Author's Notes: The set-up that drives this story is complete crack. Utterly ridiculous. Preposterous, even. So I beg of you not to take the concept especially seriously, as it's a crack situation. The story that results, however, I do intend to treat with earnestly... or at least as earnestly as one can take a plot that I'm pretty sure (barring anyone doing something I didn't expect) is going to be almost entirely pure fluff with just the tiniest flavor of (hilarious, given the circumstances) mutual pining.

So with that being said... on with the shitshow!

Soul Evans stared at the green-lacquered wood in front of him, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, trying to shake some of the tension out of his shoulders. It didn't really work that well; he could still feel his muscles tying themselves in knots.

It probably said something about his relationship with his folks that he was standing outside their front door trying to work up the nerve to knock rather than just walking straight in as if he'd lived there for the first twenty years of his life (which he had). Or maybe it just said something about him. Like that he was a damn coward, among other things.

He didn't hate his parents or anything awful like that; he wasn't that bitter and pathetic. He loved his family. It was just that his folks had this annoying habit of assuming that they knew what was best for him, and they used this supposed omniscience as justification for trying to control his life.

Soul, you need to stop wasting so much time composing, it's not profitable. It's time to get serious about your touring schedule.

As if he didn't spend a good eight months out of the year on the road all over the damn planet, showing himself off the latest "Evans Family Prodigy."

Soul, you should sell that old house and move somewhere closer. Boston is so far away, we never see you!

Which probably had something to do with him always being on tour.

Even if that weren't the case, though, part of the allure of Boston was the fact that it was, in fact, several hours from New Haven and, consequently, his parents.

"Dammit, Evans, get it together," he muttered under his breath. "Stop dicking around and just get it over with."

One sharp knock later, he was being shown into the sitting room by his mother's latest housekeeper. His father, tall and with shots of silver running through his tawny hair, was sitting next to his mother on the loveseat, sipping at what looked like bourbon. His mother was engrossed in the Wall Street Journal.

"Hey mum and dad," he greeted.

"'Hey' is for horses, Solomon," his mother said distractedly. "We say hello." She nodded thoughtfully, folded up her newspaper, and once the paper was set aside, she finally looked up and smiled at him.

He was so busy attempting to make his return smile actually look like a smile and not an annoyed grimace that he almost didn't notice the third person in the room until his father also looked up at him and asked, "Well, aren't you going to greet your grandmother, son?"

Soul's spirits immediately lifted as he glanced in the direction his father had indicated and saw that yes, his second-favorite relative was in fact present. Belinda Evans was ensconced in an armchair by the fire that had to weigh three times as much as the little woman herself, but she commanded the seat as though it were a throne.

"Gran!" he exclaimed happily, crossing the distance between them in three quick strides. He leaned down and wrapped her up in a hug before she could even get up from the chair.

She laughed against his shoulder. "It's good to see you too, Soul. I take it you've missed me?"

He nodded, and reluctantly let her go. "It's been way too long. You don't visit often enough."

"Funny," she said, with a knowing smile. "Your mother was just saying the same thing about you. And with much less excuse!"

"Yes, I know, Gran," he said, trying to keep a contrite expression on his face, but he lost the struggle against a smile.

"I'm afraid these old bones of mine don't appreciate trans-Atlantic flights the way they used to," she continued with a sigh. "But no matter, I'm here now, and that's what matters, isn't it, my boy?"

"Mm-hm. How long are you in the States for?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure. I'm planning to stay a few months. Until the end of the summer, at the absolute least. And I'll be expecting to see plenty of you in that time!" she added, threatening him with one arthritic finger.

He chuckled. "I'll see what I can do."

"See that you do, young man!"

The sound of a throat clearing drew their attention back to the couple on the loveseat. "Now that you've said hello, don't we get a proper greeting?" his mother asked, getting to her feet and holding out her arms for a hug.

He gave her a closed-lipped smile and crossed the room to accept her dainty embrace. She patted his shoulder lightly and let him go after a few seconds. Then he turned to shake the hand his father was holding out to him before he retreated to the other armchair.

"How have you been, Solomon?" Caroline Evans asked her son.

He shrugged as he lowered himself into the seat closest to his grandmother. "A lot of the same. I'm playing a concert series in Toronto this weekend as a guest artist with the TSO."

"What will you be playing?"

"Grieg's Concerto in A Minor."

His father nodded approvingly. "That's a good choice. One of your best pieces."

"Probably why they invited me to come perform with them," he said, trying (and probably failing) to make it sound less petulant.

"They invited you because you are a world-class concert pianist," his mother said dryly. "And how is the album coming?"

"Eh. Kid wants me to just scrap the whole thing and start work on a Christmas album instead, figures it'll be more profitable, but I want to put together something a little more interesting than that."

