Huck began to feel a slight panic creep back into his heart.

He had more or less shaken his wariness of being within bullet distance of Gracie's relentlessly curmudgeony bulldog-faced grandfather when they'd left the house, and as a result he had spent the rest of the afternoon in happy, goofy bliss. In times like those, very few things really pushed Huck's buttons, and a theoretical grandfather was not among them.

Slipping out of the driver's side of his car, however, he felt all his worries poking through his psyche once more. The house itself was daunting enough, what with its massive size and its elegant architecture and its fine furnishings. But Huck really hated the idea of being castrated like a spring bull, and the gleam in Eamon's eye was just indicative enough for the poor boy.

As he made his way back towards her house, he noticed for about the ninetieth time that afternoon that their hands had found each other, and the feeling of her warm, soft fingers against his little cuts and calluses made him a little less scared. "Me hair probably looks a state," he commented idly, his grip tightening.

"So, but for real, though," he veered off-topic as they came to her front door, "Why didn't you ever tell me you were friends with Swimmies?"

As the Ford slowly rolled into the driveway, Gracie thought that up until now it had been a rather good day, all in all. Ever since they had left the house, everything had gone as smoothly as she would have liked; she had taken him to the diner, introduced him to her friends, and showed him about half a dozen other places she liked and thought he would like, the thought that he might not never crossing her mind. And the whole time they had been out, nothing irritating or embarrassing had happened. Even the bloody weather had cooperated.

But now, though. . . when the boy beside her turned off the gas, Gracie couldn’t help but join him in his slowly swelling apprehension.

After all this time her granddad, she was forced to admit, still hadn’t taken to Huck—at all. Sure, he’d been frien- nice- no, polite enough when they first met, way back when the two of them were still in first year, but even that took a turn for the worse as they’d gotten older. He had made that much clear when he’d done his own brand of sulking for the last four days, and only cemented it when he tried to crush her friend’s hand—never mind that she had brought Huck as a friend, and he wasn’t even the first one she had brought home, either.

. . .Boy, that is.

And now, she thought with a smothered sigh as beaten dirt path gave way to wooden stair, they were all going to have dinner together, him, Huck, and her aunt—and her mum if they were really, really unlucky. Lovely. At the offhand comment Gracie mustered up a decent, genuine grin and elbowed him in the gut—or tried to, anyway. “I could ask the same of you, idiot,” she said, still grinning as she poked his chest with her free hand. “You barely say squat about your family; for all I know-”

She cut herself off, her grin widening even more. “That’s just it. I wouldn’t know. And besides, like I said—it never came up.” Between schoolwork and the usual drama that came up, there may have been a mention of Americans at some point or another, but even that seemed hardly enough to inject an ‘oh, I know one or two, actually’ somewhere in there. It seemed dangerously close to bragging—the gauche kind.

Gracie sobered. “And now you’ve met mine. Part of it.” Most of it. Save for dinner, her aunt wasn’t really around all that often much; Hezbith’s visits were sporadic at best. And her mother. . . the girl considered herself lucky that the woman so rarely emerged from her workshop. “Decided you want to try Flooing home in time for dinner?” was asked lightly. “I’m sure we can have Tracy’s mum transfigure your Bronco into a toad that you can take with you. She’s good at that sort of thing.”

The smile had died a little by then, but what was left was still there. She wouldn’t be blame him—be upset—if he did say yes. Much.

In fact, as she gently—unconsciously—thumbed the inside of his wrist, it was almost. . . wistful, to say the least.

 

Huck threw his hands up in mock hurt. "You see half of my family every day anyway," he replied with his trademark broad smile. "You want to start hangin' around Frankie, is that it? You wanna get picked up for stealing tic-tacs and have to do my dishes for the rest of the summer? Because that's what she's doing." His grin was a warm and fond one- as much as he loved Penny and Veronica, Frankie was the absolute apple of his eye. She had been taking his stuff since she was old enough to move around on her own. It was probably a legitimate mental problem she should receive help for, but until she could be tried as an adult, Huck figured it was okay to let it just be her adorable quirk. Who was going to get mad at a little girl?

