"We seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures of our heart, but they have not the power to accept them, and so we go lonely, side by side but not together, unable to know our fellows and unknown by them." –The Moon and Sixpence, W. Somerset Maugham

Murtagh rested his head against the window, staring down at the ground far below. At this altitude, the land below looked surreal, as if he could swipe it away with a flick of his hand. Pressing his forehead against the glass, he gazed down at the airport, wondering how long it would be before he was kicked out of this particular foster home.

He snorted cynically as the thought came to him and leaned back in the uncomfortable airplane seat, one hand playing with the straps on his backpack. His record so far was one week—one particular 'foster mom' had apparently regarded those in the System as her own personal slaves; in return, he sold her laptop and diamond watch on ebay. She had been livid, of course, but Murtagh regarded it as justice: fuck with me, and I'll screw you right back.

"Murtagh."

Murtagh scowled, slumping deeper into his seat. Tornac, next to him, regarded him with a sort of world-weary patience. Sometimes, Murtagh felt sorry for Tornac—Tornac was a decent guy, just trying to do some good for the world on the pathetic pittance they gave social workers; he didn't deserve to be saddled with a headcase like Murtagh. Mostly, though, Murtagh was far too irritated with the world in general to care about Tornac's petty woes.

"Try not to scare them off, all right?" Tornac said quietly. "This is it, Murtagh. They're not just some set of foster parents; they're your family. Your aunt and uncle, your cousins—"

"Screw them," Murtagh muttered rebelliously.

"You can't 'screw them,' Murtagh. They've offered to adopt you. This is the real thing, Murtagh."

"Didn't want me, did they?" Murtagh snapped, hunching deeper into the seat. "Where were they for the past seven years, then?"

Tornac sighed, one of those exhausted sighs he did so well, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm sure they had their reasons," Tornac said tiredly. "The twins, Eragon and Saphira, well, Eragon has his little problem and Saphira is…headstrong. As for Roran—"

"Roran was busy screwing Katrina," Murtagh said, rolling his eyes.

"Well—I'm sure he was busy with other things, like getting a college degree and finding a job," Tornac said restrainedly. "And yes, he married Katrina. Just this past summer, as a matter of fact, so now you have a, ah, cousin-in-law. I think. I'm not too sure on familial relationships…" Tornac realized that his audience was rapidly losing interest and decided to try a different tack. "Look, Murtagh. You've been in, what, sixteen foster homes so far?"

Murtagh shrugged, still staring resolutely out the window.

"I know it can't be easy, going from home to home, especially considering what your birth parents did to you. But at the same time, just don't—don't—"

He looked at Murtagh's sullen face and sighed.

"Just don't decide to hate them before you've even met them, Murtagh. They're your family."

Murtagh's expression remained dark, and Tornac gave it up for the time being. The plane was landing; Murtagh would have to decide for himself soon enough.

They made their way through the airport formalities—no stops at the baggage pickup, as everything Murtagh owned was in his bag. The sixteen-year-old wore it slung casually over one shoulder, slouching sullenly in his dark red hoodie. Only his white-fisted knuckles, clenched tightly on the strap of his backpack, betrayed his apprehension.

They made their way to the lobby, where Tornac busied himself with fumbling with a sign that would announce their presence to Marian and Garrow. Standing hidden in Tornac's shadow, Murtagh slid a crumpled picture out of his pocket, staring fixedly at the photo. There was Marian and Garrow—Aunt Marian, Uncle Garrow—standing with their arms around each other, and then there were his cousins: Eragon, Saphira, and Roran.

Saphira and Eragon were fifteen-year-old twins, but they couldn't have looked more different: Saphira was a heartbreaker, with her luxurious dark blond hair framing a coy smile and deep sapphire eyes: no doubt that she had a train of guys panting after her like dogs in heat. Eragon, on the other hand, had mousy brown hair and a wan, heart-shaped face. Standing next to them, Roran dwarfed them both: a well-built guy who probably played college football at one point or another, his dyed auburn hair falling into his eyes as he beamed at the camera.

He hadn't seen them for bloody years. And then all of a sudden, they were seized by a sudden urge to adopt him out of the goodwill of their hearts? To become his family, just for the hell of it?

Ha. As if.

He snorted cynically, but his hands were gentle as he slipped the worn photo back into his pocket. He glanced at Tornac, who had located his sign. It said in cheery letters, Mr. and Mrs. Palancar, your party is here! Murtagh's eyes scanned the crowd, wondering who among the sea of nameless faces would step forward to claim him.

