“Hey.”

Tossing my backpack and jacket on the counter, I just grin at Brian’s answering grunt.  He is, as usual, buried up to his eyeballs in printouts, graphics, and manila folders.  While most companies might allow a little slack-time leading into the holidays, Brian just seems to get busier.  He’d say that it was because he’s the boss and he’s got to fix everybody else’s fuck-ups, but it was the same before Brian became partner, before the Stockwell debacle, and before Vance offered him his job back.  If anything, the new partnership agreement offers more perks than before, because Brian knows how to apply the screws.  So when he whinges about the losers in the graphics department or how he’s going to tie Brad’s balls in a knot come New Years, I just smile and nod and pretend that I don’t think Brian is the biggest perfectionist on the planet.

I poke my head in the fridge, finding only a shrivelled cucumber and something that may once have been Szechwan noodles.  Fuck.  When I told Mom not to keep dropping by with food packages like Brian and I were some kind of goodwill case, I didn’t think she’d actually take me seriously. Of course, I also expected that Brian might set foot in a grocery store from time to time. 

There is beer, of course.  Beer and Beam are two of the items that rarely go un-replaced in the loft.  So I fortify myself before addressing Brian again.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not hungry.” The mumble comes from somewhere behind a stack of brightly coloured tourist brochures. A travel agency account, then, or maybe a new pitch for Liberty Air. The airlines are always hawking holiday specials after the holiday. 

I flip open the phone. “I’m ordering pizza.” 

“No carbs after seven.” 

Whatever.  “And you’re going to eat it,” I tell him firmly.

“Hmmmm.” 

Taking the murmur as agreement, I lean against the counter and can’t help smiling as my gaze travels to the Christmas tree that dominates the window.  Despite Brian’s admonishments about tasteful decorations and his strict instructions limiting size and height, somehow we ended up with what is unquestionably the largest, most lopsided, most gaudily decorated tree in Pittsburgh.  I fucking love the tree.  And  the fact that I still reside in the loft and not in a cardboard box at the corner of Liberty and Barkers proves that Brian loves me.  So really, all is good.

“It’s not there,” Brian drawls.

I jerk a little, casting guilty eyes Brian’s way, but he’s still intent on his computer monitor.  “I wasn’t looking for anything.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“I wasn’t!”  Cripes, he thinks he knows everything.

Brian smirks, lifting his eyes briefly to mine before he returns his attention to the keyboard. “I told you that you have to wait ‘til Christmas morning.”

“I wasn’t looking for MY present,” I insist, even as my eyes drift longingly to the small stack of gifts under the tree.  The same number of presents have sat there for over a week.  Over a week!  It’s torture.  I mean, come on, would it kill him to just put my present under the tree so I could shake it and try to guess what it is? 

I shake my head and look back to see him watching me, tongue carving a niche into his cheek. 

“I was looking for Gus’s present,” I explain patiently. 

“Uh huh.” 

Oh fine. 

“You only have a few days left, Brian.” I turn my back on his knowing look and the heap of presents that doesn’t include mine -- or Gus’s --  and flip through the pre-programmed numbers on the phone in search of Romano’s.  Tony will be happy to hear from us.  Admittedly, Tony is always happy to hear from us.  Our orders practically keep the place in business.

“You have no idea what the malls are like this close to Christmas,” I call over my shoulder. “I was there the other day with Daph, and it’s insane.  Wall to wall people.  Don’t even think about getting a parking space.”

I find the number.  “And the toy department is going to be picked clean.  Parents are vultures!  If you were thinking of getting him some kind of educational crap, you’ll probably be okay.”

I press ‘Send’, lean a hip on the counter, and lift the phone to my ear.  “But if you want to get him something that he’ll actually like, well, all I can say is… FUCK ME!”

I jump back about fifteen feet as the thick electronics catalogue slams down on the counter about two inches from my hip, shoot Brian a look that promises retribution at some later, unspecified date, then smile sheepishly into the phone.  “No, not you, Tony, but thanks for the offer.  I’ll call you back.” 

