Nighttime. Late.
The breeze drifts lazily in the open window of a second-floor bedroom, warm and soft and scented with the trailing blooms of late roses. It's the kind of summer night that no one quite wants to leave, the kind that makes them stay out on the porch and talk, reluctant to retreat indoors. But retreat they must, and have, by now; late enough to be nearly morning, it's the dead time of night between the last delinquents and the first birds. Silence curls comfortably around two sleeping forms in the small room, one tiny and still and the other lean and slightly restless, shifting now and then in his sleep as he lays sprawled across the top layer of his mussed blankets.
Silences are easily shattered.
The shrill noise that shocks Al from his sleep is painfully panic-inducing and overwhelmingly energetic; an alarming spew of digital noise accompanied by the buzz of the cell phone vibrating against the nightstand's surface and a flashing red light. The tiny blond nearly jumps out of his skin as it rips him violently from his light slumber, but quickly orients himself to realize with a loud groan that his roommate's phone is the source of the alarm that hurts his delicate and sensitively pointed ears so much. Scowling in the dark, he promptly grabs the nearest thing he can lay his hands on--the second pillow he keeps on his bed for Con--and throws it as hard as he can at Romney's bare back. His friend emits only a slight grunt as the pillow hits him, not as hard as Al might have intended, but between the sound of the phone a couple feet from his head and the pillow he stirs quickly enough.
"God, Rom, shut that damn thing up.... You've got to quit sleeping like you're dead, seriously... That thing's bloody awful." Al grumbles as the older boy rolls blearily over and grasps with clumsy fingers at the noisy cell. Finally he manages to seize it, flashes of red and orange brought on by the tones only adding to his dizzy disorientation. As he snaps it open with a flick of his wrist the sounds finally stop, leaving them both with fading headaches, one from the grate against painfully acute hearing and the other due to the riotous explosions of color on his field of vision.
"H'lo?" Rom groans, sleepy and a little confused.
"Danny? It's me. Listen, wake up, this is serious. We've got major bad news on our hands." Zero's curt, sharp voice rings out more clearly than usual; his friend isn't even bothering with a scrambled connection. This is too immediate to take the time to run the call through more remote points.
The use of his real name alone tips him off that this is a big deal. He sits up in bed, pushing his blankets and his and Al's pillows away from himself to lean against the cold headboard and try to concentrate as much as he possibly can on what his friend is telling him. He ignores Al grumbling across the room and trying to go back to sleep even though he knows he can't while Rom is on the phone. "Doing my best to wake up, do forgive me and remember it's three hours later on this end.... What's going on?"
"Are you aware of a Mr. Douglas Moore? Runs a big time legal firm, one of the ones vying to represent Hartcom in an upcoming case over some stupid little software company they bought through potentially less-than-upstanding means. Know who I mean?"
"Can you give me a physical? You know I'm better with those than with facts and shit..." But he has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that might in fact know exactly who his friend is talking about.
"Six foot or so, on the skinny side, black hair, hazel eyes. Ring any bells?"
"Fuck. Possibly. Probably." Thinking back, that sounds about right, though he was in a haze of colors and confusion and the stomach-churning environment at the time. A man in a silver tie, with an oily voice that was much too dark and amused as he cut cleanly through every lie the boy had tried to throw up between them. A man he had been afraid of. A man he had convinced Ty not to 'take care of' in spite of his fear and hatred.
"Well, listen, whether you know him or not he knows you. It's only pure luck I picked this one up, to be honest... He sent your father an e-mail three days ago to set up a phone call to talk to him about 'some news that might interest him.' Only reason I gave it more than a glance over was his location. Mr. Moore himself lives near your currently locale and runs his firm from there, though they have a local office here in L.A. Between that and the text of the message, I decided to give the call a listen.... Took half the night to find it through my tap-log of the phone, but I got ahold of it about half an hour ago. It's.... bad. This guy tells your dad he knows where you are, he saw you himself at some local place, recognized you from that photo in the O.C. Register and that you tried to feed him some made-up story about being from Florida. Bragged about trying to talk you into going home, but you made a break for it and got away. And, of course, your old man thanked him like crazy and promised his firm would be the one to represent Hartcom, like the sleazy bastard obviously wanted."
