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be such a psychopath, would ya? Thanks, Brandon, you big fucking prick—by all means take up residence in my head-space right now.
    But Mikhail looked up at him with a smile. “Da,” he said, his accent even stronger. “Then we must bandage this one in fine Faire clothes—is your wallet thick enough for good healing?”
    Shane grinned. “Consider it a ‘green-thumb’ kind of hospital,” he said happily, and although Mikhail was laughing, he realized that Kim was looking at him with something like pity.
    “Still talking in code, huh, Shaney?”
    Shane let out a big heaving sigh. “Yeah, Kimmy, sorry ’bout that.
    But I’d love to go shopping. And maybe while we’re at it, you could help me find this shit too?” He pulled out his carefully made list and gave it to his sister, who gave it to Mikhail.
    “You have a girlfriend?” Mikhail asked, and dammit, there could be no mistaking the disappointment in his voice.
    “More like a little sister and a niece,” Shane corrected hastily, and Kimmy said, “Hey!”
    Shane shrugged, turning his attention back to Kim. “Sorry, sweetheart, but it’s true. I’ve sort of got… I don’t know. A family at home. Brothers—one of them a real pain in the ass, but I think he loves me like a brother anyway. A sister—two, actually—and they’ve got babies. It’s….” He grimaced, remembering the day he’d met Deacon and Crick and their motley crowd in Deacon’s kitchen. Motley, oddly assorted, with complicated stories, but still family.

    “It’s complicated,” he said at last lamely. “But mostly it’s family. I love ’em.”
    “And I am?” Kimmy asked, her face set in stony lines. Kimmy never had liked not being the center of attention.
    “Always invited for holidays,” Shane told her gravely, and her face relaxed a little.
    “Well, I guess it’s good you’ve got someone the other three-hundred-and-sixty-four days of the year,” she said grudgingly. “Wait here.
    I’ll go change.” She’d stopped in front of a tent big enough to sleep maybe four people and ducked inside.
    She left Shane looking awkwardly at her two companions, trying to reconcile “Brett” to “Puck” and “Mikhail” to “Oberon.”
    “So,” Shane said, wishing he could think of some way to be smooth,
    “you, uhm, don’t do the Faire circuit full time?” Mikhail looked at him hopefully, and Brett grunted, “I’m out of here,” and socked Mikhail on the arm. “Remember, we’ve got a show at two o’clock—try not to be jerking off before curtain.” And with that, the guy with the long hair and hairy pants stalked off.
    “Asshole,” Mikhail muttered sourly at his back. “And no,” he continued, turning to Shane with a slight smile, “I don’t do the Faire circuit full time. It’s sort of my….” He paused, searching for a word.
    “Mad money. I teach dance during the week. I’m saving for something, and that’s where this”—he indicated the tip bucket—“usually goes. And that reminds me….”
    With that the little dancer stuck his head into the tent and said,
    “Kimmy—don’t you usually keep this for us?”
    “Jesus, Mikhail, give a girl a little warning!” Kimmy’s voice was muffled through the tent and what sounded like clothing.
    “Like I care about your breasts. Here—I don’t need any more temptation to spend my money, right?”
    “Yeah, I hear you. I’ll put it here, and Kurt will make it safe when he gets here. Now move! This fucking thing’s a bitch to lace up, and queer or not, I don’t want witnesses.”
    Shane’s heart did a fantastically orchestrated happy dance, complete with acrobatics and costume. When Mikhail popped back out of the tent Making Promises

    wearing a long turquoise colored vest over his bare chest, it was all Shane could do to not babble like a moron.
    “So, um….” His tongue froze in the back of his throat, and it occurred to him that there were worse things than babbling.
    “You are Kimmy’s