For once able to enjoy the football game, Betsy re-crossed her legs on the ottoman with a contented sigh. "Pam says it's tradition in her family that whoever cooked gets to relax."

Gerald, sitting next to her, nodded approvingly. "She looks Irish to me."

"She's awesomesauce," Larissa declared from the floor, hunting through stacks of photo albums. For some reason, she couldn't find Jim's baby pictures. There was a great one of him in a tutu that Pam just had to see.

Pete asked the room, "Does Jim even know how to wash a dish?" He imitated the crack of a whip. Gerald smacked the back of his head. "Jeez dad, just a joke," he whined, wincing.

Larissa glared daggers at him. Although she'd done the same thing earlier, it wasn't the same at all. She'd done it to Jim's face, to make him smile. Pete was doing it behind his back, to tear him down. He was just so… mean-spirited, she reflected. The fact that he was wasted certainly didn't help, but he'd always been a natural asshole. Even as a child, he'd never seemed to understand that there was a line between teasing and tormenting. Or, if he did, he crossed it anyway and failed to give a shit. She decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. "I don't think Jim's been this happy since we pantsed Pete on prom night."

Flushing angrily, he stood up and furiously stomped toward the kitchen.

"Pete," said Gerald warningly, starting after him. He didn't know what his son had in mind, but he had at least 9 beers in him by now. Almost anything could happen, none of it good.

Larissa jumped up impulsively. If Pete did one single thing to wipe that dopey grin from Jim's face, to put that anxiety back in Pam's eyes, she would do much worse than shooting him with foam darts.

Under her breath, Betsy said quickly, "Larissa, sit down. Tom, for god's sake say something. He won't listen to anyone else."

Standing with a resigned sigh, Tom called out, "Pete… leave him alone, man. For once."

Pausing, Pete looked over his shoulder incredulously. After a moment, he strode to the front door, slamming it behind him.

Betsy thanked Tom, then scolded Larissa quietly. "What are you thinking? Damnú air!" [Damn it!]

"I'm thinking I'm gonna slap him in his stupid face!" Larissa retorted, keeping her voice low.

"You instigated that," Tom accused her.

She ignored him, looking earnestly at her mom. "You weren't there. You didn't hear what he said to Jim. You didn't hear the way he said it. Jim is fully within his rights to beat the living shit out of him. And now Pete's trying to fuck with him again?"

Jim poked his head out of the kitchen. "Everything okay?" He'd heard the door slam, although the sound of running water had prevented him from hearing the subsequent discussion.

"Hunt fumbled," Gerald covered smoothly as he sat back down on the couch.

Jim groaned. "Why are they even putting him on the field?"

"He's terrible," Tom agreed, taking his seat. Larissa re-settled herself on the floor, continuing to look for Jim's baby album. It had to be around here somewhere.

"Thank Pam again for washing the dishes, won't you?" Betsy asked, relaxing back against the cushions.

"Hey, I'm helping," he protested good-naturedly, gesturing at his dishcloth.

Pam called from the kitchen. "Jim, I'm getting backed up. You suck at drying."

He grinned and turned around. "How do you wash 'em so fast?" he asked, disappearing back into the kitchen.

Betsy smiled, normalcy restored. Her expression turned into a frown when Larissa turned back to Tom, restarting their argument. "He tortured Jim for years while you stood by and did nothing. Stop being Switzerland for once and do the right thing. Give him a ride home before he ruins this day more than he already has."

"All of you are always welcome under this roof. He's your brother," Betsy argued.

"So is Jim," Larissa countered. "And last I checked, he was the better one."

"Enough," Betsy said warningly.

"Shut up and watch the damn game," Gerald concurred firmly.

--

Pam picked up a large pot and began scrubbing. As Jim took it from her, he planted a kiss on her temple. Quickly, he dried and put it away.

"Aren't your lips getting tired?" she giggled. After making out behind the shed for a good twenty minutes, he'd been giving her a kiss for every dish she washed. And every utensil. And two for every dish with food caked onto it.