Rom sits in numb silence, his expression a perfect blend of shock and horror as the words wash over him, a flawless retelling of his most terrifying nightmare. The worst thing that could possibly happen to him at this point. The thought that's haunted his mind since the night he met the man in question--to him, there is no greater punishment than the loss of the freedom he treasures so. He stares unblinkingly at nothing, until Zed repeats his name a few times to make sure he's still there. "Yeah.... right here... sorry."
"Well? What's the plan? I'd say you've got a day or two to get moving; your Dad hasn't phoned the police yet, but he will, no mistake about that. I'm keeping full manual recon on everything; email, phone, faxes, both incoming and outgoing. I'll keep you updated. How many people could identify you positively there?"
"Um... too many. I mean, I've been, you know, performing... so places I've played have a name and phone number on record." He tries to sort through his thoughts, but they seem slow and thick, not quite the ones he needs.
"Better dump this phone, then. Pick up a local number, and just give me a call from it so I can get ahold of you. And you'll probably need to pull out the fallback paperwork; I trust you still have it all? Got it stashed away?"
"Yeah, I've got it... But... um.... Zach? I can't run. Not again."
"What do you mean you can't run? What's stopping you? You've got nothing to tie you down there any more than you did here; surely if you can turn your back and walk out on your entire life you can stand to leave some town you've been in for less than a year." His friend's voice is sharp for the first time, more than just the curt, businesslike tone of neutrality he usually relies on. "Anyways, I'd say you should take the bus, pay with cash, they'll expect you to fly, won't be watching the roads as closely as the airport...."
"Zed. I'm not running." His voice gains some solidarity as he frowns, unwaveringly certain on that point. "I... I promised someone I wouldn't. Not again. Even if that bastard did turn me in. I'll... I'll call Ty. Let him know what's going on. See what he's willing to do to help me out...."
"You're going to what?! You can't do that! You can't let anyone else in on this... the more people that know where you are, the more you're at risk of getting caught, you know that!" Rom's not sure he's ever heard his best friend sound so upset about something. Usually, that would confuse him a little, and he'd want to know why it was such a big deal, but now, on edge and more than a little afraid that the life he's built is coming crashing down, it makes him angry.
"You can't tell me what to do with my life, B. I'm going to deal with this my way, and nothing you say is going to change that. If you want to help, keep doing what you're doing, you do it well. But if you can't do that, then leave me the fuck alone and let me take care of my own damn problems."
A long pause. A long pause, followed by a cold, bitter voice.
"Fine then. Have it your way. You always do. If you don't need me, I'm out. Call when you feel like being civil. But don't expect me to bail you out when the cops drag your scrawny ass back here and put you under house arrest."
He holds the phone to his ear in angry silence until the dial tone reasserts itself to tell him his friend's hung up. After that, he snaps the phone shut with an overzealous flick of his wrist and tosses it petulantly down on the bed. "Fuck." he whispers to himself, fear pounding in to fill the silence.
"What's wrong? What happened?" a soft voice asks from the other side of the small, dark room. He looks up to see Al sitting on the edge of his bed in his pajamas, looking gently confused and concerned, delicate features arranged in an expression of slightly guarded worry. The older boy groans softly and drops his head again, face buried in his palms. He takes a deep, shaky breath before daring to answer, not sure his voice will be steady enough.
"I'm... Well, that is... Somebody called my dad and told him where I am. The cops'll be looking for me, maybe as soon as tomorrow. The old man's got a lot of leverage. I... I have to do something."
"What do you need us to do?" Al asks instantly, not even hesitating to consider what might be involved in hiding someone from the police.His roommate frowns and looks up at him again, clearly startled by the question.
"You guys...? No. I can't get you two any more wrapped up in this mess. You and Adrienne have been wonderful to me; putting me up and putting up with me too, seriously, you're amazing. And that's why I can't ask you to help. If I get caught..." he shudders visibly at the thought "...If that happens, anyone I'm found with will probably be tried for kidnapping even though they know that's not what happened. Dad'll want someone to blame, publicly. And I can't let that happen to you guys. I have to go. The only thing you can do is pretend you don't know me if they come asking."
"Are you sure? I mean.... You're kinda like family, you know? We may not be much of one, but families take care of eachother. If you need help, we can do that."
