A/N: Thanks to beta-readers Caramel Cheescake, L100Meganium, and Authoressinhiding for continuing to read this and offer their suggestions!

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Listen, it's going to be okay. We were great tonight, and there's nothing he —"

"WHAT DOES HE THINK HE'S DOING HERE?"

"He probably just wants to support —"

"I'VE GOT SOMETHING TO SUPPORT! RIGHT HERE!"

"Dot, that doesn't even make sense!"

"SO YOU'RE GONNA RIDE ME NOW?"

It was just like their skit: Emily would try to be calm and understanding, and Dot would get more and more insufferable, until . . . "Okay, you know what? That's it! I'm done trying to help you! You're an irrational, angry . . . wait, are you drunk?"

Dot paused, her dress caught around her head with her arms flailing helplessly. "I'd rather not say," she said, using her cuteness to full advantage (or as full an advantage as she could have while being smothered by layers of silk). "Could you give me a hand, or was that done-helping-me thing serious?"

Emily sighed and stomped over to Dot, helping her untangle from the fabric. "Don't rip it, and don't crumple . . ." She trailed off as Dot flung the dress into the corner. Still struggling with her own dress, which she hadn't had the time or the courage to remove with Dot freaking out in the dressing room, she managed to lower herself enough to snag a sleeve with her middle finger and pull it to her. "Does Minerva have an iron?" she asked, trying to smooth out the wrinkles Dot had made. "I'm pretty good at this kind of thing. It's because I'm a Disney. Not that I'm bragging or anything." Of course she was. Warner Brothers toons were funny, sure, and no one could be flattened better, but when it came to practical powers, there was no competition.

Her best friend and coworker had thrown herself onto the room's one couch, an arm draped over her face like she was a damsel in a silent drama. "Why me, Em?" she said. "Why must the beautiful ones always suffer the most? Why couldn't I be blessed with blandness and normalcy like you?" Emily pressed her lips into a tight line and said nothing. "Oh, I know you've had hardships — that bench thing wasn't a party, and neither was the not-having-clothes-for-a-week thing — but Jessica paid your way, and what has anyone done for me? Where is my Jessica to carry me away from my problems?"

"Dot, no one deserves an Oscar more than you. Now about that iron —"

"I'm serious!" She sat up. "Yakko is embarrassing! Not to mention bad for my reputation. On top of that, I don't have my own place to live, and I have to work. I'm beginning to understand what orphan Annie was talking about." She whistled a few bars of "It's a Hard-Knock Life" and slumped over the arm of the couch. "I'm too depressed to move, even."

"That's good. When your brothers show up to have a deep talk about your values and decisions, they'll know exactly where to find you." She laid Dot's dress along the floor, pressing her palms and knees into the fabric in an attempt to smooth it out. If only she had a bird or two . . . "You might want to put something on, though."

Dot's eyes widened and she leapt to her feet, spinning in midair and landing fully dressed. "No!" she cried. "I'm not talking to him! I don't have the energy to deal with another argument!" She raced around the room, tapping on the walls and peering for cracks. "There has to be a secret passageway in here or something, right? I mean, why wouldn't there be?"

"Why —" She was interrupted by a knock on the door. Dot let out a breathless shriek and dove into their wardrobe (which creaked loudly, as it wasn't a very good wardrobe). Relieved that she hadn't removed the cumbersome dress after all, Emily waddled over to the door and pulled it open. "Hi!" she said. "Looking for Dot?"

"Don't tell them I'm here!" the Warner sister hissed. She shifted inside the wardrobe and it made another alarming groan. There was a gasp of pain, which most likely meant she had snagged herself on a shard of the splintery wood.

Wakko was the only Warner at the door, however. He cocked his head to the side, one of his ears pricking up. "Should I come back later?" he asked.

At the sound of her brother's voice, the wardrobe door squeaked open a hair, and a long white tube of eyeball peered through the crack like a periscope. "Wakko? Are you alone or is this a trick? I saw him in the audience, I know he's here. . . ."

"He left."

The eyeball was sucked back into the cabinet with an unappealing schloop! sound. Her entire head emerged, and her expression was uncertain. "Really? Where'd he go?"

Wakko shrugged. "Dunno."

"You're a ton of help." She rolled her eyes and hopped out. "He didn't ask about me or anything?" she asked.

He just shrugged.

"Well, that's good. Don't have to worry about kicking his ass today, I suppose." Still, she looked disappointed. "I'll see you around, Em — oh, come on." She snatched the dress from Emily's hands. With a flick of her wrists, the fabric was smooth and straight as a pin, and Dot leaned it up against the wall before leaving.

