly cartoon-princess-sized eyes, his broad, soft nose, that lush mouth… And the biggest and handsomest smile ever, of course. Every single supermodel who’s ever lived is seethingly jealous of him. But that’s also not all, so she says, “And—” She nuzzles the end of that broad, soft nose with her own. “Love you love you,” she adds. “Both of you.”

“Awwwwww,” Hardison croons. Eliot kisses her jaw.

“Love you love you, Park,” Eliot says, so close to her ear that it sends sparkles zipping down her spine.

“Mmhm. What he said.”

A fist-sized rock spontaneously makes a home for itself in Parker’s throat. She attempts to swallow past it as she hides her face under Eliot’s jaw. “Thanks. Now can we sit down?” she asks, because this is all very wonderful but her head’s starting to spin. She trusts the safety of being held in Eliot’s arms more than just about anything else, but she’d also very much like to be fully horizontal on the couch and crammed between both her boys as soon as possible.

Eliot does his rumbly purr, and with the way she can feel it against both her body from where it’s leaned into Eliot’s chest and her forehead from where it’s pressed to Eliot’s neck, she twitches and eep!s at the surprisingly buzzy sensation of it. That just makes him purr louder, and after he buries a kiss in her hair, he turns them toward the couch.

He has Hardison get in first, cozied up along the arm of the long end of the sectional with one of their many blankets spread over his legs. This one’s actually her favorite—it’s technically a comforter, purple and fat and fluffy and king-sized so it covers the three of them and then some, particularly when they’re all squashed together. The edge of it is pulled back so that there’s room for a Parker to get in there too, and eventually an Eliot as well. That same Eliot rocks that same Parker in an easy side-to-side.

“Okay if I set you down?” he murmurs.

Reflexively, Parker’s arms turn to iron around Eliot’s neck. Equally as reflexively, it seems, Eliot says “Hey, you’re alright” and gathers her closer. A flash of embarrassment goes through Parker. Technically, she knows everything will be completely fine—Eliot’s only setting her down for, like, five seconds max so that he can get her tucked in, and then he’ll get right onto the couch next to her. And he’ll be handing her off to Hardison, for crying out loud, AKA the exact other person who makes her feel just as at home as he does. There’s literally nothing to worry about.

Still… Listen—she knows it’s babyish. But there might be a whole quarter of a second in that hand-off where she’s boy-less. Boy-free, one might even say. And despite the fact that she’s feeling much better than she did earlier, that still sounds like just about the worst thing ever on a night like tonight.

Just as she has that thought—or fear, more like—a hand comes to the small of her back.

“I’ve gotcha, girlie,” Hardison tells her. “I’m right here.”

Of course. Hardison hears everything. Thank god.

Eliot’s thumb strokes over the fabric of Hardison’s—her—their joggers. “Okay?” he asks her one more time.

Finally, Parker nods. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

As Eliot lowers her down to the couch, Hardison keeps his hand on her back the whole time, and when Eliot lets her go she just shifts right from his hold and into Hardison’s. As soon as she’s in his embrace she’s being pulled into his chest, both of his arms wrapping all the way around her as he pulls one of her own arms to wrap around him, and at the feeling of him sheltering her like that, of him immediately pulling her to shore and getting her situated, Parker gets another wave of relief. He’s so safe. He’s so, so safe that it makes her dizzy.

“There,” Hardison says, “you’re alright. You’re good. I’m right here, I’ve got you. And look, here’s our other third.”

Sure enough, Parker feels the couch cushion dip behind her as Eliot takes his spot on her other side. The comforter gets tugged over both her and also himself, and then Eliot’s fitting himself to her back, the perfect wall of dense protection that he always is. Parker draws in a deep breath, and when she exhales she feels like she’s deflating, melting into nothing more than a vaguely Parker-shaped and Parker-colored puddle.

“Hmm. Pretty sure that’s a good sound,” Hardison says.