He could almost cry, listening to his friend say that. Al can see his shoulders shaking slightly, and crosses the room on small, silent feet to sit on the edge of the other bed beside him, a slender arm draping tentatively around his shoulders in a gentle hug. He holds him lightly as the older boy shakes like he might be crying, though when he finally does look up his face is dry. "Sorry." he whispers, biting his lower lip. "I mean, I shouldn't be falling apart on you, here. I can deal with this. And you're amazing for wanting to help.... but I can't let you. I'll call Ty. Tell him what's up. We'll figure out what I should do... Maybe he can hide me a while, or we can go somewhere and come back when this blows over, or if it's okay with him I might go solo for a few weeks and sneak back into town once they're sick of not finding me. The most you can do is not tell them anything. If they ask, you don't know me. You don't recognize the pictures. Never met anybody that fits my description. But I have to go...." he finishes, voice trailing off. "I need to pack. Better if I let Ty sleep, call him in the morning.... But I have to be ready when I call. You wanna help with that, maybe?"
"Of course. What do you need?" Al's delicate hands have been rubbing a light, idle pattern on his tense shoulder, calming him with a reassuring touch and letting him focus. Now the hand falls away as he stands, ready to creep downstairs for whatever his friend needs. He considers waking Adrienne.... telling her what's going on.... but decides, since there's so little they can do, that he may as well let her sleep. They can fill her in in the morning. Rom lists a few things, some from the laundry room and others left scattered around the house, and he slips quietly down the stairs to find them.
Rom, meanwhile, flicks the light on and closes the door to keep it from spilling into Adrienne's room across the hall, and begins to gather his belongings. Compared to his house in L.A., there's not much, but he knows now that you can fit a whole life in this relatively meager collection of things. He piles his clothes into an oversized army surplus duffle bag, disregarding wrinkles as he stuffs t-shirts in beside neatly pressed dress pants and his favorite red and black leather jacket. Beside the duffle bag is his guitar case, open, with the guitar laid beside it so he can get to the compartments under the neck and the well-hidden spaces inside the lining. He pulls a stack of papers from the largest of these and shuffles through them to find what he needs; a stack of birth certificates, social security cards, passports, and driver's licenses where they're appropriate. Five full sets.
He looks at the names, each set neatly paper-clipped together and labeled, and pulls out 'Owen Coburn' in place of 'Romney Cooper,' as well as the papers labeled for Adrienne and Al. Call it a parting gift... He'd put together the paperwork for them on his own, after learning they only had fake documents. His method is more solid, because it doesn't involve fake documents; instead, he gets real papers based on his own alterations to the original records. Harder, and bigger trouble if you're caught at it, but he's had quite a bit of practice and isn't worried anymore about that. It's his one true skill in hacking; he's not a lot of help with more than busywork as part of the group, but he can whip up new identities without breaking a sweat. He puts their papers and his own fresh, unused set aside, and carefully slips his real things and his preferred fake back into their hiding place. On top, he reverently replaces his guitar and latches the case, setting it aside.
By the time Al gets back with a few more clothes, a couple of notebooks, and the shoes he's not wearing, he's arranging his bulky laptop and its various cords and peripherals in the padded messenger-style computer bag he bought not too long ago--a black bag with the X-Men logo on it. He's more or less dressed, wearing knee-length black shorts with more pockets and straps than strictly necessary and a plain white ribbed tank. His sleek chestnut hair is pulled back into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck, the shorter pieces that frame his face slipped loose. He gives Al the briefest of smiles as he thanks him, distantly, for getting his things, then turns to shove them into their appropriate places. His posters have been stripped off the wall on his side, rolled up and stashed behind the chair; he's not going to bother to take them, but doesn't want to leave evidence that someone besides Al is living here, either. Al sits on his bed again and opens a bag of chips he brought up as well, offering them to Rom.
"Here. Eat something. You'll feel better if you're not hungry." the boy suggests softly. Rom turns from his bag, zipping it shut, and gratefully accepts the food. He sits on the floor, back against the side of his bed, and Al slides down to follow suit opposite him. They munch in silence for a moment, neither looking directly at the other, until Al speaks quietly. "You'll always be welcome here, you know. When they stop looking... Come back, okay? Even if it's just to visit and say hi and tell us you're marrying Ty or something. Even if you have to bring him along."
That startles a laugh from him, even tense as the older boy is. "Hey, come on, we're not you and Con, Elfkins... I don't see marriage anywhere in the near future. But I'll tell you right now, if you and your darling pet boyfriend have a wedding planned when I get back, I'm gonna be upset if you don't ask me to be in the ceremony."