He saw them before they saw him or Tornac. Two of them, just two, Marian and Garrow. Murtagh felt his heart give an involuntary jerk and cursed himself for it—so what if the whole family didn't come to pick him up? It wasn't as he gave a shit, anyway. He wasn't really a part of the Family, after all.

Their eyes lit up as they spotted the sign, and Murtagh watched as their eyes flicked to rest on him, studying him appraisingly. He was well aware of the impression he gave—a sullen, ragged teenager with bad posture, bad acne, and most definitely a bad attitude. He narrowed his eyes, staring defiantly back at them—you don't like me? Well, guess what, I don't care.

They approached him and Tornac, smiles spreading over their faces. Murtagh eyed them critically and gave them grudging points for enthusiasm; either they were so insane that they thought the One Big Happy Family idea really was going to work, or they were Oscar-worthy actors. Tornac shifted his sign to shake hands with Garrow, and the two beamed at each other with equally lunatic smiles.

"Mr. Ryerson," Garrow said, "I'm so glad you brought Murtagh to us. I know it must have inconvenienced you…"

"Oh no, no problem, no trouble," Tornac said heartily. "If you have any worries, any concerns, you have my number. I'll check up on him in a month or so, and Murtagh knows how to reach me if things go wrong."

Like he was a dog or something. Oh, I'm so glad you took the time off to deliver little Fluffy to us...yes, if he starts pissing on the furniture or gnawing on your shoes, just give me a call and I'll send him right back to the pound, no worries…

"Hello, dear," Marian—Aunt Marian—said to him, jerking him out of his surly thoughts. Murtagh gave her a brooding look; she seemed unfazed, patting him on the shoulder. "You're a member of our family now, Murtagh," she said kindly. "I know we've been…well, a couple years slow, but better late than never, right?"

Murtagh shrugged and ignored her as she prattled on, her hand resting on his shoulder all the while. He jerked away from her touch as Tornac and Garrow finished their goodbyes.

"And Murtagh," Tornac said warningly as the greetings finished and as they prepared to leave. Murtagh half-turned, watching Tornac darkly. The older man deflated a little under the clear hostility in Murtagh's eyes, spreading his hands with a little sigh.

"What?" Murtagh snapped.

Tornac appeared to consider his options. "Just…try to settle down," he said at last. "And…don't do it again, okay?"

He obviously didn't want to scare Garrow and Marian off with a catalogue of all of Murtagh's crimes to date. Murtagh gave him a deliberately obtuse shrug. Two could play at this game.

"All right," he said out loud, giving Tornac a falsely angelic smile. "I won't do it again. Especially not in the shower."

He turned to go and felt a dark thrill of satisfaction run through him at the politely revolted look on Marian's face as she tried and failed to pretend ignorance. Day one with foster family number 17 was looking to be very rosy indeed. Idly, he wondered how many more he would have.

The trip back to their house was uneventful; Marian kept trying to introduce the town to him as they drove by, pointing out various landmarks as they went—"Oh, that's the church, dear, and that's the old construction site, terrible fire there last year, no one knew what caused it, and ooooh, that's the school where you'll be going to, and that's the local supermarket, it's a BiLo, but that's a bit of an oxymoron as it's actually incredibly expensive, we prefer Wal-mart…"

Murtagh tuned her out, staring listlessly out the window. But he couldn't help but be impressed by the house: two floors, an attic, a basement. Three bedrooms, two guestrooms, three bathrooms, one enormous kitchen, a living room, a dining room, and a rec center in the basement. He tried not to be overwhelmed by the splendor around him; with his luck, he wouldn't be surprised if they made him sleep in a closet. One foster 'dad' had tried to do that, and had been rewarded the next day with long, jagged tears in all his suits where Murtagh had taken to them with a kitchen knife.

Fortune, however, chose to favor him that day. Marian showed him to one of the guestrooms on the second floor, a respectable affair with furniture and carpet already in place. "It's a bit empty right now, I'm afraid," she said apologetically, gesturing at the unfilled bookshelf and closet. "We'll go shopping sometime to fill it all up, though, so don't worry."

Murtagh gave a noncommittal shrug as he sat down with a heavy thump on the bed. He could see Marian almost visibly wince as his filthy, unwashed self made contact with the padded quilt that had probably been handed down through generations and was a priceless relic that could be sold for millions on the internet. He pretended to be oblivious, scanning the room with an almost insulting air. "Thanks," he said finally. "It's nice. I guess."

"Um…yes," Marian said, wringing her hands. She hesitated, then said, "Dear, would you mind terribly, taking a bath? Or a shower, if you prefer. We're used to taking showers, but whatever you like. It's been a long journey, and you probably need to freshen up…"

"I don't have any clothes," Murtagh pointed out.