“You shit!” The thought of what is now rising at Romano’s -- besides Tony’s pizza crusts -- is enough to put me off Italian food forr the rest of the year. 

I thumb the phone off and aim a punch at Brian’s midsection, which he sidesteps easily before returning to my side.  He’s giving me that “look at me, I did good” look, and frankly it’s rare enough that Brian actually owns up to doing something decent that I’m a little excited and a lot frightened.  So I gather up the magazine and quickly scan the open page, and only my vast experience in dealing with all things Kinney keeps my mouth from dropping open. 

“The ‘Intelli-Tech Herald 2004 -- Your Personal Servant for the New Millennium‘,” I read slowly.  Okay, this is soooo inappropriate for a child of Gus’s age that I am momentarily speechless.  Of course, if I tell Brian that, he’ll only have a hissy fit that puts Emmett’s most queeny moments to shame, so I have to tread carefully.

“Brian, you are aware that Gus is barely three, right?” 

Brian just shrugs.  “He’s a Kinney.  He’s advanced for his age.” 

“Ohhhh-kay.” 

“You don’t think my kid can handle it?”

Yeah, so I didn’t tread carefully enough.  He’s bristling and the last thing I want is an argument, so I skim the robot’s specifications again before meeting Brian’s obstinate gaze.  “It says here that it responds to up to 500 voice commands,” I finally say. 

“And it’s wired directly to the owner’s voice,” Brian enthuses, missing the point entirely. 

“It’s four feet tall and dressed like a butler,” I point out reasonably.  Surely it’s clear that this “toy” is not suitable for a toddler, isn’t it?

“It also learns your likes and dislikes, adjusts itself to your will,” he says, looking over my shoulder at the ad and grinning like a kid at… well... Christmas.

“Christ, if it had a dick you’d want one.” 

He nudges me with his shoulder.  “I’m going to program it before we bring it over,” he says.  When I raise my eyebrows questioningly, he adds, “I’ve got that CD of Gus at the Christmas concert.”

Oh fuck.  I start to laugh… well… giggle, actually… but I can completely blame that on hunger.   ‘Cause giggling sooo does not become me.

“You have a problem with Gus referring to his parents as ‘hobo-sexuals’, Sunshine?” 

“My favourite was the recital,” I say before breaking into song. “’Fleas on my dog… Fleas on my dog.’  Oh god, I bet those preschool teachers never heard such an ‘interesting’ interpretation of ‘Feliz Navidad’ before.” 

“My kid’s unique.” 

“That’s gonna be so great to torture him with when he’s older,” I say matter-of-factly when the giggles have tapered off.  “Like when he’s trying to impress a date with how cool he is.” 

Brian raises an eyebrow.  “Like telling that ‘date’ that he’s into leather?” 

I feel the flush rising to my cheeks, and Brian’s answering grin doesn’t help matters any.

“That wasn’t exactly a date.  And anyway, if you get this for Gus, Mel is going to have a fit.”

“Like I give a shit was Mel thinks.” Brian runs a finger down the glossy paper, tapping at the page.  “Gus is going to love it.” 

“Uh… Brian?” I frown and move his finger, pointing my own over the small print that I just noticed.  “It says here that this doesn’t hit the market until February.” 

Brian smirks, clearly pleased with himself.  “I have an in with the head of Morrissey Electronics.”

“Oh?” I feel my eyebrow lifting toward the stratosphere, and do my best to reign it in before it gets its own zip code.

Brian rolls his eyes.  “I didn’t fuck him,” he says, as though I am insane for even considering this possibility.  Like there hasn’t been a precedent set for random fucking of clients.  But whatever. 

“But I did put together the campaign that’s going to send Robbie the Robot here into thousands of upscale homes,” Brian continues, “and net the company a shitload of profit.  Old Morrissey was so impressed by my pitch that he guaranteed me shipment of my own personal robot by Christmas Eve.” 

