AN ADEQUATE EXPLANATION

Fandom: American Pie

Rating: R

Summary: Never attribute to malice what can adequately be explained by stupidity (Nick Daimos). AKA, after Jim and Michelle's wedding, Finch pays Stifler's mom a visit. Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea.

Status: Work In Progress.

PART 1:

"I will have nought to do with a man who can blow hot and cold with the same breath."

(Aesop, The Man and the Satyr)

It was around 3am when Finch left the bed and went for a walk. In retrospect, walking around Stifler's mom's house when Stifler still lived there was probably not a good idea, but what the hell.

TV, video, DVD, rug on the floor, vases, fake flowers – silk, but still fake – and ashtrays with little pictures of naked women in them that had to be a holdover from one of Stifler's parties. Bath towels, brushes, toothpaste, styling waxes and gels and how many products did one man and one teenaged boy – for Little Brother still resided here – really need? And to the left, back to Jeanine's room; Jeanine's bed.

But one of the doors to the right was slightly ajar and it was 3am so he went to look.

And it was Stifler's room. You could tell, even without a sleeping Stifler in the bed, tangled in the bed sheets.

The Greeks told of satyrs, of randy beasts that caught bathing maidens unawares and ravished their virgin sweets. And though Stifler lacked the goat legs or the horns, he was a satyr in manner. Had been, until Cadence, and had reverted to form once Cadence went home and the fling had flung. So the Stif-meister was on the prowl again, a little more experienced at hiding his baser side, maybe, but essentially the same.

So, satyr, then, Finch had expected a little more savagery from even this, the sleeping whirlwind of crude actions that was Stifler. Not the embrace of a pillow to naked flesh – and how wholesome he'd been, despite his honest lewdness, so that Finch was surprised that Stifler slept nude – and the covers around his calves. His muscles strained against nothing, and he made a soft choking sound at the back of his throat. Cadence it must be, then, for who else could make Stifler this quiet?

He really should leave here. Fascinating though this human study was, drama and the gods would doubtless conspire to have Stifler wake soon. And, as is traditional, castrate this stranger, bedding his mother and watching him sleep. So he turned to go.

He had almost made it to the door when Stifler turned in his sleep, and the moonlight caught his profile, and he moaned his release.

Well, perhaps it had not been quite as poetic as that. Maybe Finch had never turned to leave, waiting, instead, palms sweating, for the inevitable. Waiting for –

"Oh God oh –"

Yes, right there, barely formed words mouthing –

"Oh God, Oz, oh –"

That.

Was that what he'd waited for? The little moaned slip, the thrust of hips, the sudden rush of power this gifted knowledge brought –

- so strange that the Greeks drew their beauties as blondes, cut muscles and slim hips, not like your stereotype, now, is it? -

- or had he waited for his own staggered exhalation of breath?

So. That was it. Stifler had not wanted Cadence. No – wait. Stifler had not wanted only Cadence. But how was that different from before?

Drama and the gods. He should have gone when he had the chance, because now, Stifler was awake. And looking at him with a decidedly homicidal expression on his face.

"You fucker. What the fuck are you doing in my fucking room?" It wasn't quite a whisper. Because, Finch remembered, next door slept Little Brother, and he was safe as long as Stifler wanted Little Brother to stay asleep.

"I – uh –" Perhaps he should have decided what he wanted to say before opening his mouth. But Stifler had not covered his nakedness and there was come drying on his stomach. "You should probably take care of that," and, boy, wasn't that the wrong thing to say?

Stifler's hand was suddenly hot against his neck, and the desk thudded dully as he was shoved against it and Stifler was suddenly, frighteningly, very much in his face. Hip pressing into the desk, back against the wall, naked Stifler against his night clothing and maybe Stifler could kill him without waking Little Brother. "What the fuck are you doing in my room, Shitbreak?"

Maybe he should not have gone exploring. Because it was Stifler's mom's house, where Stifler still slept, where Stifler moaned Oz's name and came in his sleep, and there was only one way Finch could leave this room without a black eye. So he used it, and waited patiently for Stifler's face to drain of all colour, waited for those hot hands to fall away, waited for the very naked Stifler to take one, two, three steps back and ask, "oh shit, oh fuck, what the fuck are you gonna do?"

Nothing, nothing, I won't tell, because it wasn't in him to be that cruel. Not when he could leave and go back to Stifler's mom's bed. So he did, and left Stifler standing there, staring at the desk, face drained of colour except for two spots, high up on his cheeks. It was a flush of pure mortification. And who could have known that anything could embarrass the Stif-meister?

The next day he took a break from loved-up bliss and went to see the newly-weds. The door wasn't locked and after knocking a couple of times he walked in to the living room, where Jim had his face between Michelle's thighs. He waited until they put themselves to rights and Jim splashed some water on his face, then they sat down for coffee, as if they were small children playing house. He drank only one cup of coffee and chased it with a couple of beers – the most sophisticated alcohol the pair had in the house – ribbed Jim about his new-found dancing talent and asked them how married life was treating them.