“Reckon you’re right,” Eliot agrees.

“Mmgphggm” is all Parker can manage as she buries her face in Hardison’s spectacular boobs. They’re right there and they’re sooooo nice to lay on, so of course she has to take advantage of them. Even though she feels like she’s hardly got anything left in her arms, she squeezes him with whatever she does have.

“Cozy?” Hardison asks.

“Mgmgpfhg.”

“Excellent. Now, my lovergirl and my loverboy, what should we watch?”

“Don’t ever call me that again,” Eliot says, sounding exactly like he wants Hardison to call him that again.

“Choosing to ignore that. Also now you don’t get a say in the movie pick ’cause you’re a jackass. My sweet Parker, what would you like to watch?”

Parker feels like her brain’s liable to start drooling out her ears at any given moment. Man—her boys are so heavy and real and alive. They’re whole people, y’know? Big, strong guys who have heft and presence. She can’t say she’s ever had a “type” like people do on the reality dating shows Hardison likes to watch sometimes (how can you just be attracted to something like “blondes” or “hockey players”? It’s so dumb, it’s so trivial), but she’s sure happy that she ended up with two beloveds who are such people. Built like trees, the two of them. Hardison’s a redwood, sky-high and wide and just big, and Eliot’s not as tall as Hardison but that just makes him feel more compact, more solid, really and truly like a wall of protection. He’s an oak, she thinks. Nothing’s getting to her through him, just as much as there’s nothing that can get at her as long as she’s got Hardison wrapped around her because there’s so much of him that he’s the ideal shield.

So obviously having all this on either side of her sandwiching her in is just heaven. She’s got a weighted blanket in the bedroom closet, and she loves that weighted blanket to death, but that weighted blanket pales in comparison to this. If she could live every moment of her life this way she’d be happy forever. Eh, okay, maybe not every moment—she wouldn’t be able to jump off any buildings like this because Hardison would be screaming so loud he’d probably rupture her eardrum, and there’s no way she’s ever gonna stop jumping off buildings. But if she could live about ninety percent of the moments of her life like this, that’d be ideal.

Goddammit. She loves them. She loves them and she loves them and she loves them. They’re the best boys in the world. No one’s ever been as best as them. Nobody, not one, not a single person in existence—

“Parker?”

At the sound of Hardison’s voice, Parker startles. “Huh? Whuh,” she mumbles.

“Thought maybe you fell asleep. I asked what you wanted to watch.”

Oh. Oops. Got sidetracked. Focus, Parker.

“Oh. Oops. Got sidetracked. Uhhh…”

It’s hard for her to come up with anything, actually. Brain very nearly drooling out ears, remember? She does have another brief vision of that animated Rudolph special, but she sets that aside—she’s had enough nostalgia for one night. Maybe another time. For tonight, all she wants is something that can be in the background while she drifts, eyes still closed as her face is still buried in Hardison’s chest.

“How ’bout one of those crappy made-for-TV Christmas movies?” she offers.

“Miss Ma’am, you are fully aware that those always make me cry.”

“I know,” Parker says, with what even she can feel is a wicked grin. “That’s the point.” It’s endearing how invested Hardison gets in the painfully predictable stories. He’s such a marshmallow. Eliot usually gets mildly torn-up over them too, even if he tries to act like he’s not—the man’s a secret sucker for a happy ending and a cheesy kiss. He usually ends up sneaking a tissue or two in the midst of Hardison ripping them out of the box as he sobs.

“Stinker,” Hardison mutters. “I’m only allowing it ’cause you’re cute and sleepy.”

“Hahahaha,” Parker cackles to herself. “I win.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Hardison says, but when Parker peeks one eye open, she sees him pulling up the Hallmark channel. Luckily, they’re just catching the credits of whatever wrapped up, so a new one should start soon. Woohooooooo—perfect timing.