I prop my elbows on the counter.  The thing has been ordered, so it’s out of my hands.  The best I can do now is try to keep Mel from ringing Brian’s neck come Christmas morning. 

I shift as Brian moves closer and takes the magazine from my hands.  “So after years of being Scrooge, you’re suddenly Santa Claus.”

The edge of the counter bites sharply into my back, but that doesn’t seem to matter as Brian’s hands edge their way under my sweater to the warm skin of my back.  I shiver under the combined sensations of cool fingers on my spine and hot breath in my ear as Brian sighs huskily, “So what do you want for Christmas, little boy?” 

My head falls back, my pelvis arches into his, but my voice is steady.  “Pizza.  I’m starving.” 

Brian smiles against my neck before pulling back to meet my eyes.  “I can change that,” he says.

December 24th, 8:37pm

I am never working Christmas Eve again. 

The loft door seems to weigh a ton, it still squeaks and sticks because the landlord hasn’t got off his fat lazy ass to fix it even though we put in the requisition order weeks ago, my knuckles sting ’cause even though Deb apologized profusely for dropping the Pink Plate Special on my hand that doesn’t make the pain go away, my ass throbs like a son of a bitch from wiping out while running for the bus, ice sucks, and my entire body reeks of fried grease. 

So that might explain why I’m halfway across the loft, already stripping off clothes and dreaming of a hot shower, before I realize that Brian is spread out on the floor in front of the sofa, cursing a blue streak. 

I stop and stare for a moment before I can get my mouth to work.  Then what comes out is completely unhelpful.  “You have GOT to be kidding me.” 

Brian looks up at me before gesturing to the pile of electronic parts scattered over every available surface.  “Does this LOOK like a joke, Sunshine?” 

“They sent it unassembled?” I still can’t seem to get my brain to accept the reality of this situation.

“No, it arrived assembled but I took it apart.  I thought putting it back together would make a fun family project for Christmas Eve.” 

Brian’s snark-o-meter is set at ten, I see. 

Okay.  We can do this.  I take a deep breath, inhaling a pungent lungful of fry-scent, and amend my thoughts slightly.  We can do this… soon.  “Just let me take a quick shower, and then we’ll sort it out.” 

The fact that Brian doesn’t offer to join me in the shower tells me all I need to know about the gravity of the situation.  But I’m confident as I strip off and jump under the heated spray, sighing as the water soothes my cold, tired muscles.  A robot is just a souped-up version of a remote control car, right?  How difficult can it be?

December 24th, 9:03pm

“Brian?” 

“Yeah?” 

I look up from the instructions.  “Are you sure these are in English?” 

December 24th, 11:33pm

Our first knock at the door is quiet and considerate.  The second knock is louder.  By the third knock, I start to think that maybe we should have called first. 

On the fourth knock, Daphne opens the door. 

“Justin.” She rubs at her eyes, pushes at her hair.  “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

“Nice,” Brian says, shifting the box containing half-constructed arms and legs to his other hip.  Like he’s one to talk about language.  I shoot him a look that reminds him that he promised to be on his best behaviour.  He presses his lips together and looks anywhere but at Daphne, whose multi-colour bathrobe and pink fuzzy slippers do not exactly inspire confidence in her toy-putting-together abilities. 

“Remember when we were kids and Dad would get me those elaborate electronic transformers and shit?” 

“Yeah.” Daphne yawns, leaning against the doorjamb before abruptly remembering her manners.  “Oh… you wanna come in?” 

We make our way to the living room, its tiny space crowded to the limit by an artificial tree and several gaily wrapped presents. 

Brian nudges me with his shoulder, causing a shiny metal finger… or toe… to tumble from my own cardboard box onto the floor.  “See,” he says,  “Daphne knows how to decorate a tree.” 

“Fuck off,” I mutter.  “Our tree is fine.  It’s beautiful.” 