He glossed over the reason he was struggling so much: this sophomore venture into album-production was unlike his first studio recordings. He wanted this to be a collection only of his own original works. He'd rather have the damned thing finished before he opened that can of worms with his folks. Until it was on the shelves and it was too late for them to waste energy changing his mind, he'd keep his mouth shut. He was perfectly aware that his parents did not enjoy his rather… progressive composing style. He was struggling with a bad enough block as it was; he didn't need another three-hour lecture sapping what little creativity he still had going for him.

His mother nodded. "That seems wise. Christmas albums are for performers in their twilight years, trying desperately to squeeze the last dregs of profit out of their failing reputations. You certainly can afford to produce something a bit less trite."

Coming from his mother, that was practically gushing. And, to his astonishment, that appeared to be the end of the evening's interrogation, as the subject turned to lighter matters. He was incredulous, but as the reprieve continued throughout dinner, he began to be genuinely hopeful that maybe this time he was getting off easy, and was in the process of attributing this minor miracle to his grandmother's presence when they returned to the sitting room for coffee.

And that, of course, was when his father struck.

"Solomon," he said as he added a second lump of sugar to his cup, "I think it's time we talk about you settling down.

Soul was caught off-guard, and it took a moment for him to process what had just been said. "Settling d⎯?" Then his brain caught up with his ears and he sighed. "Dad, I thought we'd finished arguing about this."

"No we ruddy well haven't!"

"Linus…" his mother said soothingly, landing the lightest of touches on his father's forearm before her hand fluttered away again.

"Caroline, it's a conversation we can't keep avoiding!"

Soul was of the opinion that they hadn't actually been avoiding the subject at all, seeing as it was brought up at least every third visit to his parents' house, but his opinion didn't really seem to matter all that much in this particular debate. It was a topic over which his father was particularly truculent even by his standards.

Linus Evans turned to his son with a stern expression fixed on his features. "Solomon, you're twenty-seven. Wesley had been married three years by the time he was your age!"

"Yeah, and he and Marco had been dating since high school," Soul pointed out.

"Your father's right," Caroline said. "We don't want to pressure you⎯"

"You sure about that?" Soul muttered under his breath, and he could swear he heard his grandmother snort.

His mother continued on determinedly, accustomed to his sarcasm, and at this point, resigned to the idea of being unable to cure it. "⎯but you're at the age where it's really quite unusual to still be single."

"Exactly, Caroline, exactly," his father said. "You get to be thirty and still single, people will start to talk."

He raised an eyebrow. "What are they gonna talk about? The reason people used to 'talk' about bachelors of a certain age was because they were probably gay, and I think my brother has proved pretty conclusively that that's not really such a huge taboo these days, even in your set."

Linus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why must you always be difficult about these things, Soul?"

"Look, if you're really that worried about what people will think about me not getting married anytime soon, I can just play the brooding artist card," Soul said dryly. He tugged on a lock of his bone-white hair and gave them a humorless grin. "Shouldn't be difficult to pull off, right? Crazy albino genius musician with no time for a relationship…"

"That's uncalled for, can't you see you're upsetting your mother?" his father said with a glower. "You never even try to find someone, you know!"

"Of course I try!" Soul protested. And of course it was a flat-out lie, because he had only gone on a handful of dates since college (and for that matter had barely dated during college, either), but his parents really didn't have the right to dictate what he did in his personal life.

"There are dozens of lovely girls about your age that we know from the country club, friends of the family, if you'd just let us make some introductions I'm sure you'd⎯"

"Sure, Dad, thanks but no thanks."

His mother made some small noise, and he glanced over at her. She was actually starting to look genuinely upset, and guilt stirred in the pit of his stomach but he stamped down on it immediately. He'd been guilt-tripped by his parents– and his mother in particular– so many times during his childhood, and until he'd learned to stifle the feeling, he'd fallen for it every single time.

And as expected, despite the frown twisting her mouth and the sadness in her eyes, Caroline Evans' words still sounded placid as she asked, "Don't you want to settle down?"

To which the answer was… sort of. The house he'd inherited from his late uncle was big and lonely, and although he would deny it to his grave if anyone called him on it, he was kind of a needy little bastard when it came right down to it. If he thought about it (and he really tried not to), he wanted companionship and affection and someone who would be there for him, but he'd kind of figured he'd just get a cat or something.

The trouble of finding a date– let alone an actual significant other– was really not worth it, in Soul's opinion. He'd never been that great with people in the first place. Add on the complexity that came with trying to find a romantic partner and he was pretty much guaranteed to fail spectacularly. Add on top of that the extra layer of bullshit that came with being an Evans…

"I…" He was floundering, at a loss for how to reply.

"I wish you would take your parents' advice about this, Soul," his grandmother spoke up suddenly.