Parker’s just about to nestle back down when she feels a hand press to her stomach and a nose touch her cheek. She puts her hand over Eliot’s as she turns toward his face, their chins and mouths brushing as she does.

“Hey,” she whispers.

“Hi,” Eliot whispers back. “You need anything before we get settled in? I brought cookies, and the cranberry bar. I know you liked that one. There’s more hot chocolate too.”

Oh, her Eliot. He thinks of everything. She smudges a clumsy kiss over the corner of his lips.

“Cranberry bar and hot chocolate, please,” she says.

Eliot gives her another wink, still roguish but more playful. Less swashbuckling adventurer and more handsome-prince-turned-thief. “You got it.”

It’s a good thing that Hardison and Eliot help her get up to sitting because she’s not sure she could do it on her own. Hardison also keeps a hand between her shoulder blades to help her stay propped in place once she’s up, his short nails scratching over her spine as he does, and he tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear as she picks up the plate Eliot hands to her, presumably so they won’t drift toward her mouth as she eats. He thinks of everything too, doesn’t he? Sweetiepea.

Eliot starts with the cranberry bar: He breaks off bites of it and brings them right to her lips, smiling faintly as she eats each one. The bar is delicious, naturally—delectably tart, with that rich, crumbly shortbread crust that Georgie does so right and the fresh and citrusy orange glaze on top—and it’s nice having Eliot give her each bit. Makes her feel like an ancient queen being fed round, glistening grapes. Plus she can nip or lick at Eliot’s fingertips every time they come close enough, and that’s great both because Eliot’s fun to nip and lick at and also because it makes him roll his eyes every time. When they’re finished with the bar and he’s thumbed the crumbs away from her mouth, he also helps her sip her hot chocolate, tipping the mug to her lips and placing gentle fingers under her chin to keep her face up. That’s nice too—she likes not having to think about a single thing. She’s had more than enough thinking for one night.

Also, yes: She knows you might not expect career hitter and General All-Around Scary Guy (To His Enemies, At Least) Eliot Spencer to do any of these things. But one time he fed Hardison a bowl of soup spoonful by spoonful and dabbed the drops of broth off his lips with a napkin when Hardison was really, really sick with the flu and could barely move a muscle, so, y’know. There’s a precedent. Her Eliot is the fussiest nursemaid and an absolute saint, and if anyone says different she’ll kick their ass.

Once she’s had enough hot chocolate and Eliot’s also given her one last drink from his water bottle, they lay her back down (“C’mere, sweet girl,” Hardison says to her as he holds out his arms), and Eliot gets her arranged the right way on Hardison’s chest—he guides her to pillow her head on what they both know is the utmost comfiest spot right beneath his collarbone, and he tugs her top leg up to lay over him. Then he settles in behind her and gets them tucked in once more. Parker gets Eliot’s hand back on her stomach and rests her arm over Hardison’s ribs, and after she manages to wiggle into juuuuust the right position, she slumps directly into both the couch and her boys.

Hardison runs a hand from her ass along the bottom of her thigh, pulling a smidge when he gets to the back of her knee like he’s guiding her more fully into place over him. “All set?” he asks from above.

“Mmmmmmm,” Parker sighs. “A jillion percent set.” Because c’mon: Tummy full of pastries, comfortably buzzy (Eliot put more liquer in her refreshed hot chocolate because he is a genius), her favorite blanket, and—most importantly—a Hardison and an Eliot? This is what dreams are made of.

“You’re gonna fall asleep in five minutes, aren’t you?” Eliot says.

Parker nods into Hardison’s still-spectacular boobs. (Literally the best pillows. Besides Eliot’s boobs, of course. She doesn’t even believe in any kind of god, but she still constantly thanks whatever may or may not be up in the clouds for letting her end up with two boyfriends who have such great boobs.) “Yuuuuuuup.”

Hardison laughs, and he runs a hand through her hair. “As you should,” he says. Then he’s ooh ooh oohing as a chirpy, Christmas-flavored instrumental picks up, which must mean the next movie has started.

