Note: I made a few small changes to chapter seven involving Emerson's attitude to the medication and its effectiveness. You’re welcome to re-read it if you want, but that’s a lot of reading for such a small change, so here’s a summary: Emerson’s medication hasn’t taken full effect yet, and he’s not entirely pleased about being on it. :) The end.

Eight

As far as apologies went, it hadn't been the best or most eloquent, but it had certainly been effective. Since then, he'd commandeered my couch on a near-daily basis and made lifelong best friends with my cat, and I began to fear a state of embonpoint from all of Nicolas's cooking. Recently, I’d hesitantly begun referring to him as a friend in casual conversation. I had to admit it wasn’t so bad having regular social interactions, even if it was as simple as watching the Discovery Channel for a few hours while I listened to him complain about my taste in television shows.

The night of my birthday party, Nicolas took up a post against the wall as I got ready, just to the left of a small, framed painting of a blue vase of flowers the same color of his eyes, where I could see him clearly in the mirror. He crossed his arms and watched me as I opened a new package of soap I’d retrieved from underneath the sink and began to wash my hands.

“I don't see what you're so nervous about,” he said eventually. "I think it's really nice that Harper invited me."

“I think she’s meddling, that’s what,” I mumbled, scrubbing furiously at my knuckles.

He tilted his head with a sour look. “Yeah, I can see that – inviting your only friend to your birthday party. There’s definitely an ulterior motive there.”

“Since when are you sarcastic?” I asked, setting the soap aside and rinsing my hands.

“And since when are you so suspicious and oversensitive?” Shifting positions, he uncrossed his arms, then abruptly crossed them again, watching as I dried my hands and washed them a second time. “Seriously, she’s just looking out for you. Lighten up, okay?” I caught his reflection in the mirror as he smiled at me. “It’ll be fun.”

“If by fun you mean catastrophic, then yes," I snapped, rinsed and dried my hands, then prepared for a third wash.

Nicolas watched me silently for a while, until my fifth time through the cycle, when he pushed away from the wall to stand at my shoulder. “So, is this normal, or are you just nervous about the party?”

“Um." I fumbled the soap, and it slid swiftly from my hands, onto the counter top, and onto the floor. “I should’ve figured you’d notice,” I said glumly, already stooping to fetch a new bar of soap from the cabinet.

“It’s kind of hard to miss,” Nicolas said, pointing to my lobster-bright hands.

I snorted softly. “I suppose.”

"Yeah," murmured Nicolas, adjusting his jacket almost awkwardly. “So, uh. Is it?”

“Normal, you mean?” At Nicolas' nod, I sighed, opening the new soap, and stood. “Yes, quite. It also doesn't help that stress—”

“—exacerbates the symptoms, I know,” he interjected, and I barely had time to wonder how he knew that before he was squinting at me. “So what are you so worried about, kid?”

“First of all,” I began, suddenly angry as I put my hands under the steady flow of sink water, “I’m not a kid. I’m going to be twenty-six. And second of all—”

“You’re going to be twenty-six?” he interrupted.

Frowning, I replied, “That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”

“Well, that’s great!” At my bewildered stare, Nicolas merely sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck and continued, “It’s like your lucky number, right? This will be a good year for you, I bet.”

“Lucky number,” I mumbled, irritably soaping up my hands. “Not exactly. But anyway, as I was saying, second of all, were you not paying attention when you met Harper? I call her Harpy for a reason.”

He rolled his eyes. “And here I thought it was because she had wings and flinched at the sound of trumpets.”

“You’re freaking me out with the whole sarcasm thing,” I said, a smile twitching at the corner of my mouth despite my best efforts to continue looking annoyed. Ducking to hide the expression, I went to rinse my hands.

“And you’re freaking me out with the whole obsessive cleaning thing.” Halfway through rinsing, Nicolas grabbed my hands and pulled them out from the flow of water, nodding to the irritated, red skin of my knuckles. “I think you can stop now.”

“But,” I protested, fidgeting awkwardly, and tried not to wonder about the last time he’d washed his hands.