His grin faded a little, almost exactly when Gracie's did. "Tryin' to get rid of me?" he asked wryly, already well ahead of the front she was putting up. He was pretty good at reading her, and her little digit worming its way around the soft part of his wrist told him more than she possibly could have with words. "You know I can't floo on an empty stomach," he replied, stretching his arm out across her shoulders and giving them a firm squeeze. "No, it'll have to be dinner. There's no other way."

Huck squinted, going back wordlessly to a few minutes ago in the conversation. "Wait, you've met me parents, haven't you??"

She laughed a little at the reminder. True, back at school she did see his sisters almost every day. . . almost. Veronica—sassy, girly Veronica—was best friends with Naomi, who was like a sister to her, and both girls were third years (now fourth) in Slytherin; rarely a day went by that Gracie went without seeing either of them. Penelope, on the other hand, not so much; since she was in Ravenclaw and all, their paths didn’t cross all that often, and less so after her breakup with Luc. But, the about-to-be-sixth year liked the younger girl, too. The second year was quiet compared to her older sister, yes, but it was a quietness that made the kid more than merely tolerable in the Slytherin’s eyes. The sixteen-year-old quite liked her, to be honest.

But if Gracie had to name a favorite, well. . . suffice to say it was Frankie—the youngest of the three—who won, hands down. And it had nothing to do with how much the girl’s baby blues looked so much like her older brother’s.

Besides, they all had to start out small, didn’t they?

Her teeth half-bared in a genuine grin, Gracie elbowed Huck in the middle, though not hard enough to dislodge his arm. “Moocher,” she laughed, feeling something inside her ease. Trust him not to let anything get in the way of a free meal, she thought, inwardly rolling her eyes—and even that was thought with a smile, too.

Gracie already had her hand on the door knob—feeling the raised, tarnished surface of a rearing lion against her palm—when he spoke again. She gave him a funny look. “Uh, yeah,” began with an eyeroll, until she stopped and thought about it. Then, “Not since the beginning of fourth year, when we were boarding the train to get t’ school,” she finally admitted, quietly cracking the door open and wiping her feet on the doormat. An expert pat to the left found her the light switch, and she flipped it on. In an instant the dark hall flared up, lit by the single crystal and brass chandelier hanging above. “It was before I got onto the platform. Granddad usually sticks around to make sure I pass through alright, but he doesn’t like it. That time he couldn’t stick around anyway and left as soon as he saw you guys by the wall. I don’t think we exchanged more’n the usual how-d’you-do’s at the time, actually.” She had spotted Livi somewhere down the platform, she remembered, and had left her friend’s family with total certainty that he wouldn’t be far behind.

And then a thought occurred to her, and another grin crept across her face. “You know, you should invite me over to your place,” she leered, brows waggling with a finesse that could only be taught by one other. “Best time as any, with school out an’ all-”

“Tae whose place?” rumbled an all-too-familiar voice from the kitchen’s archway. Softly its owner padded into the hall, and gave both teens the patient look of one waiting for someone to choke on his or her foot further.

“Granddad!” Gracie uttered brightly, before her lips clamped shut with commendable speed.

   

Huck looked up into the sky, trying hard to remember the incident. It came back in fuzzy blotches to him- first, the image of Gracie flitted back, and he remembered the feeling of being gleeful to see his friend again. Huck had always gotten along well with the more intense and confident members of his house, and he supposed it was due to his natural second banana qualities. Gracie was no exception. Since first year he had tottered around after her, mostly existing to make her look infinitely more clever and beautiful by comparison. He got along the same way with Xavier and Strellie. All of his friends, for the most part, were intensely hot and brooding and brilliant in a way that bordered on evil genius. And everyone like that needs a dopey best friend to stick by them.

He would, of course, have loved to invite her over. His mother had been used to seeing Xav and Strellie but Gracie hadn't really ever been around. And as much as he respected Eamon as a human being and as Gracie's grandfather, it'd be super to hang out in a place where he wasn't afraid of having his skull crushed into powder at all times.