“You’d think an artist would know about tasteful decorations,” he tells Daphne conspiratorially.  “But you’d be wrong.  We’ve got tri-colour garland, and dancing elves, and some pipe-cleaner dog that’s older than I am, and--” 

“I made that pipe-cleaner dog in Kindergarten,” I protest, but Daphne cuts me off with a raised hand. 

“If you tell me that you came over here to look at my tree, I will seriously kill you and stuff your bodies down the garbage chute.” 

Brian and I exchange dirty looks before I get back to the matter at hand.  “Uhh… Daph… those electronic transformers that Dad bought?” 

She slumps down on the sofa, eyes nearly closing.  “Yeah?” 

“Remember how he always crossed the wires and they never worked and he’d practically throw them across the room--” 

“Not ‘practically’,” she says.

“-- and later when he was busy with Molly, you’d take ‘em apart and fix them for me?” 

“Yeah.” She’s sitting up straighter now, eyeing the boxes a little warily.  “Why?” 

Brian flops himself onto the sofa at her side.  “Houston,” he says, “we have a problem.” 

December 25th, 12:42am

“Daph, if you’ve really been up for thirty-six hours, maybe we should try something else.” 

Daphne pushes up the sleeves of her sweatshirt, wipes at her forehead with the hand not clutching a partially-constructed torso, and gives me the evil eye.  “Justin, I will put this motherfucker together if it’s the last thing I do!” 

If there’s anything I learned from being Daphne’s best friend over the years, it’s to never argue with her when she’s on a mission.  Or PMSing.  This time, I think it might be both. 

December 25th, 1:55am

“Someone better be DEAD,” we hear a voice mutter before the door is flung open.  Fuck, we only knocked a dozen or so times.  What’s his problem?

“Brian,” Ben says resignedly.  “I should have known.” 

“Brian?” The other voice is decidedly more encouraging.  We look past Ben to see Michael tugging on a T-shirt as he stumbles from the bedroom.  “Is something wrong?”

Brian and I trade knowing glances.   Ben’s bare chest is covered in a light sheen of sweat; Michael’s breathlessness isn’t just from his rush from the other room.  Brian sticks his tongue in his cheek.  “Are we interrupting something, Mikey?  We can come back in, oh, five minutes?” 

“Fuck you.” Michael slips an arm around Ben’s waist. “What’s wrong?” 

“Brian is an idiot, that’s what’s wrong,” Daphne says as she pushes past the men, clutching the much-slaved-over robot torso to her chest like a security blanket.  “He ordered some high-end, mucho-expensive valet robot for his three year old son, and then has no clue how to put it together!  And he does this on Christmas Eve!” 

“Uhh… hi Daphne?” Michael says.

Daphne ignores him, flings off her coat, props the torso on the sofa, and perches her hands on her hips.  “Well, what are you waiting for?  Let’s get snapping!” 

Michael’s eyes slide past Ben’s, past mine, to rest on Brian.  Brian merely smiles and shrugs around the brimming box of parts he still carries. 

Michael sidles a little closer to the open doorway and lowers his voice, not that he has to lower it much over the clatter Daph is making in the living room.  “What makes you think that we have any idea how to put together a valet robot?” 

“Well…uh… Ben’s so big and strong that we figured…uh…” 

Oh, fuck it.  I give up and look to Brian.

“We figured you both have a soft spot for hard-luck cases, and you’d take pity on us,” Brian says.

I put on my most supplicating expression.  Brian looks sincere.  Daphne curses somewhere in the background.  Michael turns those big puppy dog eyes on Ben. 

Ben sighs, and slips his own arm around Michael’s waist.  “You were right.” 
 

December 25th, 2:23am

“Holy fuck, I’m trying to sleep in here!  What the fuck’s going on?” 

I look up from the slightly less chaotic tangle of robot parts to find Hunter padding across the room.   Neither bedhead nor boxers become him.  This makes me happy on many levels.

“Shit, sorry we woke you,” Michael tries to console the little monster.