Michelle went off on one, "well, this one time, in Maui," and who could make tales of mind-bending sex sound utterly inane? But he listened and he nodded, mainly because Jim had the smile of the loved-up groom on his face and Michelle kept reaching across the table so they could hold hands.

Waited until he could casually inquire whether they'd heard from Oz. Card; present; a phone call the day before yesterday. He was coming back from Spain in a couple of weeks, sorry he couldn't make it to the wedding: too busy breaking up with Heather. Who, it seemed, loved Spain more than she loved Oz. And since Oz loved anywhere else more than he loved Spain, that was that.

Finch wondered if Jim might know a yenta. But he'd promised. And when embarrassed, when scared, when truly vulnerable, Stifler had his mother's eyes.

So Finch said nothing. He kissed Michelle on the cheek and shook Jim's hand and left them to get back to their fun. Drove back at 10 over the limit with music he loathed on the radio.

Stifler was out, which was good. His mom had gone for a drive, but Little Brother was home. Finch made small talk and discovered that, for a smart-alec teenager, Little Brother was pretty cool. Finch would have attributed it to excellent parenting were it not for Little Brother's tendency to talk non-stop about pussy and boobs. Which was cool. But Little Brother also had the dirt on Stifler, which was even cooler. Like how it had been Stifler who had taught Jim to dance – Finch could well believe it, after Stifler's gay bar debut – because he had learned when younger. And because he had wanted to go to the wedding.

Oz had said he might be able to make it. Of course, that was before the Heather break-up. Little Brother knew a surprising amount about the Heather break-up. So it turned out that Oz still called here occasionally. Had called even when in loved-up Latino bliss.

Stifler had always been in a pretty foul mood in those cases. Little Brother reckoned he didn't like Heather. Finch concurred, and got Little Brother another beer.

That night Finch went exploring as far as the landing. He had figured out that, if left open, the window in Stifler's mom's room swung Stifler's bedroom door ajar in the middle of the night. It may have been a natural draft. Or drama and the gods aiming to get him into more trouble.

This night, the satyr had company.

Finch didn't catch her name. Half her clothes were still on during her first orgasm. Stifler's face was hidden behind the mass of one shapely thigh; her moans a constant whine at the back of Finch's mind. He let the door swing open a little bit more, just so he could see exactly what Stifler was doing to make the girl, all honey and dew, writhe and moan.

In her second orgasm she saw him and shrieked, all panic. Stifler looked up, around, over his shoulder; finally saw him. He set the girl to rights and helped her through the door, past the silent Finch.

Down the stairs; the wait for the cab, the kiss goodbye. No doubt Finch had spoiled a lovely fuck for him. He should get back to bed before Stifler came back.

Too late. Warm hands grabbed him and dragged him inside Stifler's room, where Little Brother wouldn't be disturbed. Stifler's hair was all mussed up; shirt askew; cock still hard in his pants. And his face had that same sweet flush of sex that his mom got after –

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

If he leaned in a little, he'd be able to smell the girl on him. Stifler and sex and girl smell, and ping! His brain came up with Stifler's mom.

His cock jumped noticeably at the thought.

He got out of there before he said anything he'd regret. Like, "you did that very well." Like, "if you want an extra hand, you know where I sleep."

No. Stifler and sex and girl smell, and he could go wake Stifler's mom and fuck her through the mattress.

The next morning, he woke early and called Oz. How was Spain, had he seen the matadors, how was Heather – yes, he'd heard. And when would Oz be gracing them with his presence?

And why was Finch calling from Stifler's house phone?

More to the point, how the fuck could Oz learn to recognise Stifler's number when he could barely remember his own?

But Finch didn't say that. He said he was visiting. Waited for Oz's trademark rueful lack and for him to ask how things were.

"So how's Stifler?"

Curiouser and curiouser.

Finch kept his amusement to himself because Oz wouldn't know what was so damned amusing and, besides, Stifler had walked into the kitchen and was looking at him like, "why are you still alive, you fuck?"

So he offered him the phone and watched that slow flush rise again.

Damn. He could get used to this.

Stifler started closing the windows before bed. Evidently he, too, knew about the draft passage through the house. So Finch looked at the closed door for a few minutes before going back to bed.

He dreamed of gods and satyrs and naked girls that had crumpled hair and stubble. He awoke rock-hard and half-gagging.

The silence in the house was becoming as unbearable as the stifling heat. Jeanine and Little Brother went around opening all windows they could find before retiring to bed; Stifler went through the house afterwards and closed all those he had access to. Finch stood in Jeanine's room's doorway with what he knew was a nasty look on his face and watched Stifler stalk past him at one in the morning.

The next morning, Little Brother declared to all and sundry that it was shit living with people that weren't speaking to each other.

So, they all went out to dinner. Stifler's mom insisted and, as it turned out, Stifler really did think she was a saint and didn't have the heart to refuse. They had French food, and apparently dance lessons were not the end-all of Stifler's social graces. When accompanying his mother, he could be surprisingly civil. He spoke to Finch some – not much, but some – and kept Little Brother in check. And ate asparagus in cream sauce with deliberately dainty bites, like a childhood teacher had hammered it into him.