And speaking of which- as he opened his mouth to reply, the man in question appeared like a cat from around the corner. Huck jumped in his skin- Eamon didn't remind him of his granddaughter often, but at that moment he understood it. "Hello, sir," he replied as quickly as he could, wishing immediately that he could sink into the ground and disappear.

As Huck bore the brunt of her grandfather’s attention and visibly wilted on the spot, Gracie casually—carefully—edged away form her friend, that bright, easy smile on her face not budging an inch. Long ago she’d learned that in most cases sudden movements were ill-advised. In time, however, she had also learned that there were times that staying still, exactly as you were, could be the worst thing you’d ever do. This time—seeing how close they were that certain things, to a particular eye, were really only a matter of distance—was clearly one of them.

With typical eloquence the man responded to the greeting with a stare that lasted a heartbeat too long and a growled “War’ ” that spoke volumes, and then turned the look on his errant granddaughter. When he did, his expression warmed slightly, though not by much. “Yer aunt’s in th’ kitchen,” he told her gruffly, scratching at that thinning hairline under the fedora that almost never left his head. “Sheh brough’ th’ min’strone li’ yeh arsked, though fool wummin’s got th’ damned idea in ‘er head tae cook bouillabaisse.” The last word was spoken perfectly, with contempt. “Gonna get meself a drink in th’ basement. Ye two go’n ‘n help ‘er.”

Before he ducked back into the kitchen, the old man flashed Huck a shark-like smile. “She’s gonna wan’ tae meet ye.”

The last of her grandfather’s bulk disappearing under the archway, Gracie dropped the smile and made a face. All this posturing. Men. “Aunt Heppie’s harmless,” she said, rolling her eyes. Out of all the words there were to describe her absentminded chatterbox of an aunt, the word was at the top of her list. “She’d cover everything in the house with lace and paisley an’ candles if she could, but she’s harmless, I promise.” The corner of her mouth quirking upwards, she hooked a hand at his elbow and tugged, drawing him into the kitchen.

At the stove a short, dumpy woman worked busily, alternately peering at a cookbook and a pot, muttering to herself all the while. Her hair—a giant, fluffy yellow—was pulled into a straggly ponytail, and the cardigan she wore was a kaleidoscope of purple, orange, lime green and red. When that wry, affectionate “Auntie?” drew her attention, the woman trilled magnificently, and loudly. “Gracie!” she exclaimed, a ladle still in her clutches as the teenager was gathered up into a hug.  “ ‘Ello, lovey, did’jer have fun? Yer grandfather tole me ye were bringin’ ‘ome a bey ag’in-”

Up until that point the girl had been patiently suffering her great-aunt’s grip, but now- “Auntie, this is Huck,” she cut in, pasting on a broad smile as she peeled off the woman’s arms. “Huck, my Aunt Hezbith-”

“Ye c’n call me Aunt Heppie, too, lovey,” the old woman cooed, fluffing up her hair with a wrinkled hand. As she stepped forward for a better look, light brown eyes—ordinarily far-off and dreamy—were bright with interest as they raked over him. “My, aren’t ye a ‘andsome duck. Have ye two bin datin’ long?” Lashes batting, she added, “If it doesn’a work ou’…”

Her tone trailing off suggestively, Hezbith Relish let loose a vibrant laugh that made her sound younger than her years.

Off to the side, Gracie tried counting to ten. She gave up at two. Sick of sounding like a broken record, the girl went towards one of the cabinets and began pulling out enough plates for five, shaking her head slightly as she did with only the barest hint of a grin.

   

Huck's face scrunched into one of deep consternation at Eamon's words. Even after Gracie assured him that her Aunt Heppie was "harmless," he still harbored a sense of concern. If Gracie was so sure that the woman wasn't anything to worry about, why had Eamon's face been so full of... well, something that Huck wasn't quite that well-versed in but he had seen on Gracie's face in her scarier moments. He squinted at the retreating back of Gracie's grandfather, wondering just what the man knew that was still eluding the boy.

He followed behind Gracie with apprehension. At any moment, he knew that he could be taken by surprise and forced to...  do something unpleasant, he was sure.

As soon as he laid eyes on the woman, he dropped his guard. His strong suit had always been sweet-talking older women, and back on a playing field he was comfortable with his face melted into its usual shit-eating grin.