Marian eyed him calculatingly. "I'll get you some of Eragon's," she decided finally. "He's a bit smaller than you, but some of his larger clothes might fit. He did want to come to pick you up, dear," she added, "but he had a doctor's appointment, you see. He should be back soon, though."

Murtagh shrugged his indifference; Marian floundered, obviously unsure of what to say. "Um…I'll go get the clothes, shall I?"

Murtagh twiddled his thumbs and waited as thumping noises came from the room next door as Marian rummaged through Eragon's drawers, finally returning with a light gray shirt, baggy jeans, and boxers decorated with a motif of dancing lions. Murtagh raised an eyebrow as he took the clothes gingerly in one hand but didn't comment.

"Thanks," he said at last.

Marian paused—she seemed to be waiting for something more. When nothing else was forthcoming, she made quite a production of bustling away, saying as she closed the door, "Well, dear, the bathroom's down the hall, anytime you're ready…"

Murtagh waited until he was sure she had gone back downstairs before tiptoeing quietly to the door and locking it with a satisfactory click. He turned and regarded his new room with a calculating air for a moment, studying each and every object in it with a critical eye.

It was a nice room. A nice house, as far as foster houses went.

He stood there for a moment longer before heading back to the bed, reaching for his backpack. He unzipped it slowly—there wasn't that much in it, anyway. A few bucks, his toothbrush, a rock from some forgotten age, a crumpled packet of smokes that he'd managed to sneak past airport authorities and Tornac—no lighter, unfortunately, but he'd find one soon enough.

Squashed underneath all the junk was a stuffed animal, ragged and worn. It might have been a red dog once, but time had worn it down to a faint pink and one of the eyes was missing. Murtagh set it carefully on his bed, feeling silly and comforted all at once as he stroked the battered head with gentle fingers.

"Hiya, Thorn," he said quietly.

He made Thorn's head move; his ears twitch. Thorn's smile was sewn into place, but it still seemed as if the dog was smiling just for Murtagh, every single time. "Heya, Murtagh," he said in Thorn's voice, the tone warm and comforting, everything that Murtagh wanted in a father.

Murtagh patted his head, relaxing slightly. It was childish to keep on pretending, he knew that, but he couldn't bring himself to throw his only friend away, even if that friend was just a figment of his imagination. One day, maybe, he was going to have to face the reality that at age sixteen, he still had an imaginary friend.

But no. Not today.

"Nothing," he said at last, sitting down on the bed next to Thorn. "Just—well, here I am. Home. Supposedly."

Thorn was quiet for a moment. "You think it's not going to work, huh?"

Murtagh flopped back on the bed, throwing his hands up into the air. "Let's see…I'm a chronic klepto, I smoke, I've failed almost every class I've been in, I look like a classic hoodlum, and oh, now I supposedly wank in the shower. The only thing I've got going for me with these perfect people with their perfect house and their perfect lives is that I'm related to them through my mother. Thing is, for nine years they hardly cared, why should they start now?" He paused, breathing hard. "I give it a month. On the outside."

"It's not that bad, surely," Thorn said softly. "You used to be able to stay longer than just a month or two, you know. There was a time, for a year—"

Murtagh laughed tiredly. "Yeah, when I was eight."

"Don't knock it before you've tried it, at least," Thorn said. "You've only got two more years to go before you turn eighteen and get out of the System."

"To what?" Murtagh said, exasperated. "You know the statistics, probably better than I do. Over half of all foster kids end up on the street once they're out."

"Hey, stop feeling sorry for yourself," Thorn said sharply. "Two years is a long time. You never know what might happen. Like Tornac said—give them a chance, at least. Don't just automatically hate them."

Murtagh stared at Thorn for a long time; the dog's one eye met his gaze squarely. "I hate it when you sound like my conscience," Murtagh grumbled. "I thought I killed it a long time ago."

His head jerked up as a knock sounded on the door. Murtagh hastily stuffed Thorn back into his bag and made sure that his bag was securely zipped shut before heading to the door, cracking it open a couple inches. "Yeah?" he asked roughly as he regarded Marian.

"Is everything all right, dear? I thought I heard you saying something."

"I'm fine."

"Oh." Marian paused. "All right, then. I'm going to pick up Eragon. Uncle Garrow will still be here, though, so it's not like you'll be alone." She paused anxiously. "Are you sure you're all right, dear?"

"Yeah, fine," Murtagh said indifferently. He hesitated, feeling an unusual pang of shame at the curt tone of his voice. "I'll, um, go take a shower," he said at last. "Thanks."