And that also means it’s time for Parker to tuuuune out. Sorry to the Hallmark channel, but she is not interested; she’s not opening her eyes until Eliot carries her off to their room and makes her and Hardison get ready for bed. And maybe not even then—if she pouts and whines enough, maybe she can get Hardison to brush her teeth for her. He’s done it before, that one time in London when she got stuck hanging from her fingers in an elevator shaft for seven whole minutes, so she could barely feel her arms by the time they got back to the hotel room. If he brushed them for her, she wouldn’t have to look at a thing up to and including when she finally got into bed. Hmm. That’s a thought.

It’s a thought for later, though, that’s for sure. Right now the only thing that matters is shhhhhh sleepy sleepy, honk-shoo mimimi, Boy Cuddles™️ and snoozing. Maybe wake up in time to see Hardison’s big pretty princess eyes all shiny with tears, and Eliot’s chin quivering in that way it does when he’s trying not to cry. But that’s a big maybe. Mostly it really is night-night go sleep bye-bye time. Mmmmhm. Yeah.

Over her head, Parker can hear that the boys have already started bickering—Eliot always likes to try to outline the entire plot of the movie before it’s even hardly started because he claims that “they’re all the same damn thing,” which always makes Hardison argumentative because “what if this one’s different, huh? What if this one’s something brand-spankin’-new? Egg on your face then, right? No respect for art around here.” Of course Eliot always ends up being right, because all these movies are the same damn thing, so he gloats and Hardison whines that he’s spoiling the story and so on and so forth, until they both end up reaching for the Kleenex at the big, romantic climax. They’re about as predictable as the movies themselves, and Parker loves it. An added bonus is also that it just makes the whole situation even better for dozing off—not only does she have the soothing white noise of a formulaic low-budget movie to lull her to sleep, she also has the oh-so-dear-to-her voices of her two true loves running alongside it, every pitch and inflection in them as familiar to her to her as the back of her own hand. It’s more or less a recipe for passing out.

And thank god for that, because she really is beat. Even more than she’d already been, which is something she wouldn’t have thought possible, but here she is anyway. Feelings are just… Yeesh. They can be massive. Massive and overwhelming. And yeah, Hardison was right as usual about the “better out than in” thing—she does feel better now that all those thoughts and emotions are outside of her. But that doesn’t mean going from in to out is easy. It’s like digging for treasure that got buried a million years ago: Feels good to lug the big ol’ chest outta the ground, but if you’re gonna get to the big ol’ chest, you’ve gotta dig a big ol’ hole first.

And that’s sweaty work! Makes your arms tired. Gives you blisters that may or may not break open and start oozing pus. All that junk. So she’s glad to be resting those arms now, and she’s glad that she had two marvelous boys to help her bandage up those blisters and kiss them better. Like their band-aid kisses they do, but emotional band-aids. Feelings band-aids. Band-aids of the heart. Ooh, she likes that—magic band-aid kisses of the heart. She’ll have to introduce that to the boys. Eliot might roll his eyes at it (even as the corner of his mouth clearly wants to tug up into a smile), but Hardison will love it. Teehee. New band-aids; this is gonna be great.

But first: Zzzzzzzzzzzz. She’s gonna hold Hardison, AKA one of the two most holdable people in the world (you can figure out who the other one is), and she’s gonna let him and Eliot and their big fluffy comforter keep her warm, and she’s gonna rest. After she takes a big breath and lets it ooze out of her, she nuzzles into Hardison’s chest and nudges her hips in closer to him, and she imagines she’s a lizard on a rock in the baking desert sun, soaking all of his heat and Eliot’s heat and the comforter’s heat into her scaly little body. Ahhhh, yes. That’s exactly it. This is the life.