He held his hands out approvingly and looked back to his friend with mock outrage. "Well, saints, Grace, you migh' 'ave mentioned wha' a dish yer aunt was!"

Have you two been dating long?

A brief moment of uncertainty passed over him, but he caught a small smile on Gracie's face and felt emboldened. "Oh, miss, you can't think an angel like Gracie would waste her time with a scruffy mutt the likes 'a me."

She snorted. Of course those two would get along along. ‘Course, Huck was pretty much eating up honey without checking for bees, so to speak, but she was confident (read: resigned) that her friend would find out soon enough. “Rubbish!” Hezbith pah’d, waving her hand dismissively. What odd, mismatched bangles that hung off her plump wrist jingled noisily. “Yerra fine, ‘an’some boy yeself, lovey—wiv good eyes I might add! But, I’m afraid yerra leetle too young fer me…”

Even with her back turned, the girl knew her great-aunt’s eyes were fluttering.

Gracie rolled her own.

“If I’ve been wasting my time all this time, then you can take these—” She pushed that stack of plates into his hands, “—and set ‘em out in the living room. Silverware’s in here.” A drawer slid open, and then closed. Something long, sharp, and metallic glinted in her hand. “This,” she held it up, “goes to Granddad, he gets first cut unless he says otherwise.” She set it on the countertop. “I’ll take out the cups, but I don’t think Auntie’s finished with-”

“Gracie, yer friend is our guest,” her great-aunt tittered as she bustled back to the stove. A shadow—possibly Greebo—slinked past her skirts and darted into the next room. “But,” a glance was thrown Huck’s way, “it is kind of you tae help, lovey. It’s always good tae ‘ave anuvver strappin’ pair o’ arms aroun’ ‘ere, what wiv Gracie’s no-good grandfather ou’ so often…”

As she passed by him, Heppie beamed at him—patted his cheek—and then, smooth as butter, gave him a pat on the bum before returning her attention onto the stovetop completely, humming (or cackling?) under her breath as she did.

   

Huck feigned a pleasant sort of shock. "Surely you can't mean me, miss!" he replied, putting his hands on his chest. "Listen, age don't enter into it. It's a plain open-and-shut case of you bein' out of me league, is what it is." A cheeky grin brushed his features, and he stretched his muscles in a very calculated way.  He knew Gracie would have none of it, but that was a necessary evil.  If he didn't flirt with older women it would just be a total break from character for the boy, and a change like that could very well rip apart the fabric of time and space.

Really, it was for their benefit.

Gracie's comment, however, saw the grin slip slightly away. Wasting her time? Had she concocted some kind of goal in her head regarding their friendship? Huck had definitely done the same, but the theoretical idea of it surprised him.

His eyes widened to the size of saucers as Gracie held up the knife. "What?" he hissed. "I can't give your grandda a knife! He'll gouge me tongue out and use it to hang me!"

He attempted to quickly stifle his terrified squeaks as Heppie walked by, but found himself instead uttering one long "uhhhhhh" sound as he felt the woman's hand on his butt.

Without moving a muscle, he shot his glance over to Gracie. In a rare display, his cheeks washed with a rosy flush. He didn't dare say a word.

As soon as that wrinkled palm swatted his bum, Gracie froze. She did not just-

But she had. And that, Huck had just learned, was Hezbith Relish for in a nutshell—youthful, vivacious, and completely inappropriate. Very, very slowly, green eyes rose to meet blue. At the sight of that deep, undeniable bloom of pink flushing her friend’s face, Gracie didn’t know whether to laugh or die of embarrassment. Of all the days for her aunt be, well, herself. . .

And Eamon had warned him.

After a conflicting moment in which laughter and embarrassment fought for control, the girl’s features—so normally sly and relaxed and utterly composed—finally settled into a look that could only be called a grimace. Of long suffering. Quite naturally, her eyes skittered away, and the rest of her followed; pink, Gracie had a terrible, terrible suspicion, was beginning to creep into her own cheeks as well. “He will not,” she muttered, denying the idea in a slightly muffled, strangled voice. Eyes were kept averted as she went over to the fridge. When a bag of pre-made salad was pulled out—followed by a head of lettuce and fresh romaine—she took refuge in cutting them up and mixing them all in another bowl.