“Chill,” Nicolas murmured soothingly, as though sensing my distress. He squeezed my fingers and grinned. “They’re your family. Nothing to worry about, right?”

“Langley’s going to be there,” I snapped, suddenly shaking him off. “Two more times and I’m done.”

“Fine.” Sighing, he pushed off from against the door, presumably to go play with Mistoffelees. I watched him with a vague sense of guilt and began scrubbing a little harder to distract myself.

As promised, two more cycles and I was done. I absently dried my hands on my hand towel and walked back into the living room, all set to grab my keys and wallet and head out. However, Nicolas jumped up from the couch with an alarmed expression and immediately grabbed my hand.

“Nicolas, what—” I began in surprise, attempting to pull myself away.

Nicolas cut me off. “What did you do?" he asked as he examined my hands with a somewhat slack-jawed expression. "You’re bleeding!”

“I’m what?” Following his gaze, I saw that my knuckles had crackled open and were indeed bleeding. “I…”

“You didn’t even notice, did you?” he asked flatly and pursed his lips. For a moment, it looked as though he were going to yell at me, but instead he merely sighed and glanced around the room. “Where do you keep the first aid?”

“Cabinet in the kitchen,” I managed to say, waving vaguely in the appropriate direction.

“Okay.” Releasing my hand, he trotted obediently to the cabinet to rifle around for a package of Band-Aids and triple-action antibacterial ointment. After finding them, he returned to discover me staring sullenly at the wall. “You okay, kid?”

“Sure,” I muttered with a shrug, too embarrassed to even comment on the ‘kid’ remark.

He shot me a decidedly disbelieving look. “Sure is not a very positive response.”

“Exactly.” Clenching my fists tightly, I fought back a grimace and continued in what I hoped was not a bitter tone, “I feel stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Nicolas murmured, face softening, and he pulled me to sit on the couch with him. Opening the box of Band-Aids, he smiled at me a little and picked out three knuckle bandages.

“Stop patronizing me. I know that’s exactly what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, so you’re a mind-reader now?" He looked unfairly amused. "Give me your hand.”

“Stop it," I grumbled, attempting to jerk away, and frowned when he reached out to take my hand by force. "I told you – I’m not a kid.”

“What’s that got to do with this?” he asked as he gingerly caressed my fist in one hand and squeezed antibiotic cream onto my knuckles. He rubbed it in with soothing fingertips while I glared venomously.

“I mean, you don’t have to treat me like some five-year-old. I can take care of myself.” Anxiously, I started twitching and subconsciously flexing my fingers.

Nicolas just raised one dark eyebrow and looked purposely down at my oozing knuckles. Softly, he clucked his tongue and said, “Uh-huh.”

“Oh, shut up," I snapped with a scowl. "It’s no big deal.”

“Stop twitching; you’re going to smear it everywhere.” Releasing my hand momentarily, he picked up one of the Band-Aids and peeled the paper away from the adhesive.

In a rare moment of obedience, I stilled and watched as Nicolas treated me to another gentle smile.

“Okay, here you go,” he said as he slowly and carefully applied the three bandages. “How do you feel?”

“Like a complete moron,” I blurted before I could stop myself. Oh, well; at least I was being honest.

Laughing, he crumpled up the paper from the Band-Aids and tossed them into the trash, already gathering the rest of the supplies to replace in the kitchen cabinet. “I already told you – you aren’t.”

I stubbornly crossed my arms and frowned. “I am and you know it, so let’s just drop the subject.”

“Fine," he sighed, admitting defeat, and unfolded himself from the couch to put the ointment and bandages away. "Are you ready to go?”

Stubbornly, “No.”

Nicolas made a face. “Em, what’s wrong with you tonight?”

“What do you mean?” I questioned as I followed suit, pushing off from the couch cushions to stand and put on my coat.

“Your family’s throwing a party and all you can do is complain. You’re freaking out for no reason, and this—” he pointed to my now-bandaged hand “—doesn’t usually happen.”