Shutting the door in her face, he headed back to the bed, studiously avoiding his backpack all the while. No doubt that Thorn was smirking at him through the plastic.

He kicked the backpack under the bed, made sure that the cigarettes were securely hidden, grabbed the sad assortment of clothes, and headed for the shower.

Murtagh headed downstairs, toweling his hair dry as he explored the rest of the house. Garrow was in the living room, reading the morning's paper. He smiled absentmindedly at Murtagh as he rifled through the sports section. "Damn, the Rays lost," Garrow cursed, before looking up at his erstwhile nephew. "Oh, hey. There's food in the fridge, help yourself if you're hungry. But don't eat too much; Marian will be back soon."

Murtagh peered tentatively into the refrigerator, casting wary glances at his uncle. Help yourself was a phrase he rarely heard; no doubt there had to be some catch. Best to test the boundaries now, so that he'd have time to plan revenge should things turn nasty. Murtagh grabbed a bag of Snickers and ripped it apart, letting the bars spill onto the kitchen table. He unwrapped a few with much crinkling and snapping, working his way through the bag.

Garrow was oblivious as he continued to pore over his damn paper. Huh.

The door slammed open, and Murtagh turned slightly as a blond supermodel stepped into the house, shrugging off her backpack. She stopped at the sight of Murtagh, regarding him with narrowed sapphire eyes; Murtagh returned the favor. "Who are you?" she said sharply, her aristocratic nose wrinkling ever so slightly.

Murtagh was about to fire back some nasty comment when Garrow looked up, smiling. "Hey, Saph," he said.

The blond, Saphira, continued to regard Murtagh suspiciously. "Is this Murtagh? Our cousin?" Her voice made the last word sound like an insult. Murtagh smirked at her, leaning indolently against the counter. Saphira was everything the picture was, and more--the picture hadn't quite captured her curvy figure or the sexy purr of her voice. It was just too bad that she wasn't quite his type.

"Yes," Garrow said.

"Huh," she said finally as she tossed her bookbag onto a chair. Leaning over the table, she snagged a few Snickers bars of her own, continuing to eye him critically. "I'm Saphira, I guess," she said after taking a few bites.

"Cool," Murtagh said noncommittally.

"So, Saphira, how was school?" Garrow asked cheerfully, breaking the ice that was threatening to form.

Distracted, Saphira took her eyes off Murtagh as she answered her father; Murtagh took the opportunity to escape. He grabbed a few more chocolate bars and headed upstairs back to his room, locking the door behind him.

"So?" Thorn asked as Murtagh grabbed his pack out from under the bed and unzipped it, bringing the stuffed animal into view.

"Zip it," Murtagh said curtly. He pulled his cigarettes out from their hiding place and stuffed the crumpled pack into the pocket of his jeans. "Let's go out. I'm dying for a smoke."

"You don't have a lighter," Thorn pointed out.

"Fucking airport security checks," Murtagh grumbled.

"Don't swear," Thorn admonished.

"Shut up. There's a BiLo a few blocks away; I saw it on the way here. I'll work something out."

"You know, the first rule of playing the game of Happy Families is to stop shoplifting."

"How else am I supposed to get anything? Come on, let's go." Murtagh eyed the window with a calculating eye. Leaning his head out of it, he studied possible methods of descent. It opened to a view of the backyard, which fortunately didn't have a fence or anything like that. Once he got to the ground, he could just walk away. It would be a bit of a drop, but he wasn't afraid of heights.

Murtagh ducked his head back in, busying himself with the construction of a makeshift rope. It was more than just a simple smoke: he liked to have alternate routes of escape in case his foster parents locked him inside his room/closet/basement. Nothing quite pissed them off as escaping from his room when he was supposed to be grounded.

"Oh, stop looking at me like that," Murtagh muttered irritably under his breath at Thorn's accusatory gaze as he tied the rope to the bedpost. He shoved the stuffed animal back into his backpack and zipped it shut. Slinging it onto his shoulder, he muttered "Well, here goes nothing" under his breath before launching himself out the window.

Success on the first try. Murtagh braced himself against the wall for balance as he let himself slowly down the rope to avoid friction burns, praying that the knot he tied would hold his weight. He didn't test it for long before he jumped, landing heavily on the ground—midjudging the landing, he cursed as an aching pain ran up his leg. Fuck, just what he needed, a twisted ankle.

He limped to the wall, cursing repeatedly under his breath. At least no one had seen his antics, which was a small blessing, but still—his ankle couldn't bear his weight without aching pains shooting up and down it, how the hell was he supposed to get out of here when he couldn't walk?