"A worthwhile sacrifice," he joked easily. "It's motivational, Beesly. The faster you wash, the faster we'll be done. And the sooner we can watch football and eat pudding."

"What kind of pudding?" she wanted to know, expecting vanilla or chocolate. Maybe banana. She'd always liked banana pudding.

"Carrageen moss," he told her with a smile.

"What." She froze, staring at him blankly. "Moss pudding? Tell me that's an Irish word, and not moss moss."

He chuckled at the horrified look on her face. "Not an Irish word. But it doesn't contain actual moss. You use the moss to make gelatin, which is used to solidify the pudding."

"Gelatin, huh…" She nodded thoughtfully. "That explains… so much about you." His jello pranks had always been among her favorites.

He stepped closer, glancing downward. "I am a fan of all things jiggly."

"Not what I meant. Perv," she whispered, unable to hide her grin. "I'm still not sure I wanna try it."

"Oh, I've tried them," he said seriously. "Trust me, they make the best dessert."

Firmly, she nudged him away with her hip. "My eyes are up here. Don't make me slap you."

"You nerf-murdered me in cold blood, then danced adorkably on my grave," he reminded her. "You can't be scared of an innocent, tasty little dessert."

She stuck her tongue out at him. "You established that it doesn't taste like moss, but you haven't told me what it does taste like. And," she protested primly, "I'm not scared. Just deciding."

"It's not as weird as it sounds," he reassured her with an easy smile. "It's basically vanilla pudding with raspberr--"

The front door slammed against the wall as Pete stormed back into the house. "Dad," he shouted angrily.

She dropped the sponge with a nervous start, looking anxiously toward the living room.

Fuck you, Pete, he groused internally. The moment thoroughly ruined, he turned off the water and put his arm protectively over her shoulder. "I'm so sorry. He's enough of an asshole when he's sober. Add alcohol and…" He waved his hand, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

"Gimme my keys!" Pete yelled churlishly.

She worried her lip between her teeth. "He's not planning to drive drunk, is he?" 

Sure sounds that way, he thought contemptuously. Frankly, it didn't surprise him a bit.

"Sleep it off upstairs," Gerald replied brusquely, rising from the couch. "You can have them when you're sober."

Pete grunted just before a loud thwap resounded off the wall. At the sound, Pam whimpered and froze.

Jim put his arm around her shoulders, his stomach twisting miserably. "I'm sorry, god I'm so sorry." And so ashamed. Jesus fucking christ.

"Get. Him. Out of here." Larissa demanded coldly from the living room.

"Love... Loyalty... Friendship... Love. Loyalty. Friendship. Love, loyalty, friendship, love loyalty friendship loveloyaltyfriendship," she whispered over and over, each iteration increasingly more frantic than the one before.

Impossibly, his heart soared as it sank. Soared at the words she chose to comfort herself. Sank at the reason she needed to, and the way she was saying them. She'd told him she used to have panic attacks, but her last one had been months ago. He'd never seen one for himself. His urge to protect her mounted quickly, became all-consuming between one heartbeat and the next. He needed to get her out of this house. Now. "Come on, let's go," he murmured.

Betsy picked up the phone. "I'm calling a cab," she said determinedly.

She didn't move, couldn't think, felt literally paralyzed. Looking like a deer in headlights, she stared at the wet, soapy suds dripping from her hands and repeated the mantra helplessly.

"Come on, man," Tom said firmly. "I'll drive you home in your car. 'Riss can follow us in hers, and we'll ride back together."

Jim pressed his mouth against her temple, worry creasing his brow. "I love you, starshine. Walk for me, okay?"

"Like hell I will," Larissa argued. "He wants to drive so bad, let him get a DUI."

At those words, Pete lumbered heavily toward the kitchen.

"Jim!" Larissa cried out, running after him.

"Pete!" Tom exclaimed simultaneously, close on her heels.

Gerald followed them both. "Son, calm the fuck down!"