“So?” I asked, shoving my hand in my pocket.

“So,” he said and arched both eyebrows, “I’m worried.”

“Nicolas, stop it. You’re seriously pissing me off. How many times do I have to tell you to stop treating me like a kid? So stop calling me that, and stop worrying about me. How old are you that you think you can treat me like a child, anyway?”

“Thirty, but that has nothing to do with it,” he insisted firmly. “I’m not treating you like a child – I’m treating you like a friend.”

I blinked, unable to move my brain past thirty. “You’re old.”

For a moment, he could only stare at me, and then he broke into unexpected laughter. “Tell that to the businessmen who think I’m too young to own my own restaurant chain.”

“Huh?”

He just shook his head and closed the cabinet, joining me by the door. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Are you ready to go?”

“Um,” I said, glancing down at my bandaged hand, pressed black pants, and comfortable blue sweater. “I guess so. I just feel like I’m forgetting something.”

Nicolas gave me a pointed look.

“What?” I asked.

“Emerson,” he began, nearly laughing again, “when do you ever feel like you’re not forgetting something?”

My expression immediately darkened. “That’s not funny,” I muttered in a sour tone.

“Sorry." At least he had the good grace to look guilty. "I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It’s okay. Just…” I glanced down at my watch. “Give me fifteen minutes to double-check everything? I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Nope.” Grinning at my bewildered look, he continued, “I’d rather wait up here and watch you.”

“Um… Okay,” I said, feeling distinctly uncomfortable beneath his vivid blue gaze.

He shifted a little, as though realizing how his statement must have sounded, and awkwardly put his hands in his pockets. “Just so you don’t lose track of time and spend half an hour instead of fifteen minutes.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “That’s fine.”

-

We were late to the party, but it had probably been expected. My family was more than aware of my tendency to never be on time for anything, and Harper was predictably waiting outside to greet me while Langley busied herself digging a very big hole with a stick and ruining her ruffled pink dress. Upon seeing Nicolas, however, my niece promptly forgot any ambitions to dig a hole to China and enthusiastically threw herself at his legs in a dirty hug.

I inched away as discreetly as possible, and Nicolas's eyes were laughing when he looked down at me. Standing in front of us, Harper shot me a secretive sort of smile, and I had a briefly optimistic feeling about the party.

"Come on," Harper murmured, touching my shoulder gently, and motioned to the front door. "Let's go inside."

Once we were in the foyer of my parents' house, however, that optimistic feeling quickly faded.

Despite only inviting immediate family (and Nicolas, apparently), my mother had dressed herself in a crisp white blouse, complete with a blue suit jacket and matching skirt. She was obviously trying to impress Nicolas, which was stupid, in my opinion, because what the hell did Nicolas care about my mother's financial status?

"Emerson," she called affectionately upon seeing me and rushed over to greet me with a hug.

Ugh, I thought, but what I said was, "Hi, mom," as I put one arm around her and tentatively patted her shoulder twice before withdrawing.

"You must be Nicolas," she said as she turned to him, and she smiled at him, not unkindly.

I blinked at that.

"Hello, Mrs. Lyre," he returned her greeting amicably.

"Oh, do call me Verity, dear. It's so nice to see one of Emerson's friends."

Weird, I noted mentally. She's usually cold to strangers. Maybe this won't be so bad.

And then my dad walked out in a flamingo-print Hawaiian-style shirt, carrying a newspaper beneath his arm, and for a second I thought my mother was going to rupture something. Her spleen, maybe. Or my father’s head.

“Edward,” she exclaimed, swooping over to him with a borderline horrified/murderous expression. “What are you wearing?”

“My pajamas,” he answered crankily as he eased himself into a gray recliner, shifting his feet onto a mismatched ottoman, at which point I noticed he was wearing scruffy old slippers. From my side, Nicolas snorted, and I tried hard not to smile.

“It’s your son’s birthday and you’re wearing pajamas,” she repeated dubiously. “Is that the kind of impression you want to make on his friends?”