He stayed crouched by the wall for a moment longer, wincing every time he tried to walk. "Shut up," he muttered to Thorn in between the cursing, imagining what his friend would say—something undoubtedly smug along the lines, "Well, karma, ain't it?"

"Now, that's not very nice."

Murtagh looked up sharply to see Saphira, leaning against a tree not far away. The blond was eating a piece of toast now, perfect teeth glinting as she delicately nibbled. "Did anyone ever tell you that you have a foul mouth, cousin?"

"Fuck you," Murtagh answered wholeheartedly.

"Ooooh. And I wasn't even going to tell Mom anything about these." In between two manicured nails, she held up Murtagh's pack of cigarettes. Murtagh's eyes widened as he patted his pockets frantically, but they were empty. Of course—Saphira was holding them.

"Smoking is bad for you," Saphira continued. "It rots your lungs and when you get older, they have to cut a hole in your throat just so you can breathe. Plus, it gives you bad breath."

Murtagh didn't answer her taunts, eyes fixed on her. She wanted something. She'd never stay around to gloat if she didn't need this extra leverage to blackmail him. He clung to that thought, staring fixedly at her, and she smiled, tossing her hair.

"You look so cute glaring at me like that," she told him pertly. "Not going to work, I'm afraid. Roran already tried everything he has on me when I was younger, and it didn't scare me then, either. I think perhaps—"

"What do you want?" Murtagh snapped through clenched teeth.

She smiled again. "Nothing. We are family, after all." As if by magic, a lighter appeared in her hand. "And I'll even give you a light, just because we're cousins."

She sidled closer, turning the wheel. The flame burst to life with a soft snick, dancing as she delicately picked a cigarette out of the box, lit it, and handed it to Murtagh. Murtagh accepted it wordlessly, staring at her all the while.

He took a cautious drag of the cigarette, exhaling smoke rings into her face. She sniffed delicately but didn't cough, which honestly, could only mean one thing. "Don't tell me you sneak them too," he said disgustedly. "You just said it was a filthy habit."

"Me?" Saphira said innocently. "Of course I don't, because it's a filthy, terrible habit." She smiled angelically, twirling the lighter in her fingers. "Stamp out the cigarette when you're done, all right? I'd hate to have my room burn up."

She tossed him the packet of smokes and tucked the lighter back into her pocket. "Hope your ankle gets better soon, cousin," she said over her shoulder as she sauntered into the house.

Murtagh's nose twitched as he stared at the space she'd just vacated, and he took another drag before mashing the cigarette onto the ground, and as per Saphira's orders, stamped on it with his uninjured foot until the fire was out. He couldn't afford to have his clothes smell of smoke, at least until he stole some air freshener or a new change of clothes, even.

Murtagh stayed crouched by the side of the wall for a moment longer before getting awkwardly to his feet and limping into the house. Saphira was in the kitchen, washing her hands—she gave Murtagh a dazzling smile that he didn't return. He couldn't help but notice the lighter sticking out of her jeans pocket. She had to be lying. How many girls carried something like that around on a daily basis, if they didn't smoke as well?

"Dad went out," she said in response to his stony but puzzled glare. "So it's just you and me. Is your face permanently stuck that way or what? Because honestly, the whole nasty glare thing is getting old."

Murtagh's scowl deepened, followed by the conviction that nothing good was going to come out of this, dammit. He'd had little enough contact with the fairer sex over the past few years (or indeed, with humanity in general) and trading insults with an insultingly gorgeous girl was not going to improve the situation. But damn if he was going to run away like a coward. "Don't lie," he said coldly.

"Lie?" Saphira asked, one perfect eyebrow raised as she shut off the water and dried her hands with a paper towel. "About what?"

"Who the fuck carries a lighter around if they don't smoke themselves?" Murtagh snapped waspishly, jamming his hands into his pockets.

"Who the fuck doesn't carry one if they do smoke?" she returned. "And besides, you didn't have to jump out the window, you know. Once Mom and Dad are asleep, they're dead to the world." She smiled. "Very easy to sneak out, really."

Murtagh regarded her through narrowed eyes. "And I suppose you'd know all about it," he said darkly.

"Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies," she said brightly. "But let's just say I've had a few midnight liaisons myself."

"Boyfriend?" Murtagh grunted, grudgingly interested despite himself.

"Maybe," she allowed. "You?"

Murtagh glanced sharply at her; there was nothing but interested innocence in her face. He shrugged noncommittally, not precisely ready to spill his guts out just yet. "Never stayed long enough," he muttered.