Finch played at family man to rile him up, then ruffled his hair when getting up to go to the gents, snatching his hand back before Stifler could break his fingers for him.

That night, Jeanine gave him a blowjob and he tightened his fists in her hair, instead of in the bed sheets as was usual for him. She could be surprisingly quiet when it came to something like this and let him concentrate on the sensations rather that trying to be considerate. Her hair was strong and thick beneath his fingers, and he could close his eyes and ignore his kinks.

Mother and son; damn it all, it was beyond Oedipal. He had no words for how screwed up that'd be. But Stifler, Mr Apple Pie himself, apparently already had designs on who would next share his bed.

Want a hand with that?

He really couldn't see Stifler going for it. Which was cool, because he was taken. And Stifler and sex and girl smell was Stifler's mom, and he already had her.

And so he let Jeanine go down on him and stayed in bed, hands on curves, resolutely ignoring the draft that rattled the open window.

Oz came over a week and bit later. Tanned. Hair bleached a little by the sun, a little longer than normal. He looked... older. Finch was mildly surprised to note this; he'd watched Jim and Kevin fill out a little, watched their faces narrow and their expressions become at least a smidge more serious. But, much like a frog boiling to death, he hadn't really noted any of these gradual changes. Oz, now... Oz made a handsome man, whereas he'd left as an attractive teenager. Spain had agreed with him, it seemed, regardless of whether he'd agreed with Spain.

"Christopher. How was Madrid?" They shook hands. Warm handshake. Finch noted Oz's duffel bag on the floor beside him. And where was Oz staying?

"Madrid was fine, Finch. Just... Heather liked it more than I did, is all. And – hey, is Stifler around? I should check in, if I'm crashing at his place."

"You're sleeping at Casa del Stifler?" Finch raised an eyebrow. "I suppose I can show you around in that case: guest room, towels, toothbrush, etcetera."

"You –" and Oz took in his ease, his familiarity here. "I though you were just – but – man. Oh man, Finch, how the hell did you get Stifler to agree to this arrangement?" Oz smiled. A real amused, tanned, happy smile. Old times.

But – "no, it's by no means permanent. I am merely a guest at my lady's residence for a while. Stifler and I have agreed to not get in each other's way." Stifler's door was always closed, now, and Finch stayed in bed.

Oz shook his head and grinned. "Well, yeah. I'd never have believed that you two would –" but Stifler walked in.

"Oz, you fucker!" But Finch was still there, wrapped in terrycloth and drinking ginseng tea and smirking, so he held out his hand for a handshake.

A handshake, a slow grin, and Oz yanked Stifler off his feet and into a bear hug. "My man!" Much back pounding. "So what's this I hear about you dancing at a gay bar?"

That night, the wind was strong. It rattled the shutters and blew windows open. And Finch wasn't really going to do anything, but he went to see if anything could be done to the shut the damn house up. He found Oz laying into the beer.

"Hey man. Can't sleep either, huh?" Oz gestured with a beer can. "I'm still on Madrid time. Grab some brew and join me."

Finch drew up a chair. "Just the one, I think. I was just going to shut the windows, actually. Stifler's mom is sleeping."

A laugh. "I can't believe you still call her that. To Stifler's face?"

"No." He drank. "Just for the turn-on, for her. I call her Jeanine in front of Stifler. It just seems –" he shrugged.

"Kinder?" Oz grinned at Finch's outraged expression. "Come on. You're not in his face, and you could be. Hell, he's not in your face either, not so much, anymore. What the hell went down at this wedding?"

"Ah, well, as to that, we may need some more beer. Suffice to say – for the moment, at least – that young Steven's horizons were expanded significantly." He snorted into his beer. "He learnt to arrange flowers, for one thing –"

"So Jim tells me. What's up with that? I asked, but he blanked me all of a sudden. Went bright red, too. Since when does the Stif-meister get embarrassed?" Oz set his empty can down and fetched another. "You want one?"

"No, I'm good. I, uh, what did Stifler tell you about Jim and Michelle's nuptials?" Stifler had heard that Oz might be attending. Stifler kept the windows – and doors – firmly closed. And Finch was willing to bet that Stifler still had interesting dreams.

"Nothing. Not a damn thing. Talked about work, some, about his brother and his mom – mentioned that you might be showing up a few weeks ago, actually – and about some girl called Cadence, for a bit. He seemed sorta quiet, though; it wasn't like him."

Cadence had liked the loud Stifler, but in her company he'd all but disappeared in favour of Steven. "No. No, it really wasn't."

Would Finch stay up some more? Six hour time difference; Oz would be up for a while.

No, Finch had to get to bed. But, before he left, "so Stifler says you've been stalking him."

And it was cruel, it really was, but, "yeah. He's... interesting."

Oz nodded and smiled a little. "He's a lot like his mom, isn't he?"

Stifler and sex and girl smell, and his cock woke up immediately.

Goddamn it.

end part I