Just a little bit pink, she cocked a slight grin at him and added, “Not with that one, anyway, geez. Nasty much?”

“Are ye done wiv th’ salad yet, Gracie?” Hezbith called over her shoulder.“Th’ soup’s just about done an’ I’m sure yer friend will love it…”

Looking over her shoulder, she gave Huck a saucy wink.

Merlin’s balls- “Huck’s not really a, a soup kind of guy, Auntie,” Gracie interjected. Hastily, she grabbed a pre-washed tomato out the sink, chopped it up, and mixed it into the salad. That done, she swiped up the bowl and hooked an arm through his. “Physical condition, you know-”

And before her great-aunt could let out so much as a cry of disbelief, the girl dragged him out of the kitchen and into the living room. Gently, she kicked the glass door shut behind her. The bowl clicked quietly against the tabletop.

“Oh. My. God,” she uttered, and slid into a seat. She folded her arms; her head dropped into them with a muffled thunk. Why did her family have to be so embarrassing?

 

Huck's eyes darted between Gracie and Heppie. He wasn't panicking, necessarily, but he certainly needed to be thinking more quickly than he was. Certainly there was the consideration to be made that he didn't want to do anything to offend Gracie's family (although, if he were speaking honestly, he wasn't entirely convinced that Heppie would have been offended by a whole hell of a lot), but at the end of the day he would have knocked the old lady down the stairs without a second thought if he thought it'd make Gracie happy.

Finally, squashing the expression of childlike shock on his face, he cleared his throat. "Confidence!" he commented, gesturing toward Heppie and doing an admirable job of keeping his tone light and carefree. "Now there's an attitude I can respect. I think that'll be my new years' resolution this year. 'Be More Assertive.'"

Had he blown it anyway, with his knife comment? He searched her face quickly, before deciding that the best course of action was to simply backpedal. Waiting until the woman's back was turned, he leaned a bit closer to his friend. "You know I'm kidding... right?" he asked her under his breath. His smile didn't waver. Didn't flicker. Not for an instant.

He was about to expand on Gracie's explanation of his troublesome tummy when she suddenly hauled him from the room like a sack of potatoes. Damn. He tended to forget her strength. She was probably stronger than him just in everyday situations, but in situations like this that got her dander up she could easily rip a car door right off its hinges.

A wry grin seeped onto his face. "You're really that embarrassed?" he asked, leaning down on the table to be at eye level with her. "If it makes you feel better, if I was your grandda and I saw me walkin' through the door I'd want to scare him off, too."

As he thought about how to bring up the other member of her family present, he looked to the side shyly and a little grin escaped him. "And... y'know, yer Aunt Heppie..."

A beat. The grin broadened.

"...I feel like that's pretty much going to be me when I'm that age."

That age. Even the thought of it. . .

She couldn’t help it; she laughed.

“Oh God,” Gracie snorted, turning her head just enough so that he’d see the grin on her face. Eyes that had once been shut tight with chagrin—mortified—now shone bright with laughter, even through choppy, haphazard bangs in dire need of a trim. “What, you mean a dirty old man? Charming, Huck. Really.”

Hells, she could see it now: him, a fifty-something with sticky hands for bums that were barely legal, hair thinning at the top and all soft around the middle. Possibly same delinquent slouch. And that familiar shit-eating grin, so bright and incorrigible, completely unrepentant. . . it’d be there as well, wouldn’t it?

She bet he’d even have most—if not all—of his teeth, too.

“If anyone was him, you’d always be scared off, period,” she smirked, deft fingers flicking at his nose. Innocently, as she rose from her slump to prop her elbows on the table, Gracie batted her eyes, that lopsided half-smile on her face not fooling anyone for an instant. “Dunno what there is to scare off, though. For the life of me I can’t figure out why…”

She shrugged, grinning up at the blonde cheekily. “But now that you mention it, I guess you would end up being like her when we’re all gray an’ old. I’ll probably take after Granddad—just more attractive, of course.”