"Oh." Saphira was quiet for a moment. "Well, Mom mumbled something about adoption plans, so I guess you're going to stay here for quite a while, right?"

Murtagh snorted. "Yeah, you wish," he muttered under his breath, crossing his arms protectively across his chest. He made the mistake of glancing at Saphira and flinched away from her gaze, as it was no longer cool or condescending but instead held a nauseating measure of compassion.

"Stop looking at me that way," he growled.

She blinked. "What way? What, you think I'm going to cry over your sorry ass? Dream on. Cousin."

He grunted disbelievingly but didn't say anything. Saphira turned away, and her hair hid her expression from view. Murtagh fiddled with the hem of his shirt for a moment before standing up and heading upstairs. Behind him, the phone rang, but he ignored it, limping up to his room and slamming the door.

Someone had glued glow-in-the-dark stars onto the ceiling, forming the shape of the Big Dipper and a few other constellations that he didn't know. Murtagh dropped onto the bed heavily, staring fixedly up at the stars. His hand rested on Thorn's ragged fur, pulling the stuffed animal close.

"Well, I met Saphira," he breathed into Thorn's neck, nuzzling the threadbare ears. "What do you think, Thorn?"

Thorn gave a quiet chuckle, and Murtagh smiled. "She kind of reminds me of you," Thorn said. "Well, if you were a girl, that is. And about ten times better looking."

"Not my fault," Murtagh murmured.

"What, that you look like something the cat just dragged in?" Thorn teased gently.

"Shut up," Murtagh growled, scrubbing his face with his hands. He knew what he looked like—his father, goddammit, may the fucking drunkard rot in hell. From old pictures, he knew that he could probably be Morzan's twin—same dark hair, bad skin, thick eyebrows and shit-colored eyes. If there was any of Selena's blood in him, well, he certainly couldn't tell just by looking.

Murtagh crossed his arms over his chest, turning his head to look slightly at Thorn. The stuffed animal's button eye was nearly falling off—again. Murtagh had fixed it at least three times over the years, always swearing that the next time it happened, he was going to throw Thorn away. Stop the daydreams, kill off the imaginary friend, and get on with life.

But what's so great about life?

He scowled and sat up, raking his fingers through his hair. "Shut up," he said to nobody in particular, hating the sound of his own voice. It sounded flat and surly, a reminder that he'd never fit here, with these perfect people and their perfect life.

He heard the downstairs door open, Saphira's voice rising in greeting. Slowly, he got up and poked his head out of the window—seeing nothing, of course, as it opened out to a view of the backyard. He could guess who it was, though.

Murtagh sighed and glanced at himself in the mirror over the vanity table. He was a mess, nothing new there.

Well, it couldn't get much worse than it was, really. He twitched the covers over Thorn to hide him from view and headed downstairs. He made his way down the stairs quietly, ready to flee back to his room at the first sign of trouble.

"Murtagh!"

Inwardly, Murtagh groaned as Marian called him. So much for subletly—Marian was one of those people gifted with brass lungs and a voice that could float over a screaming mob and bring them all to order. Reluctantly, he entered the kitchen, where Marian was busy unloading grocery bags. Saphira was wrestling a bag of peas into the freezer, blowing him a kiss as he walked by. Murtagh grimaced, turning his attention to the mousy-haired boy who was putting cans of soup into the cupboard.

"Murtagh, dear," Marian said, smiling sunnily at Murtagh. "I don't believe you've met Eragon yet! Eragon, this is your cousin, Murtagh. He's going to be part of our family now."

Eragon smiled at him, wiping his hands on his shirt as he held a hand out for Murtagh to shake—so absurdly formal, it made Murtagh want to laugh. He studied the hand insolently, implying with every fiber of his being that it was beneath him to shake hands.

Eragon's smile wilted, and he dropped his hand to his side, looking awkward. "Well," he said slowly, carefully. "Guess not."

Marian gave Murtagh a reproving glare, but Murtagh could care less. He examined his cousin with narrowed eyes, comparing him critically to Supermodel Barbie Saphira. Twins they might be, but it looked like Eragon was still trapped in the awkward preteen years, while Saphira had stolen away the elegance of early adulthood.

Eragon blushed under his scrutiny, something that would be endearing on a girl, but just stupid on a guy. Murtagh thought about giving a contemptuous snort, but something about Eragon stopped him. Something told whatever scrap of decency he had left that it just wouldn't be right. Murtagh's stomach squirmed angrily at this sudden attack of conscience, and his scowl deepened.

It would be like kicking a puppy, really. And you didn't do that. You didn't hurt somebody who couldn't fight back.