“What the fuck is this?” 

“It’s the ‘Intelli-Tech Herald‘,” Ben supplies, not looking up from scowling over the instructions that I’m still certain are in Japanese.

“The Intelli-Tech Herald 2004”, Brian corrects. 

“It’s a really advanced robot for Brian’s son,” I explain. 

Hunter boggles at the mere thought.  “You have a kid?” 

“Duh,” Daphne puts in from her place on the floor.  “Where have you been, Mars?  I‘ve only known about Brian’s kid for, like, ever.” 

“Well Daph, that’s what happens when your best friend is there for the birth.  And names the child.  Gus.  Cute name, don‘t you think?”  I briefly smirk up at Hunter before returning my attention back to wiring an eyeball. 

Ben coughs into the silence.  “Hunter, why don’t you sit down and, uh, grab a limb.  We could use the help.” 

“I know what I want to grab,” Hunter leers at Brian and slides an arm around his shoulder.

“In your dreams,” Brian says as he removes the arm.  I’m proud of myself for not sticking out my tongue. 

December 25th, 4:45am

“Now don’t freak out,” Michael says as soon as the door is opened.

“Why would I freak out?” Emmett rests a hand on his hip and cocks his head.  “Just because someone is pounding at my door at five in the morning, making me think that perhaps there’s been a horrible car crash, or a gas explosion, or a disfiguring curling iron incident… why on earth would THAT make me freak out?” 

There’s a reason while I’ll never be more than a drama princess.  While Emmett is around, the drama queen crown is safe and sound.

“We have a slight problem,” Ben says.

“Brian is an idiot,” Daphne puts in. 

“Brian is NOT an idiot,” I counter with a scowl.  “But we’re having some trouble putting together this robot that he bought for Gus.” 

“And we remembered the skilful way you handled that flat tire on the way to New York,” Michael adds.

“So we figured that anyone who knows his way around a lug nut would have no problem with a simple kids toy,” I say.

“What the fuck is on your face?” Hunter asks.

I admit that I was thinking just the same thing.  Green goo is really not Emmett’s colour.

Emmett’s eyes dart between each of us before settling on Hunter.  “This,” he says slowly, “happens to be an invigorating cucumber facial, which you might want to look into if you’re planning on continuing in your line of work.” 

“Emmett!” 

Emmett raises one hand to cut off Michael’s protest.  “And what makes you think that I have time to put together a child’s toy?  I have a very trendy Christmas function to cater at two for the Dupont-LeClairs, which means I have to be at the hall by noon, not to mention putting in an appearance at Mel and Lindsay’s breakfast before--”

“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars,” Brian cuts in.

Emmett’s eyebrow arches.  “Well, what are you waiting for?  Come on in!”

December 25th, 7:34am

“I think that’s it… yes… push that there… and then… yes!” 

Emmett smiles in satisfaction, using his sleeve to shine up a spot on Herald’s silver arm. 

“Are… are you sure?” I finally say.

“Well, we just have to test it to find out,” Emmett replies, stifling a yawn as he searches out the place on Herald’s ‘body’ that turns the creature on.  “Brian, do you want to do the honours?” 

When there’s no response, I twist around to find Brian propped against the sofa, mouth open in a silent snore, Daphne’s head nestled in his lap as she joins him in dreamland. 

“You fucker!” I punch him, hard, in the thigh, startling him awake.  He rubs his hand at his mouth, nudges Daph off his lap, and shrugs unapologetically.  He’s sooo going to pay for that. 

He blinks rapidly up at the robot.  “It’s done?” 

“We think so,” Ben says, snuggling against Michael’s back.  “We’re waiting for you to test it out.” 

“Huh.”  Rising to his feet, Brian studies the creature. It’s impressive, even I have to admit it.  Four feet tall, gleaming silver, clad in a perfectly proportioned tuxedo with additional cleaning apron.  Brian gives the nod to Emmett, who pushes the activation button.  Herald’s eyes open and the robot cocks its head, awaiting instruction. 