Al finds himself relieved by the renewed lightness of his friend's voice. "Everything's gonna be fine. They won't find you, you can come back, and it'll all be okay. And someday you can be in the wedding, as long as you behave yourself and don't do anything asinine before then."
"I hope you're right, shortstuff."
Nothing to do but wait for morning.
Silences are easily shattered.
The shrill noise that shocks Al from his sleep is painfully panic-inducing and overwhelmingly energetic; an alarming spew of digital noise accompanied by the buzz of the cell phone vibrating against the nightstand's surface and a flashing red light. The tiny blond nearly jumps out of his skin as it rips him violently from his light slumber, but quickly orients himself to realize with a loud groan that his roommate's phone is the source of the alarm that hurts his delicate and sensitively pointed ears so much. Scowling in the dark, he promptly grabs the nearest thing he can lay his hands on--the second pillow he keeps on his bed for Con--and throws it as hard as he can at Romney's bare back. His friend emits only a slight grunt as the pillow hits him, not as hard as Al might have intended, but between the sound of the phone a couple feet from his head and the pillow he stirs quickly enough.
"God, Rom, shut that damn thing up.... You've got to quit sleeping like you're dead, seriously... That thing's bloody awful." Al grumbles as the older boy rolls blearily over and grasps with clumsy fingers at the noisy cell. Finally he manages to seize it, flashes of red and orange brought on by the tones only adding to his dizzy disorientation. As he snaps it open with a flick of his wrist the sounds finally stop, leaving them both with fading headaches, one from the grate against painfully acute hearing and the other due to the riotous explosions of color on his field of vision.
"H'lo?" Rom groans, sleepy and a little confused.
"Danny? It's me. Listen, wake up, this is serious. We've got major bad news on our hands." Zero's curt, sharp voice rings out more clearly than usual; his friend isn't even bothering with a scrambled connection. This is too immediate to take the time to run the call through more remote points.
The use of his real name alone tips him off that this is a big deal. He sits up in bed, pushing his blankets and his and Al's pillows away from himself to lean against the cold headboard and try to concentrate as much as he possibly can on what his friend is telling him. He ignores Al grumbling across the room and trying to go back to sleep even though he knows he can't while Rom is on the phone. "Doing my best to wake up, do forgive me and remember it's three hours later on this end.... What's going on?"
"Are you aware of a Mr. Douglas Moore? Runs a big time legal firm, one of the ones vying to represent Hartcom in an upcoming case over some stupid little software company they bought through potentially less-than-upstanding means. Know who I mean?"
"Can you give me a physical? You know I'm better with those than with facts and shit..." But he has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that might in fact know exactly who his friend is talking about.
"Six foot or so, on the skinny side, black hair, hazel eyes. Ring any bells?"
"Fuck. Possibly. Probably." Thinking back, that sounds about right, though he was in a haze of colors and confusion and the stomach-churning environment at the time. A man in a silver tie, with an oily voice that was much too dark and amused as he cut cleanly through every lie the boy had tried to throw up between them. A man he had been afraid of. A man he had convinced Ty not to 'take care of' in spite of his fear and hatred.
"Well, listen, whether you know him or not he knows you. It's only pure luck I picked this one up, to be honest... He sent your father an e-mail three days ago to set up a phone call to talk to him about 'some news that might interest him.' Only reason I gave it more than a glance over was his location. Mr. Moore himself lives near your currently locale and runs his firm from there, though they have a local office here in L.A. Between that and the text of the message, I decided to give the call a listen.... Took half the night to find it through my tap-log of the phone, but I got ahold of it about half an hour ago. It's.... bad. This guy tells your dad he knows where you are, he saw you himself at some local place, recognized you from that photo in the O.C. Register and that you tried to feed him some made-up story about being from Florida. Bragged about trying to talk you into going home, but you made a break for it and got away. And, of course, your old man thanked him like crazy and promised his firm would be the one to represent Hartcom, like the sleazy bastard obviously wanted."
Rom sits in numb silence, his expression a perfect blend of shock and horror as the words wash over him, a flawless retelling of his most terrifying nightmare. The worst thing that could possibly happen to him at this point. The thought that's haunted his mind since the night he met the man in question--to him, there is no greater punishment than the loss of the freedom he treasures so. He stares unblinkingly at nothing, until Zed repeats his name a few times to make sure he's still there. "Yeah.... right here... sorry."