"Wow . . ." Emily squatted beside it, tugging at the laces in the back of her corset as she did so, her mouth hanging open in disbelief and indignation. "Of all the . . . oh!" One of her ankles gave out, and she tilted precariously to one side as lace and chenille blocked her vision.

Suddenly there was a hand at her elbow, and with a grunt she was hoisted upright. "You all right?" He sounded a little out of breath, but she recognized his voice immediately and blushed.

"I'm fine!" she cried, pulling away from him and adjusting her curls, wincing. The hairspray had turned sticky. "Dot's not here. You just missed her, in fact, and Wakko, but I'll bet if you hurry you can catch up with them. Though you'd have to leave. Right now. Quickly." As much as she liked Yakko, she wanted nothing more than to finish getting out of this stupid dress. She could practically hear her sweatpants calling for her.

He shook his head, the tips of his ears gently tapping the sides of his temples. "Nah, I came with Wakko, and we decided it was best that he try and get her in a better mood before I go talk to her. And since I have at least an hour to kill . . ." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he leaned back against the doorframe and cocked his head to the side. "I thought I'd see what you're up to."

So much for sweatpants. "Oh! Well, I don't have anything to do." She tried to sound casual, though her voice had climbed a few notches. "I just have to get changed out of —" Her corset's laces, which had been steadily loosening as she moved, finally gave up, and the pale blue fabric dropped to the floor. Her dress was still covering her, but she looked embarrassed anyway, wrapping her arms around herself.

He held up his hands. "Say no more. I'll see you in a second." Once the door had shut, she slithered out of the dress, relieved that no one was there to watch her struggle with the fabric. She rummaged around the room, searching under couch cushions and in the splintered depths of the closet for anything that wasn't baggy cotton, all the time marveling at her fortune. She knew that Yakko wasn't exactly popular in Burbank, but why had he chosen to spend time with her?

Why had he chosen to hang out with Emily? Yakko tapped his claws on the bar, keeping his gaze split between the restaurant — where Wakko could appear at any moment with Dot in tow, in which case he'd have to hide or face a mallet to the head — and the back, where the dressing rooms were located and his dinner partner was sure to emerge.

Dot was going to kill him if he kept talking to her friends. And while he had never had a problem making his little sister mad enough to spit bullets (in fact, usually he delighted in it), he was toeing the line of Dot's wrath more than usual. And why?

He took a swig of . . . lemonade, pondering the question. Part of it was an ego boost; the girl was absolutely fascinated with everything anyone had to say, which was probably part of why Dot liked her so much. Besides, there was something funny about someone who had so little understanding of how the world worked.

The bartender shot him a dark look and he retracted his claws, wishing he still wore his gloves. They'd fallen apart one day, nothing more than shreds of thin, grayed fabric, and it had never occurred to him to pick up new ones.

"Hey." He started at the voice, almost falling off the bar stool. I'm getting out of practice, he thought. Wilkins would die laughing if she'd seen that . . . at least, if he wasn't half-convinced that she was incapable of mirth of any kind.

Of course, it was understandable that he'd be shocked. He hadn't expected his little sister to be willing to even look at him, let alone make the first move. Yet there she was, looking uncomfortable and rather risqué in a tight brown miniskirt and white tank top that didn't quite reach her bellybutton. Her hair — since he was always screaming at her, he hadn't really noticed that she'd grown it out almost to her shoulders — was still stiff and shiny from the performance, and she hadn't bothered to take most of the makeup off, leaving her lips bright red and her eyes ringed with black and blue.

Don't say anything, Yakko. Don't ruin what you have. But when had he ever listened to any advice, no matter how good it was? "I think I met a tranny stripper that looked like you, once. She was a raccoon." He twirled his index finger in a circular motion, gesturing at her eyes. "There's a resemblance."

Dot took a deep breath, and for a second he was certain he was about to have it. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the backstage area, sighed, and spun around. She sat down on the stool next to his, her makeup gone and her clothes replaced with a pair of lime green pajama bottoms and a faded gray T-shirt. He smiled; those had been her pajamas for most of her teenage years, though he hadn't seen her wear them since she'd graduated high school. They made her look much younger, like the last five years hadn't happened. "You're not supposed to say 'tranny,'" she muttered, gesturing the bartender over. "Especially out here. It's offensive."

"Ah. Right. Forgot about that. Living up in the sticks will do that to you." He waved away the offer of a drink, holding his tongue when Dot ordered whiskey. They were both going to be on their best behavior if it killed them.

"Right. The sticks. And how is it up there?" She looked back over her shoulder again before dropping her eyes to the bar. She seemed torn between nervousness and resentment. The latter was familiar. The former wasn't.