But then she has one more thought. There’s someone else she needs to check on. It takes a massive amount of effort, but she manages to peel one eyelid up, and— Huh. She’d thought maybe she’d see Nick sitting on the other end of the couch or possibly laying on the floor, his face toward the TV as he watched the movie with them. He’s not in either spot, though. There’s also this… just this feeling that Parker has that he’s not in the apartment anymore. He’s gone— Well, that’s just it, she supposes. He’s gone. She doesn’t know where, but it’s not here. He’s somewhere else.

Something small in her stomach sinks, a pebble drifting to the bottom of a fishbowl. Maybe it only makes sense. She doesn’t see him like this too often; she’s lucky he came to visit at all. It was generous of him to stick around as long as he did. And yet… She can’t help being a little greedy. She’d like for him to come back, if he wouldn’t mind it. Even just for a little while. It doesn’t have to be forever.

It’s hard for her to see into the kitchen from where she is because the back of the couch blocks her view, but she can see just enough to be able to tell that the light’s no longer on. Figures—Eliot would’ve turned it off once he came back into the living room for the last time since they were more or less turning in for the night. They’d already gotten more food and drinks and wouldn’t need to go back in there to replenish their provisions, ergo the light didn’t need to be on. It’s a waste of electricity. They weren’t raised in barns, were they?

This is important, though. Eliot will understand. She knows he’ll let her have this one.

It takes even more effort to open her mouth than it did to peel up her eyelid, but she manages: Parker parts her lips, and she says, “Hardison.”

Beneath her, Hardison startles. “Jesus, babe. Thought you were fast asleep.”

“Mm-mm. Listen: Need you to do something.”

“Is that so? But of course. Your wish is my command.”

Parker smiles into Hardison’s sweatshirt, her heart pirouetting. Her boys are so, so good to her. Just the best. It gives her just enough extra energy to say, “Can you do your magic wizard thing and turn the kitchen light on? Please?”

Hardison’s raised eyebrow is practically audible. “‘Turn the kitchen light on’?” he repeats.

“Mmhm.”

“Park, we’re not in the kitchen,” Eliot says. “Why do you need the light on?”

“For Nick,” she explains.

Eliot and Hardison both say “Oh” at the same time, that single syllable full of understanding. She’d told both of them about this tradition too at the same time that she’d explained everything about the music; up until that point she’d just been stifling it, always keeping the lights off at bedtime whether she was missing him or not. As soon as she’d shared they were happy to accommodate, of course. Hardison says that it’s nice sleeping with the lamp on every once in a while, and there’s been a few times where Eliot’s actually been the one to request it, usually after he’s had a nightmare. Parker’s noticed that those nightmares are always ones that involve his mom. He’s never said it out loud, but she wonders if maybe he’s trying to give her a beacon to drift toward too.

“Yeah,” Hardison says, “you got it. Eliot, hand me my magic wand, please.”

Eliot huffs, but he sits up so he can grab Hardison’s phone off the coffee table and toss it onto his lap. After a few taps and swipes, a soft glow emanates from the kitchen.

“Abracadabra,” Hardison says grandly. “How’s that?”

“Perfect,” Parker replies. She knows it’s just an app that Hardison’s got that all the lights in the apartment are connected to, but it really does feel like magic when he does that. He’s her brilliant wizard, that’s for sure.

“Faaaaaaaaabulous. And thank you for being so brave and sitting up, El. Don’t think I didn’t hear that huff.”

“Shut your trap and watch the movie.”

Hardison gasps, theatrically loud. “Did I hear that right? Parker, are you hearing this? He’s insulting me. He’s telling me to shut up.”

“Eliot, no fighting,” Parker says.

“Oh, trust me—this ain’t fighting.”