"Well? What's the plan? I'd say you've got a day or two to get moving; your Dad hasn't phoned the police yet, but he will, no mistake about that. I'm keeping full manual recon on everything; email, phone, faxes, both incoming and outgoing. I'll keep you updated. How many people could identify you positively there?"
"Um... too many. I mean, I've been, you know, performing... so places I've played have a name and phone number on record." He tries to sort through his thoughts, but they seem slow and thick, not quite the ones he needs.
"Better dump this phone, then. Pick up a local number, and just give me a call from it so I can get ahold of you. And you'll probably need to pull out the fallback paperwork; I trust you still have it all? Got it stashed away?"
"Yeah, I've got it... But... um.... Zach? I can't run. Not again."
"What do you mean you can't run? What's stopping you? You've got nothing to tie you down there any more than you did here; surely if you can turn your back and walk out on your entire life you can stand to leave some town you've been in for less than a year." His friend's voice is sharp for the first time, more than just the curt, businesslike tone of neutrality he usually relies on. "Anyways, I'd say you should take the bus, pay with cash, they'll expect you to fly, won't be watching the roads as closely as the airport...."
"Zed. I'm not running." His voice gains some solidarity as he frowns, unwaveringly certain on that point. "I... I promised someone I wouldn't. Not again. Even if that bastard did turn me in. I'll... I'll call Ty. Let him know what's going on. See what he's willing to do to help me out...."
"You're going to what?! You can't do that! You can't let anyone else in on this... the more people that know where you are, the more you're at risk of getting caught, you know that!" Rom's not sure he's ever heard his best friend sound so upset about something. Usually, that would confuse him a little, and he'd want to know why it was such a big deal, but now, on edge and more than a little afraid that the life he's built is coming crashing down, it makes him angry.
"You can't tell me what to do with my life, B. I'm going to deal with this my way, and nothing you say is going to change that. If you want to help, keep doing what you're doing, you do it well. But if you can't do that, then leave me the fuck alone and let me take care of my own damn problems."
A long pause. A long pause, followed by a cold, bitter voice.
"Fine then. Have it your way. You always do. If you don't need me, I'm out. Call when you feel like being civil. But don't expect me to bail you out when the cops drag your scrawny ass back here and put you under house arrest."
He holds the phone to his ear in angry silence until the dial tone reasserts itself to tell him his friend's hung up. After that, he snaps the phone shut with an overzealous flick of his wrist and tosses it petulantly down on the bed. "Fuck." he whispers to himself, fear pounding in to fill the silence.
"What's wrong? What happened?" a soft voice asks from the other side of the small, dark room. He looks up to see Al sitting on the edge of his bed in his pajamas, looking gently confused and concerned, delicate features arranged in an expression of slightly guarded worry. The older boy groans softly and drops his head again, face buried in his palms. He takes a deep, shaky breath before daring to answer, not sure his voice will be steady enough.
"I'm... Well, that is... Somebody called my dad and told him where I am. The cops'll be looking for me, maybe as soon as tomorrow. The old man's got a lot of leverage. I... I have to do something."
"What do you need us to do?" Al asks instantly, not even hesitating to consider what might be involved in hiding someone from the police.His roommate frowns and looks up at him again, clearly startled by the question.
"You guys...? No. I can't get you two any more wrapped up in this mess. You and Adrienne have been wonderful to me; putting me up and putting up with me too, seriously, you're amazing. And that's why I can't ask you to help. If I get caught..." he shudders visibly at the thought "...If that happens, anyone I'm found with will probably be tried for kidnapping even though they know that's not what happened. Dad'll want someone to blame, publicly. And I can't let that happen to you guys. I have to go. The only thing you can do is pretend you don't know me if they come asking."
"Are you sure? I mean.... You're kinda like family, you know? We may not be much of one, but families take care of eachother. If you need help, we can do that."
He could almost cry, listening to his friend say that. Al can see his shoulders shaking slightly, and crosses the room on small, silent feet to sit on the edge of the other bed beside him, a slender arm draping tentatively around his shoulders in a gentle hug. He holds him lightly as the older boy shakes like he might be crying, though when he finally does look up his face is dry. "Sorry." he whispers, biting his lower lip. "I mean, I shouldn't be falling apart on you, here. I can deal with this. And you're amazing for wanting to help.... but I can't let you. I'll call Ty. Tell him what's up. We'll figure out what I should do... Maybe he can hide me a while, or we can go somewhere and come back when this blows over, or if it's okay with him I might go solo for a few weeks and sneak back into town once they're sick of not finding me. The most you can do is not tell them anything. If they ask, you don't know me. You don't recognize the pictures. Never met anybody that fits my description. But I have to go...." he finishes, voice trailing off. "I need to pack. Better if I let Ty sleep, call him in the morning.... But I have to be ready when I call. You wanna help with that, maybe?"
