Ryan never remembers to eat, but Spencer has long since stopped trying to collect him for dinner. It’s just as easy to cajole a tray out of Cook later than to ferret out wherever Ryan’s wandered off to.

So Spencer’s alone when he slips into the dining room and finds someone who he doesn’t know, grinning at Jon like Jon’s discovered chocolate ice cream or shoe buckles – Spencer’s awfully fond of shoe buckles – and Spencer’s stomach does this flip. This truly annoying giddy flip that he quickly covers with a frown and narrowed eyes. Spencer isn’t all that comfortable around strangers.

Victoria stops by Spencer’s side where he’s hovering in the doorway. Victoria has always been the greatest of tomboys, but she’s recently ceased lacing their fingers together, and she’s recently started donning the most ridiculous dresses that Spencer supposes are stylish, somewhere, but seem a great deal more hassle than the lighter skirts she could ruck up to her knees when they went tree climbing out back. She clasps his hand now, though, and tugs him further into the room, whispering out the side of her mouth, “His name’s Brendon, and I’m afraid he’s the most adorable boy I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“More than me?” Spencer asks, smiling now, like he’s sure she meant to have happen.

Victoria pinches his arm playfully. “I just said, didn’t I?”

“Shrew,” Spencer says.

“Harpy,” Victoria counters.

He rubs his fingertips over his temples. “I should have never indulged Greta.”

“Like you ever have any say in what Greta does, Billy,” Gabriel says absently. He tilts his head back on the armchair and puffs at his pipe, teeth biting into the carved ivory.

Which is entirely true. They’re of like ages, and their families have been dear friends since years before either of them had been born, but if anyone’s the bully in their relationship, it’s Greta. William’s sure that’s how he’d gotten saddled with Butcher and Jon in the first place. If it’d been up to William, they both would’ve been raised in Derbyshire by Uncle Orlan, and William would’ve spent his bachelor years gallivanting about London, racking up massive gambling debts. Instead, he’s got Gabriel and a houseful of big-eyed orphans – but he thinks, in the end, he’s gotten a rather good deal. He’d never ever tell Gabriel or Greta that, though.

“You fret like an old woman,” Gabriel says. “Butcher’s known Siska for years, it’ll all work out fine.”

William is disinclined to believe him, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.

William is not entirely certain how this happened, how he became a veritable magnet for downtrodden orphans, but he’s going to blame Jon. Jon, who currently looks like a common street rat, dirt streaking his rosy cheeks and just south of his pert smile, perfectly serviceable breeches just that morning now torn beyond repair. Victoria isn’t going to like this one little bit.

“Care to explain yourself, Jonathan?” William asks, arching an eyebrow.

Jon just grins wider.

Honestly, William’s been saddled with the cheekiest ward. He doesn’t think he was this much trouble when he was fourteen.

“This reminds me exactly of you,” Gabriel says, slouching negligently against the hearth mantel, curve of his mouth much too amused for William’s comfort. William’s trying to be firm here, to lay some ground rules, so as young Mr. Walker can’t, er. Walk all over him. It’s bad enough Jon’s talked him into having the laconic, kitten-eyed Ross and his fierce little protector hanging about, snagging his best guest rooms, pestering Cook for warm tarts and hot cocoa.

“Stuff it, Gabe,” William says, cutting him a small frown before turning once again to Jon and the little bit of a thing clutching the back of Jon’s once snowy-white shirt. “Jon.”

Jon’s smile falters the slightest measure at William’s tone, and William watches as the little bit of a thing’s eyes widen, suddenly fearful, and William isn’t an ogre. William’s entirely too soft for his own good, apparently.

“You,” William says, and Jon’s mouth downturns even further, like William doesn’t have a good ten years on him, and his voice is practically a reprimand when he says, “Brendon.”

Jon is a whelp and the bane of William’s existence. He’s lucky William’s so fond of him.

William pinches the bridge of his nose and ignores Gabriel’s snickering. “Just. Clean him up, would you,” he says, because he won’t stand for grubby little paw prints all over the manor.

“I’m pretty sure I hate you all,” Joe says around a mouth full of nachos. Another Friday afternoon, another drunken taco fest with the gals. Already, the world is a little blurry. “I now know way too much about Ross’s dick and it’s your fault. All of you.”

The week had gone surprisingly fast, and Joe’s neighbor Naked Cop Bob – although Joe is seriously still suspicious about the cop part of that - has been surprisingly solicitous about his late night comings and goings. He hasn’t woken Joe up at all, and Joe had gotten to sleep until his alarm four out of the five days; Hemmy’d eaten something truly foul he’d found in the yard on Wednesday and spent most of the small hours of the morning hacking up dead things all over Joe’s bedroom floor.

Ashlee giggle-snorts into her hands, eyes dancing.

Brendon is waving his hands around. He says, “I know, I know,” and nods firmly at Joe, because they are of like minds, Joe thinks. There’s just some shit that they should never have to know about.

Greta pokes Joe in the side – Joe should’ve thought twice about taking up the seat next to her – and says, “Speaking of dicks,” – the word seems extra wrong coming from Greta, and Joe feels a little spike of nausea tickle low in his throat – “Jon says you saw your druggie neighbor naked.”

Joe groans. Fucking Jon and his fucking – perfect – weed. “He was just—there,” Joe says. There and awesome. With an impressive—ass. And, like, thighs. Right.

Joe definitely hasn’t been peeking out his kitchen window every morning that week, hoping for another look. Joe is not a pervert. Mostly.

“I’m not a pervert,” Joe says.

Ballato laughs. “Oh yeah, right, now that’s the god’s honest truth.”

Joe needs more beer. He steals Brendon’s glass, and Brendon just pouts at him, because Brendon is too good-natured to actually hurt Joe for stealing his beer, unlike Greta or Ballato, who would likely take off Joe’s hand, and possibly his dick – and, seriously, what the fuck.

“I hate you,” Joe says. He feels like this needs to be known. They have to motherfucking believe him about this, and then maybe stop dragging him to Lupe’s every week.

“Oh wait, wait,” Ashlee says. She presses the tip of her finger into the table, sliding it along until it bumps up against the giant plate of nachos. “Wait, have you seen whatshisname, the guy—the new guy. The new guy, guys.”

Brendon says, “His eyes want to eat me.”

“They do,” Ashlee nods. “They totally do, hon.”