“I see ‘im.”

“Well, aren’t you going to introduce yourself?" she nagged. "It’s polite.”

Sighing, my dad folded his paper and looked pointedly at Nicolas. “Hello. I’m Emerson’s father, Edward. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Hello, sir,” Nicolas ventured uncertainly. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m—”

“Nicolas Biancan’t-pronounce-it,” he nodded. “Nice to meet you, Verity and Harper’ve told me all about you.”

“Uh,” Nicolas said, dumbfounded. “They have?”

“They have?” I chimed in behind him. “When did this happen? Harper’s only met him once—”

“Twice, actually,” my sister corrected.

“—and I didn’t think Mom knew he existed until five minutes ago,” I finished, sounding a lot more affronted than I actually felt.

“Well, don’t I feel special,” intoned my neighbor sarcastically from my side.

“Shut up, Nicolas,” I snapped, and just like that, it was easy. Harper laughed and called me a hopeless bastard, my mother squawked at hearing such language from her only daughter, and my dad bitched under his breath about the lack of good news these days. Looking unreasonably amused, Nicolas caught my eyes with his, and I suddenly felt like smiling. Even Langley couldn't bother me with her dirt-stained hands, partially due to the fact that she had confined herself in the kitchen to search for the cake, but mostly because I was actually in a good mood.

-

Overall, the party wasn't too mentally scarring. My mother insisted on Nicolas calling her Verity the whole night, Langley ran into the sliding glass door, and there was a point where my father gruffly announced that he'd been wearing pants for too long, goddammit, and that he wanted to feel comfortable in his own house – but beyond that, it had been almost fun. At least no one asked about my bandaged hand.

Also, it helped that there were presents.

"This is from me," Langley began the present-giving ritual boastfully as she handed me a folded piece of construction paper.

Accepting it hesitantly, I shot Harper a nervous look, and she merely nodded and made exaggerated 'go on, open it!' gestures with her hands. Carefully, I unfolded the paper and blinked at what was a crudely-drawn picture of me with Nicolas and an endless floating array of chocolate chip cookies. Even I had to admit that it was cute.

Smirking, I ran my fingers along the crease from the fold and gave my niece an unexpectedly affectionate look. "Thank you, Langley. I love it."

The little girl squealed appropriately and launched herself at me for a hug, but Nicolas was luckily there to grab her and turn her upside down, tickling her stomach until she shrieked and squirmed away. I mouthed 'thank you' to him and he flashed me a cheerful thumbs up. Discreetly, I squeezed some Purell onto my hands before anyone could hand me something else to open.

From Harper, I received a framed family photograph of her, Jordan, and Langley – which I privately planned on photoshopping Jordan out of – as well as a package of wonderful-smelling orange spice tea from wherever the hell Jordan was stationed at the moment. And okay, maybe I wouldn't photoshop him out of the picture, but only if he sent me tea on a regular basis.

My parents gave me an unnecessarily extravagant card with thick, embossed paper and gold-gilded writing, in which they had penned a long and heartfelt message and slipped in a ridiculous sum of money. Distantly, I felt a little bribed, or written off, like they couldn't have put in the thought of getting me a real gift, but it was probably the most appropriate gift they could have given. Money was always useful. I could buy whatever I wanted with it (cleaning products, cleaning products, cleaning products), and it wasn't like I'd told them what I'd wanted, anyway.

"Thanks," I told them all with a mostly-genuine smile. We'd already had cake, so I began placing the various presents into my messenger bag and started to say something along the lines of 'well, we'd better get going now,' but Nicolas's voice stopped me.

"Hey," he said in a mock-hurt tone, "you didn't forget about me, did you?"

I blinked at him. Although I'd given him a list of possible things to buy for me, I hadn't really expected him to give it to me here. I wasn't sure why I'd anticipated a private gift-giving setting, but it seemed like something Nicolas would do…

"Uh, no," I answered, feeling embarrassed. I set my bag back down. "Sorry."