He settled for giving a noncommittal grunt and turned away. "I'm going out," he announced to the silent kitchen. His ankle wasn't really up to a long jog or anything, but it was better than staying in the house with all the accusing stares that he was bound to get now. He made sure to slam the screen door as he left.

He soon discovered that the thing about grand exits was that you couldn't just nip back to pick up the things you forgot. There was a park three blocks away from the house, perfect for a clandestine smoke. If he had cigarettes. If he had a lighter.

Part of him itched to go shoplifting, but Murtagh stifled the urge. He'd never stolen without Thorn along for the ride—Thorn was his good-luck charm, sort of, even if he was just a stupid stuffed animal.

He sat listlessly on a swing in the park, smirking as a mother with two kids quickly ushered her children away from him. The little kids were cute, in a Hallmark-card sort of way. Big chubby cheeks, wispy golden hair. The kind of kid that any mommy would adore, and the kind of kid that you'd keep away from the kind of kid that Murtagh was.

It was just another example of how damn peachy this whole neighborhood was. Perfect suburbia—pretty kids, happy marriages, gorgeous homes that looked like they came straight out of a catalog. And where did he fit into this picture? Surely this place couldn't be spot-on 24/7; where did all their fucked-up kids go? Locked in the cellar, where no one ever saw them again? Thrown into special-ed classes, sent off to military camp, what?

He stood, unable to sit still any longer. Screw this. Family, they said? What, they thought that it was some sort of fairy tale, the prodigal cousin come home, happily ever after? Obviously, Tornac hadn't filled them in on the fine print.

"I'm so sorry, officer, he won't do that again…"

"Well, sir, it appears that your son—"

"Nephew. Murtagh. His parents are dead; we've adopted him."

"Oh. Well, sir, that still doesn't change the fact that your nephew tried to shoplift a cigarette lighter and a—" a rustle of pages— "certain items of women's lingerie."

There was a pause. "Oh."

"Look, now, ma'am, you say that he's your nephew? Murtagh Morzansson, is that correct? Are you aware that he has a record? Numerous counts of shoplifting, vandalism, a few minor drug charges—"

"Good Lord, Marian, that social worker never told us—"

"Garrow! Look, Officer, I know that it looks bad. But can't you let him off this one time? He just arrived today, he just needs time to adjust—"

"Marian, stealing a thong is not adjusting. It's perversion."

"I think he's trying to tell us something, Garrow."

"What, that he's horny?"

"Garrow!"

"Sir, ma'am, I'm sorry. With a record like that, I'm afraid I can't just let him off on a warning—"

"Officer, please—"

"Marian…"

"Garrow, work with me! Officer, it won't happen again. I promise. Is the manager going to press charges? He can do community service, anything. Just don't haul him off to juvie court."

"Ma'am…"

"Officer. Please. Garrow, help me."

"Officer, I'll send him off to military boarding school if he doesn't cooperate."

"Garrow!"

"What? First day here and he's already tried to shoplift. What's next? He's going to slash our tires or something like that, you just wait, Marian. And with Saphira in the house—"

"Saphira hardly needs protection, you know that."

"She's fifteen!"

"She has a boyfriend, and I don't see you objecting to Shruikan."

"That's because Shruikan's a good kid. Straight-A's, good family—"

"Sir—"

"And Murtagh's not? May I remind you that he is your sister's son, God rest her soul—"

"Selena was always too flighty, look at the ass she married—"

"Um, sir? Ma'am—"

"Garrow! It's not good to speak ill of the dead—"

"I'm not; I'm just saying that maybe with Eragon and Saphira it's best that—"

"SIR! MA'AM!"

"What?!"

"Look, the manager has agreed not to press charges. This time. So get your kid—nephew—home and get his head straight. If he pulls a stunt like this again, he's definitely going to court, with a record like that."

"Thank you, Officer."

"I mean it about boot camp, Marian."

"Garrow…"

"No. If he ever tries this again, I'm sending him off. Okay, maybe Saphira can take care of herself, but Eragon? Have you ever thought about what might happen, if something happens and Murtagh's the only one in the house? I'm not risking that, Marian."

"But—"

"Let's get that kid and go home, Marian."

"He won't do that again. Just give him a chance."

"I already did, and he blew it. He's going to have to work hard to earn another one if he wants to stay here. And that's final, Marian."

Murtagh stared at the moon outside and tried not to think.

It hadn't been so bad—they hadn't hit him, anyway, which had led to some very interesting incidents in the past. Garrow just yelled a lot about military boarding school while Marian just sighed sadly, which, oddly enough, was a lot worse. Eragon had stared at him with huge round eyes at the realization that he was a Bad Kid and Saphira, well, Saphira had sat by and enjoyed the entire show.