"Of course. What do you need?" Al's delicate hands have been rubbing a light, idle pattern on his tense shoulder, calming him with a reassuring touch and letting him focus. Now the hand falls away as he stands, ready to creep downstairs for whatever his friend needs. He considers waking Adrienne.... telling her what's going on.... but decides, since there's so little they can do, that he may as well let her sleep. They can fill her in in the morning. Rom lists a few things, some from the laundry room and others left scattered around the house, and he slips quietly down the stairs to find them.
Rom, meanwhile, flicks the light on and closes the door to keep it from spilling into Adrienne's room across the hall, and begins to gather his belongings. Compared to his house in L.A., there's not much, but he knows now that you can fit a whole life in this relatively meager collection of things. He piles his clothes into an oversized army surplus duffle bag, disregarding wrinkles as he stuffs t-shirts in beside neatly pressed dress pants and his favorite red and black leather jacket. Beside the duffle bag is his guitar case, open, with the guitar laid beside it so he can get to the compartments under the neck and the well-hidden spaces inside the lining. He pulls a stack of papers from the largest of these and shuffles through them to find what he needs; a stack of birth certificates, social security cards, passports, and driver's licenses where they're appropriate. Five full sets.
He looks at the names, each set neatly paper-clipped together and labeled, and pulls out 'Owen Coburn' in place of 'Romney Cooper,' as well as the papers labeled for Adrienne and Al. Call it a parting gift... He'd put together the paperwork for them on his own, after learning they only had fake documents. His method is more solid, because it doesn't involve fake documents; instead, he gets real papers based on his own alterations to the original records. Harder, and bigger trouble if you're caught at it, but he's had quite a bit of practice and isn't worried anymore about that. It's his one true skill in hacking; he's not a lot of help with more than busywork as part of the group, but he can whip up new identities without breaking a sweat. He puts their papers and his own fresh, unused set aside, and carefully slips his real things and his preferred fake back into their hiding place. On top, he reverently replaces his guitar and latches the case, setting it aside.
By the time Al gets back with a few more clothes, a couple of notebooks, and the shoes he's not wearing, he's arranging his bulky laptop and its various cords and peripherals in the padded messenger-style computer bag he bought not too long ago--a black bag with the X-Men logo on it. He's more or less dressed, wearing knee-length black shorts with more pockets and straps than strictly necessary and a plain white ribbed tank. His sleek chestnut hair is pulled back into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck, the shorter pieces that frame his face slipped loose. He gives Al the briefest of smiles as he thanks him, distantly, for getting his things, then turns to shove them into their appropriate places. His posters have been stripped off the wall on his side, rolled up and stashed behind the chair; he's not going to bother to take them, but doesn't want to leave evidence that someone besides Al is living here, either. Al sits on his bed again and opens a bag of chips he brought up as well, offering them to Rom.
"Here. Eat something. You'll feel better if you're not hungry." the boy suggests softly. Rom turns from his bag, zipping it shut, and gratefully accepts the food. He sits on the floor, back against the side of his bed, and Al slides down to follow suit opposite him. They munch in silence for a moment, neither looking directly at the other, until Al speaks quietly. "You'll always be welcome here, you know. When they stop looking... Come back, okay? Even if it's just to visit and say hi and tell us you're marrying Ty or something. Even if you have to bring him along."
That startles a laugh from him, even tense as the older boy is. "Hey, come on, we're not you and Con, Elfkins... I don't see marriage anywhere in the near future. But I'll tell you right now, if you and your darling pet boyfriend have a wedding planned when I get back, I'm gonna be upset if you don't ask me to be in the ceremony."
Al finds himself relieved by the renewed lightness of his friend's voice. "Everything's gonna be fine. They won't find you, you can come back, and it'll all be okay. And someday you can be in the wedding, as long as you behave yourself and don't do anything asinine before then."
"I hope you're right, shortstuff."
Nothing to do but wait for morning.