“You beat me up, you yell at me, and now you’re lying—”

Hardison’s complaints are cut off by a sound of surprise. When Parker looks up, she’s just in time to see that Eliot’s stretched up and over her and is kissing their whiny boyfriend so patient and heated that it makes her toes curl and all her organs do gymnastics around and on top of each other. If she wasn’t so sleepy, she’d ask for something of her own once Eliot was done with Hardison, but that’s another thing for later. All in good time. Until then she just admires her boys, enjoying the way Eliot really kisses into Hardison and bears him down into the couch cushions, and the way that Hardison whines softly beneath him and scrabbles to cup his jaw with a clumsy-eager hand.

When they separate, Eliot’s smirking, and Hardison’s big beautiful thoughtful princess eyes are big and beautiful and thoughtful. He looks like he just saw a unicorn.

“You gonna quit complainin’ now?” Eliot asks. He sounds like he’s trying for wry and dry, but Parker can hear an edge of roughness in his voice, and she can hear him breathing harder than usual too. What a cuckoohead. He still tries to act like her and Hardison don’t get to him. It’s like he has no idea how transparent he is.

In answer to Eliot’s question, Hardison shakes his head. Eliot grins at the same time he rolls his eyes.

“Idiot,” he mutters. He kisses Hardison’s forehead and he lays back down on the couch.

“You too,” Hardison says, but there’s zero fire in his voice—he’s as croaky as an old frog. “And that’s my ‘filthy mouth’ you just kissed, if you’ll recall.”

“I cleaned it out for you.”

“That’s nasty. And kinda hot,” Hardison adds after a pause. “But nasty.”

“Whatever you say, darlin’,” Eliot drawls.

As he curls around Parker’s back once more, even more protectively than before, she takes his hand and brings it to her tummy again. With his wrist between her fingers she moves his touch in steady circles, and once he gets the picture and keeps up with it on his own, she slings her arm back over Hardison’s ribs.

“Doin’ it right?” Eliot asks.

Like they had before, the words come right in her ear, making Parker shiver. “Uh-huh,” she says, and then she adds, “Hey—can I have some of that later too?”

“Some of what?”

Parker makes kissy sounds. “That,” she says. “Kissy-kissy. Smooch smooch.”

Eliot snorts. He gets a gentle handful of the fat of her stomach before going back to his circles, and he tells her, “Darlin’, I’m gonna give you all the kissy-kissy smooch smooch you can handle.”

The promise is exactly what she wants, obviously, but the words also sound so funny in Eliot’s gruff gravel that Parker crumbles into giggles, which eventually fall apart into snorts. Then she’s just giggling and snorting into Hardison’s chest, and Hardison starts giggling too, and Eliot complains that hey, that wasn’t supposed to be funny, he was serious, but eventually he’s laughing as well. They’re all just one big giggle pile crammed into the one end of the couch, and it’s maybe one of the best things Parker’s ever felt ever. She’s never been more at home anywhere else in her whole entire life.

By the time they’re done, she’s wiping happy tears from the corners of her eyes and the tops of her cheeks. Eliot still hasn’t stopped rubbing circles over her stomach, and Hardison’s got a hand in her hair now too, fingertips working idly into her scalp. She wishes she could bottle the moment up and save it forever. In lieu of that, she squeezes Hardison’s thighs with her leg and stuffs her hand into his armpit where it’s warm. She can feel his heartbeat here too, right under the heel of her palm.

“Hey, no tickling,” he warns her.

“Nuh-uh. Not gonna. Just warm.”

“Alriiiiiight,” Hardison says, sounding doubtful. “I’m watching you, though.”

“I promise! Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die and stick a needle in your eye?”

Parker wrinkles her nose. “Gross. But yeah.”

“I thought we were watching a movie?” Eliot cuts in.

“Says the man who claims he doesn’t care about ‘this garbage,’ quote-unquote.”

“Says the man who gets pissy if he misses a single second of this garbage.”

“Boooooooys, no fightingggggggggg.”

There’s grumbles, but Hardison tugs lovingly on a lock of her hair and Eliot presses his face into the back of her neck, and after that they seem to be settled.

There. All better.