“Huh,” Brian repeats.  He rubs his hand across the back of his neck before looking to me.  Fuck if I know what he’s supposed to do next.  I don’t want to be responsible for some automaton going on a rampage in Emmett’s brand new apartment.

“Herald,” Brian says after another moment of consideration, “shine my shoe.” 

“As you wish,” a metallic voice drones, and the creature whips a towel from its apron and bends gracefully, shining Brian’s new Saxones with vigour. 

“Holy shit,” Hunter says from somewhere behind me. 

“Hey Brian,” Michael says, “remember when you asked me what I wanted for Christmas, and I said I didn‘t know?  I finally figured it out.” 

Brian grins over at me as Herald straightens.  “Gus is going to love it,” he says softly.

December 25th, 9:13am

We all managed to shower and shave at Emmett’s, nearly wiping out his hot water supply in the process, with only Brian forgoing the bliss of the steaming spray in order to program Gus’s voice into Herald’s voice recognition software.   Quick stops at both homes to pick up presents, and we’re all clean and comfortable, if not fully awake, by the time we arrive at Lindsay and Mel’s for their Christmas breakfast.

I lean against the doorjamb leading to the dining room, trying not to snooze.  Across the room, Michael and Ben are lounging on the sofa, half-heartedly picking at a shared plate of waffles.  Emmett keeps staring at the Christmas tree, mumbling “pretty pretty lights” under his breath.  Hunter has given up and is curled under said tree, head pillowed on his hands, snoring loudly.

“The necklace is beautiful, Brian”, Lindsay gushes, perching on the edge of the armchair and handing Brian a cup of eggnog as her other hand plays with the gold filigree at her neck. “Thank you.” 

“Uh huh,” Brian says, peering thoughtfully into the cup. “Is it spiked?” 

“Brian!  It’s not even ten a.m.” 

“Fuck.” With a grimace, Brian sets the untouched drink on the end table. 

“And Gus loves his present, too,” Lindsay continues, gazing adoringly at her son.  “It’s perfect.”

My mouth drops open at that.  The drone of Gus shouting “Stop”, “Go”, “Stop”, “Go”, has been so frequent for the past thirty minutes that I’m almost immune to that high-pitched squeal.  He and Herald have almost knocked over the buffet table twice, set the Christmas tree tottering -- “Watch out for the pretty lights, honey,” Emmett had said sweetly, steering both child and robot in another direction -- run over Hunter’s leg, pulled Deb’s wig off, and caused a clatter in the dining room that could only have been the china cabinet.  Mel finally retreated to the bedroom, and I’m pretty sure that her eggnog was spiked.

“You know, one of the ladies at the gallery was thinking of buying one for her husband, but she heard that they come unassembled,” Lindsay continues thoughtfully.  “Did you have any trouble putting it together?” 

Brian cocks his head and presses his lips together.  “Not at all,” he finally says. “It was a piece of cake.” 

Brian manages to dodge most of the various missiles that are lobbed in his direction, but the stuffed kangaroo that I toss hits him right between the eyes. 

“Well,” he amends somewhat sheepishly, “I may have had a little help.”  He takes up his mug and raises it in a salute.  “To my friends.  Merry Christmas… and thank you.” 

The combined toasts that are raised in return almost drown out Deb’s observation about the coming apocalypse.  As if Brian never says thank you.  Of course, Deb’s never been there after Brian and I share a particularly hot… oh fuck, I really do NOT want to follow that train of thought to the station. 

A crash from the kitchen calls Lindsay away, so I take up her place on the arm of the chair. 

“Briaaaaan…” 

His arm snakes out to my waist and pulls, tumbling me into his lap.  “Hmmmm?” 

“Now can I see my present?” 

He laughs, and kisses me, gently and thoroughly, until I forget where we are and moan softly into his mouth. 

“As you wish,” he murmurs against my lips.  “Merry Christmas, Justin.”