Huck, who had been leaning on his folded elbows with his head down, laughing silently, looked up at her with a toothy grin. "Oh, aye, when we're old and gray, is it?" The smile remained after he said it, but the teasing gleam had faded from his eyes. Only his fondness shone through then.

Feeling that he'd let his gaze linger a little too long, or let it become a little too telling, Huck gave another soft snicker and let his line of sight drop sadly back to the table.

The boy was really an open book, all things considered.

He was rotten at hiding his feelings. Sometimes that didn't matter- like when he was bored in class and could feel okay about sighing loudly or making silly little drawings of his professors. But other times, like this time, he would have given anything to be able to at least- at least dampen the sunshine that glowed through him when he was with her.

Rubbing a hand on the back of his neck, he tried to steady himself. "So, seems like we might not see too much of your mam tonight, yeah?"

The words had been just at the tip of her tongue: ‘All,’ she almost said, ‘I said “all”-’

And then they’d died. He was looking at her, in that way that made her throat go dry so many times before, that always distracted her, made her forget things, that made the tiny voice in her head go ‘oh,’—before it was gone with that small snort of laughter as he looked away.

Hesitantly, Gracie opened her mouth. . . and shut it, frowning.

“Hell, I hope not,” she scowled, sidelined by the thought of her mother making an appearance. It was almost enough to ruin her appetite, and just enough to distract her completely. “She’d just- just- ugh. It seems like it, doesn’t it? She hardly comes for anything, and when she does-” I run for cover. It had taken a while for the girl to learn that, but she had. It was that, or spending the next however-long-it’d-take silently bearing the rants and tirades that came her way. And Marceline Slant—the only shame her daughter ever bore for something other than her own actions—could go on for hours.

Her features twisted as she struggled to find the right words, and keep them in. Finally, she sighed. “She’s working on something, I think.” The rest—‘she always is’—was left unsaid. “If I’m lucky, I only see her ‘bout once or twice a year, three times tops. Dunno what the project is this time. And I don’t really care.”

Perhaps the sad thing was, she really didn’t.

Abruptly, she pushed away from the table and rose to her feet; her troublesome aunt had been gesturing wildly at her through the glass. “Anyway, you stay here,” she grinned down at him, pushing all thoughts of her mother aside. Slight fingers threading through short, messy blonde hair, they gently tightened and shook his head lightly before letting go. “You are a guest. Chill out for a bit, watch the telly, whatever… unless you don’t mind Auntie copping another feel, of course. Your choice, Huckleberry.”

He was, in truth, hesitant to look back up. Every functioning part of his brain and heart was afraid of what he would find. Surely she had noted his lovesick eyes, or the rosy tinge sweeping across the bridge of his nose, or- by some absurdly overdeveloped senses- his thudding, racing heartbeat surging as fast and loud and hard as hoofbeats or a bass line.

But, in the end, the reward outweighed the peril. His cool, dingy blue eyes found their way precariously back to her dazzling emeralds.

At a certain point, he couldn't even bring himself to look away. He stopped caring whether she was able to see through him. Because he was certain she could. And yet she hadn't totally ditched him.

He had to grin idly when she brought up her mother. He didn't get it. Sure, he fought with his own mother fiercely at times. They were two hotheaded, sarcastic, teasing people, and it was essentially the case of flint and tinder. Eventually it would erupt. But Huck and his mother also- the majority of the time- were best friends. He liked going with his mother to the store and gossiping about her friends with her. He certainly got along better with her than with his father, who was endlessly patient and loving but also was somewhat hard-nosed. Only Penny, out of all of the Ward children, had really turned out like their father at all.

He in fact couldn't imagine life without the company of his parents.

And it made him feel a little sad for Gracie that she didn't have the same thing. His own mother
 
"Aw, c'mon, Grace," he teased. "She can't be all bad."

At her offer, he shrugged. "I'm with ya," he answered. "Let her grope. It's a small price to pay!" He stood up and caught himself reaching to give her arm a squeeze. Dropping his hand quickly, he cleared his throat and tottered after her.