The movie keeps playing. Parker hasn’t been paying attention to any of it, obviously, but it sounds like someone’s having a disagreement about the best dessert for Christmas. There’s a woman who’s arguing in favor of your classic frosted sugar cookies, and a man who’s wholeheartedly endorsing fruitcake. To this, Parker has only this to say: Sweet baby Jesus—is this guy nuts? (Haha. Fruitcake has nuts. Get it?) Frosted sugar cookies are the clear winner, hands-down. Parker will admit that Eliot has a decent recipe that doesn’t taste at all like the gross yucky brick of weird fruity bread you probably imagine when you think of fruitcake, but she has a feeling that it has a lot to do with the fact that it’s him making it, because Eliot can make just about anything delicious (except artichokes. Not even Eliot can make her like artichokes). So it’s still frosted sugar cookies all the way, for her and for every other sane person in the universe too. This guy has something seriously wrong with him.

And it’s something that she super-duper does not care about getting to the bottom of, because it is time for her to capital N-A-P NAP. “A cute little pre-bed snoozy” as Hardison likes to call them. She’s gonna cute little pre-bed snoozy sooooo hard, and then Eliot will scoop her up and carry her off to bedroom because as established he is a saint, and she’ll whine and pout until Hardison brushes her teeth for her because he’s also a saint, and then maybe she can get the boys to carry her to the actual bed itself together. Y’know, Hardison gets her arms and Eliot gets her legs, then together they get her settled in right in the middle and cozy up on either side of her to turn her into some yummy Parker filling pressed between two fresh slices of Boy Bread. And once they’re as snug as several bugs in one big rug, they’ll sleep through the night and straight on ’til morning.

God. She can’t wait.

Extremely pleased with this plan, Parker does one final snuggle-down into Hardison’s side. He must sense something in her movement because he breaks his idle massage to scritch at her scalp with more purpose.

“You done for the night?” he asks her.

“Yeah,” she says. “M’sleep.”

Hardison makes an approving sound. “Ding-ding-ding—we have a winner. You just settle in there then and we’ll be right here, alright?” He curls his arm tighter around her shoulder, and he rubs his hand up and down her arm a few times. “Close your eyes and get some sleep. You don’t have anything to worry about. We’ve got you. We’re gonna take good care of you.”

“Mmhm,” Eliot agrees as he kisses the back of her shoulder. “Got you right here. Love you love you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Hardison says. “Love you love you.”

At this point Parker would’ve thought she was all out of the tears for the night, but apparently not. It does feel like a weak effort, like she’s at the very ends of her reserves, but a few drops manage to leak out onto her cheeks. It’s really true: She doesn’t think she’s ever been taken care of like this. Certainly not before her boys, and even then, it’s… They’ve always taken care of her as Parker-the-adult, which is fine, because that’s what she’s needed at those times. Currently, she doesn’t feel like Parker-the-adult, though—she feels like Little Parker again. Little Parker who’s young and small and scared, even though she acts like she’s tough and nothing can hurt her. Little Parker who just wishes someone would look out for her and take care of her, even by doing something as little as wiping her tears away after she cries or bringing her something to drink when she’s thirsty.

Lucky Little Parker, then, because she’s gotten all that and more tonight. Not only does she have not just one, but two someones who have dried her tears and kept her watered, those two someones have also clothed her, and fed her, and danced with her to songs that used to make her sad so that they might make her happy again. And they’re even gonna tuck her into bed later. Maybe most importantly, though, they’ve told her over and over in words and also every other way that they love her, and that she’s special, and that this is where she belongs. That this is—they are—her home. If you’d told Little Parker she might have something like that one day, there’s no way she would’ve believed you. Her? A home? Yeah, right.

Hah. As it turns out: Yeah. Right. It’s like a fairytale, or a movie. Something not-real, at the very least. But it is real.

And it’s hers.