He whipped around to look at her. "Huh?" he asked, completely gobsmacked. His grandmother was a contrary sort of woman and she rarely, if ever, agreed with his parents on anything.

"The way my son–" She threw a glance at Linus, who had the grace to look abashed under his mother's gaze. "–is pressuring you is uncalled for, but he's also quite right that it's time for you to be thinking seriously about finding a nice girl."

Soul stared at her in astonishment. She was giving him those big sad brown grandma eyes that inevitably meant he was going to feel like kicking a puppy if he had to deny her anything.

"Gran…"

"You and your brother are my only grandchildren, you know," she said, a melancholy air about her. "Wes has found himself a wonderful man and I'm very happy for him, but you, Soul…" She sighed and shook her head. "I worry about you. You've always been so solitary, more than is good for you, I think. I'm getting on in years– no, don't you try to deny it, I'm old!– and I don't want to worry about you being all on your own with no one to look after you."

"Gran, I can… I can take care of myself just fine…" he protested feebly.

She gave a heartbreakingly sad little smile and yep, that was the guilt, right there. "I'm not saying you can't, but you isolate yourself, Soul. When it's my time, I want to know that both of my grandsons are happy."

She looked so sincere, and so sad. It was plain that she meant it (not that he would have doubted it, because Belinda Evans was nothing if not earnest) and it just about broke his heart. His Gran's approval was something he had always sought even more assiduously than that of his parents– and with much more success– and he could not bear the thought of disappointing her. She hardly ever asked anything of him; admittedly she wasn't exactly asking anything this time either, but at the same time, she kind of was.

And to throw the thought of her eventual death into the conversation… he didn't know how to handle that.

And so it happened that Soul, astonished and caught too unaware for once to be able to pull his thoughts together before he spoke, proceeded to tell a lie that permanently sealed his fate.

"Look," he said, staring at his shoes, feeling strangely as if he were watching himself from somewhere outside his body, "I didn't wanna… I didn't want to bring it up but I have been… well, I've been seeing someone."

Gran's expression lightened visibly, her smile turning from melancholy to hopeful, and he felt horrible already but he couldn't stop digging himself in deeper, unable to dam up the horrendous amount of bullshit spilling over his lips. "We've been going out for awhile now," he said.

"Oh? Why haven't you mentioned her before?" his mother asked. He could hardly hear her over how hard his pulse was pounding in his ears, the bullshit running thick and hot through his veins.

"Uh… well…"

Shit, why wouldn't he mention a girlfriend to his parents? Well, he knew why. He tried to tell his parents as little about his life as possible because he really, really didn't need their "helpful" input. But that wasn't something he could say to their faces because he wasn't that much of an ungrateful dick. But then what…?

Still feeling like a helium-filled spirit hovering over his own body and completely panicking, he glanced at his grandmother and saw the eager look in her eyes. "I didn't want to pressure her," he blurted out, his brain whirring in double time to try and make this sound like he wasn't making it up on the spot. "I knew if I mentioned her you'd want me to bring her to meet the family, and I really care about her, but I'm not sure she's ready to commit and… well… yeah…" he finished awkwardly.

Way to bullshit, Evans. Should've been an actor, not a musician.

"Soul, you shouldn't worry about that," his grandmother said kindly, immediately making him feel 300% worse about the amount of pure unadulterated horse crap he had just served up with a side dish of pants on fire as an added bonus because he was just that wonderful of a grandson. "If you care about her that much, you should express that to her. No good can come from pretending to feel less than you do because you don't want to rush her. Emotional honesty is important in a relationship, you know…"

Fifty minutes later, Soul staggered outside, having consumed two Irish coffees, a miniature raspberry trifle, and more relationship advice than even a lying rat bastard like him should have to stomach.

Judging that the whiskey-to-coffee ratio had been just high enough that he probably shouldn't drive, he called for a cab and sat in the front seat of his car to wait. He flopped forward, face pressed into the steering wheel with a loud groan, because he might be tipsy, but it wasn't enough to make him forget the fact that he had just told the biggest whopper of all time. There was definitely a special ring of hell reserved for people who lied to their grandmothers.

He had managed to sidestep all the specific questions about his "mystery woman" (aside from the made-up factoid that his lady apparently loved irises) by keeping his focus on the supposed problem of him not wanting to rush her to commit when she might not be ready. Unfortunately, the implication then became that he was ready. Which was… really not what he'd wanted to leave them with at all.

The end result of all this was that he was going to have to produce a Very Serious Girlfriend– or even a fiancée– before the next time he came to visit his family… and seeing as he hadn't so much as been set up on a blind date in over two years, pulling something like that off was going to be nothing short of a miracle.

It was unfortunate, he decided, that he had promised Gran that he'd visit often while she was still in the country.