But at least they knew now. Murtagh allowed himself a grim smile as he leaned back, banging his head gently against the wall. They knew what to expect. And so did Murtagh—the best way to judge character (and the usual duration of his stay at any particular home) was to watch their reactions as he did something flamboyant and so obvious that the only option any sensible cop could have was to arrest him.

Somebody knocked on his door. Murtagh glanced at it, resigned. Probably Garrow, coming to yell at him again. He didn't bother to tell them to come in—one thing that Garrow had been so kind to reveal was that they had keys to the lock, effectively making the lock useless.

"Psst. Hey."

The door swung open a crack, Eragon's head poking in cautiously just in case Murtagh was standing behind the door with a chair or something, ready to brain the first person who entered. In fact, Eragon seemed surprised to see Murtagh seated on the floor by the window, staring listlessly at the moon.

"What do you want?" Murtagh said, glancing cursorily at him.

Eragon stared at him with round, dark eyes. Murtagh sighed and looked away. "Either talk or get out."

"Why'd you do it?" Eragon asked.

"Do what?" Murtagh said.

"Murtagh, nobody steals a thong unless they've got serious problems," Eragon said softly. "Unless they want to be noticed, or unless they're just plain stupid. So which is it? Which one are you?"

"I'm the kind that wants you to get the hell out," Murtagh said, but he didn't move.

"Saphira was right about you, you know," Eragon murmured.

"Well, forgive me if I don't care what Blondie has to say," Murtagh said in a bored drawl. "Speaking of which, you know that she probably smokes? You part of her game? The two of you huddle around in a room and share cigs, or what?" He smirked humorlessly. "I'm almost out, you know, care to share?"

Eragon tilted his head, studying him like an ornithologist would study an exotic bird. "She doesn't smoke," he said simply.

Murtagh shook his head tiredly. "Whatever." He sighed as Eragon continued to stand in the doorway. "What do you want?"

"You're no more messed up than the rest of us, you know," Eragon said quietly. "Don't think that you're alone."

Murtagh opened his mouth to retort and stopped. It was just something about the way Eragon said it, or maybe the way his eyes caught the moonlight, suddenly seeming much older than his years. Closing his mouth, Murtagh swallowed, feeling an odd thrill run down his spine.

"I'll remember that," he said gruffly. "Now fuck off."

Eragon left, closing the door behind him. Murtagh curled his knees up to his chest and propped his head on the windowsill, staring out at the still night and wrestling with the strange lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. His hand absently rubbed Thorn's ears, the dog pressed safely to his side.

A flash of movement caught his eye; Murtagh squinted and leaned forward for a better look. Mounds of bright hair, made silver in the moonlight—he almost laughed as he recognized who it was. Barbie Saphira, sneaking away for a midnight liason with—well, well, who was that?

Sharply chiseled features, dark hair that swept impressively into his eyes, a muscular build that suggested weightlifting and football and Mr. America competitions. A Prince Charming for Princess Blondie, was he? Murtagh whistled very softly under his breath, admiring the stranger. He was fully aware of his sexual orientation (after a very, ahem, interesting incident when he was twelve) and despite his best efforts, was still completely human when it came to that particular aspect of life.

Charming wrapped his arms around Saphira and the two of them proceeded to suck each other's tonsils out in a way that, if Garrow knew (Murtagh was sure), would give him a heart attack. The two of them seemed to be at it forever, glued together in a way that suggested not just tongue, but hands sneaking where a fifteen-year-old definitely shouldn't be touched.

Murtagh gave a thin half-smile and moved away from the window. Beside him, Thorn grinned, his button eye suggesting a very good joke. "So," Murtagh breathed softly into his matted fur.

"So," Thorn agreed, smiling up at him. It was an expression so infectious that Murtagh just couldn't help but return the smile, pressing Thorn close to his chest.

He risked another peek out the window. The lovebirds had finally separated, Saphira running her tongue over undoubtedly swollen lips. His movement must have caught her eye—she turned slightly, bright eyes glinting through silver hair to stop right on him, her lips parting slightly.

Her boyfriend didn't seem to notice, looking away towards the street. Saphira squeezed his arm gently as Murtagh stared back at her, meeting her gaze squarely. She didn't seem unfazed or startled at being caught.

Later, she mouthed at him as her boyfriend put an arm around her and led her away, her lips curling up in a satisfied smile.

Notes:

Surprisingly easy to write once I got past the usual gripes of writer's block and my Snupin obsession. Heh. xD

Review please! Thanks. :) And EraMur is coming, never fear!