"I'll forgive you just this once," he teased, leaning over the arm of his chair to snatch his coat off the coat rack, and dug into the breast pocket to produce a well-wrapped rectangular box. He tossed it at me with a grin. "Open it up."

Barely catching it in time, I took a moment to admire the blue paper and matching bow before I deftly slid my fingernail beneath the tape and opened it from the side. Into my hand tipped – well, it was still a rectangular box, but it was deep red with a silver-rimmed lid. I opened it almost reverently.

It was a watch. "Are you trying to tell me there's something wrong with my watch?" I joked, but my heart wasn't in it. It was a nice watch, and I felt irrationally guilty that he had bought it, because hell, did he really have that much money to spend on his neighbor?

"It must not work, because you're late all the time," he pointed out.

"I am not," I snapped on reflex, even though it was true. "And it works just fine!"

"It's old. You've had it since you moved in," said Nicolas bluntly, still grinning, and I felt a wash of surprise that he'd even noticed. "It was time for a new one."

"Yeah," I agreed, and looked back down at the watch. It was gold, and I suddenly realized that it was perfect – I was twenty six, and I had to move past all the time I'd wasted during the previous years. I smiled shyly. "Thanks, Nico."

His expression flickered. "Wait, what?"

I stared at him. "Huh?"

"What'd you just say?" he asked, leaning forward expectantly.

"Uh." Almost awkwardly, I looked at my parents and my sister before repeating, "I said thank you, Nicolas."

"Right." He dropped back into his chair, his mouth stretched wide in the biggest grin I'd ever seen. "You're welcome, Em."

Langley ruined the moment. "Cake time!" she declared, jumping into the air in excitement.

Groaning, Harper swept her daughter into her arms and settled her on her knee. "We already had cake, sweetie. It's late, so now it's time to go home."

"Can we bring cake home?" she asked brightly.

"No," Harper refused with a kind smile, "but you may have pancakes in the morning if you brush your teeth and go to bed like a good girl."

Rolling my eyes at my niece's antics, I took great care to slip my new watch into my bag and stretched before easing myself out of my chair. "Thanks for having us over, mom." I didn't bother including my father in the thank you, because he'd fallen asleep in his recliner at some point, his newspaper still open atop his chest.

"We miss you, Emerson," she said in a rare moment of sentimentality, rushing over to give me another hug. I cringed a little and wished desperately for a shower but said nothing.

"You too," I replied with an awkward pat to her arm. "I'll call."

"Good," she responded with a beaming smile before she turned her attention to Nicolas. "And you."

Nicolas looked cornered. "Me?" he echoed in confusion.

"You're such a wonderful boy." Looking as though she might melt with affection, she closed the distance between them and gave him a motherly squeeze. "Thanks for taking care of our Emerson."

"Mom," I hissed. "I take care of myself."

"He doesn't take enough zinc," Nicolas whispered conspiratorially. Mom laughed, and my jaw nearly dropped. How the hell had he won her over so easily?

"Make sure to bring him back with you next time," she told me as she released Nicolas. "He's a keeper." And then she was off to engulf Harper and Langley in a hug, nagging her affectionately that she should drop by for lunch more often.

"Bye, Mom," I said with a roll of my eyes, and waved goodbye to Harper where she was being assaulted by our mother.

"Did you hear that?" asked Nicolas with a boyish grin, ambling over to stop at my side. "I'm a keeper."

"You're a dumbass," I chided him fondly, ignoring the odd, near-galvanizing stir in my stomach, and wondered vaguely if I'd eaten too much cake. I found my coat and slid it on. "Let's go home and watch TV before I die."

He laughed, tucking his jacket underneath his arm, and held the door open for me. "Okay."

-

A/N: Okay, so… this took quite some time, huh? Sorry about that, guys. But see! I never give up on a story! So, hopefully you guys will stick with me and wait for chapter nine. :) Which involves a little romance, finally. (That’s righ – real live ROMANCE!)

So, everybody should review to make me happy and inspired so I can post chapter nine ASAP. :D