Parker breathes in, breathes out. She doesn’t have anything to worry about. She’s gonna get taken care of.

“Love you love you,” she tells her boys.

Then she doesn’t say another word.

Hardison kisses the top of her head, and Eliot scooches in closer so that his legs are folded up more securely behind hers. He makes a comment about the movie; Hardison laughs and responds. The actual content of their back-and-forth doesn’t matter in the slightest—all she cares about is the way their voices cushion her thoughts, wrapping around them the same way their bodies are wrapped around her body, cradling her as she drifts closer and closer to sleep.

The last thing Parker does before she lets herself fully succumb is squint toward the kitchen one last time. There, the light still glows. In her mind’s eye, she sees it again as she had from the street: Bright and inviting, a love light guiding her home. She hopes that maybe that brightness and sense of invitation might guide someone else home too. He really doesn’t have to stay forever. Only as long as he wants to. And even if she doesn’t see him, that’s fine. She just wants him to know he’s got somewhere he can come to if he needs it. After all, when she’s been lucky enough to find that for herself, it only feels right to try to share.

Parker lets her eye fall shut. She’s heavy between her boys, heavy with sleep and the weight of spent feelings; she can feel herself going under. Right where their comforter is hiked up around Hardison’s ribs, she digs her face in, hiding it beneath the fabric. Everything goes even darker than it already was, and she’s met with all the heat they’ve built up between the three of them. It kisses her nose and her cheeks and her chin and makes her feel even drowsier. She’s so close… It’s… It’s so… So close…

She hears Eliot’s voice: “Hey, Hardison.”

“Hmm.”

“Think she’s asleep.”

“Hmm? Oh.”

Parker swears she can feel Hardison’s gaze shift toward the top of her head. She also feels confusion tickling at her brain because why is Eliot lying? He always knows the difference between when she’s sleeping and when she’s awake; it’s one of his ninja tricks. He should definitely know better.

“Yeah, she is,” Hardison goes on. He brushes a few hairs off her cheek, clearly none the wiser.

“She’s good, isn’t she?”

“The best.” Hardison traces along the line of her jaw, back and forth, back and forth. “Really am proud of her for what she did,” he says.

“Mm. Me too.” Eliot presses his face to her shoulder. “She’s our angel,” he says. Not a question, not a wondering. A statement. A fact.

“Mmhm. Put her right on top of the tree.”

“Damn right,” Eliot says with a grin in his voice. “And we’ll have her forever.”

“Yeah,” Hardison says. “Forever forever.”

Neither of them say anything more after that. But they don’t have to—they’ve already said it all. Parker’s pretty sure she knows now why Eliot was lying, and she’d kiss him for it if it wouldn’t ruin the illusion. Ah, well. She’ll just have to make up for it after her nap.

With her secret, special words pressed against her heart, then, Parker lets herself sink back into that nap. The TV still chatters in the background. The boys still chatter beneath the sound of the TV. In the kitchen, she knows there’s a love light shining out into the world to signal that they’re home, the three of them, that they’re warm and safe inside. She’s got her own personal love lights to either side of her too, gleaming through the dark to keep her company. And they’ll be there forever. Forever forever. Isn’t that funny? What a beautiful word, “forever.” Quite possibly one of her favorites. She holds it closer than any of those other secret, special ones, squishing it through to the very center of her heart and nestling it in between the two words that are her capital-T Top favorites. What are they, you might be wondering? Ah-ah-ah—she doesn’t give up her secrets that easy. You’ll just have to guess. She can give you a hint, though: She wouldn’t have to look very far to find them. She wouldn’t have to look very far at all.

That nap drapes heavier and heavier around Parker’s shoulders, and she lets it carry her off. She’s right where she’s meant to be. She’s bundled-up and everything’s quiet. She’s even got her boys and their home. The whole package, with sparkly wrapping paper and a big shiny bow on top and everything.

Parker tucks a smile into her blanket.

Life’s never felt better.