"You'd hate it. Not a decent club for miles, and three hours to the city." She shuddered, making them both chuckle a little. After a few moments of silence, during which Dot received her drink, swallowed it all in one gulp, and ordered another, he said, "Why are you working here, sis?"

She shrugged. "I need a job so that Plotz won't kill me. And this one lets me still act like a toon." She paused, waiting to see if he'd reply to the dig (he could tell she really wanted to, so he stayed quiet), then continued. "It's fun, I get to hang out with my friends, and I get to work with Jessica Rabbit. I don't think I have to tell you how cool that is." Dot finally met his eyes, poking her tongue into her cheek so that she was pushing her cutie mark in his direction. "Besides," she said, "I had to get this for the movie anyway. Why not put my extra-adorableness to good use?"

"That's true." Yakko struggled in silence for a moment, trying to decide whether he was willing to tell her what he knew about her job. Would she assume he was lying, trying to sabotage her? Would she scream and storm out? Or even worse, would she give him that same petulant shrug that she had perfected and say that it wasn't all that big a deal, nothing she hadn't done before?

He was terrified of both answers, and couldn't bring himself to ask.

Dot watched her brother pluck peanuts out of the bowl that the bartender had set out for them, flicking them at the amber- and garnet-colored bottles. It was a nervous habit she recognized from childhood; Yakko had always been a fiddler, especially when there was something he wanted to say but couldn't. Normally she would have snatched the bowl away and demanded to know what was wrong. "Just because you're the oldest doesn't mean you can keep secrets, Yakko!"

But she had questions she didn't want to ask, either. Like why he'd abandoned them. What about New York was so special that he had to get away? Why a cop, of all things? Didn't he know what kind of reputation that gave them? Even Plotz, who had been so excited that Yakko was taking responsibility, had fallen silent when he had told their legal guardian what he wanted to do. Dot still remembered his face, drawn and quiet, so unlike himself. Even when he'd recovered and patted the eldest Warner on the back, there had been a dull look in his eyes, like he was in shock.

Sure, she'd asked those questions, technically. But screaming them while throwing things had never elicited any quality answers. Maybe I shouldn't be so rash, she thought. Maybe if I thought things through more, everything would be different.

And that was the question she wanted to ask more than anything, and the one that filled her throat with a thick, heavy lump of ice every time she thought about it. "Yakko," she began, but was cut off as the ice settled just under her chin. "Yak —" Did Plotz tell you how much trouble we were, that we were holding you back? Were Wakko and I too impossible to control?

Yakko, is it my fault that you left?

"Yeah, Dot?" He had stopped flicking peanuts and was now gripping the bowl hard enough to crack it. His eyes were wide and childlike, as though he was only ten again and telling them about this show called Animaniacs!, that would give them some money and a place to live, where they could play all they wanted as long as they listened to the director and read the script. "It'll be scary, sibs," he had said, looking small and skinny in an oversized football jersey and too-small khaki shorts, "but we'll still be together, and I think it'll be fun, maybe." A wicked, gap-toothed smile had broken across his face, and that had been what made her and Wakko feel better. "Besides, there'll be lots of movie stars on set."

She shoved away from the bar so fast that the stool almost tipped over. Steadying herself, she looked up at him and only saw a ten-year-old kid who had promised they'd still be together. "Gotta go," she managed, before whirling around and practically running back to the dressing room. She heard Emily call out her name and paused outside their dressing room. "Go talk to him," she said to her best friend, who was watching her with gray eyes soft with sympathy. "I don't care what you tell him. Just don't let him come after me, okay? I can't deal with people right now."

"O-of course," she said, "but how —" Dot ignored the question, squeezing out the back door and walking into the black parking lot. She tilted her head back and looked up at the stars. Well, what few she could see through the glare that the city threw on the sky. I'll bet you can see stars in New York.

"Hey."

She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't want to talk about it, Wakko," she said with a sigh.

"I know. Michelle and I are going to see a movie. You can come, if you want." He didn't say anything else, just stood next to her and stared up at the sky. After a minute or two he added, "You did great, you know. This hasn't been easy."

"No," she whispered, studying the skyline for a moment. When she had memorized her beautiful Burbank, smog and all, she held out her hand and he led her to where Michelle was waiting.

Emily wasn't sure what she was going to find went she went up to the bar. The worst she'd expected was nothing, that Yakko had already taken after Dot. After that, she worried most that he'd be crying. However, she had not expected to see him building a tower out of peanut shells, whistling "Chopsticks" to himself. He wasn't beaming, but there was a small smile on his face that didn't have any of the sardonic amusement she was used to. "Hello, Em," he said. "Did you know that we used to create entire cities out of food? No glue or anything — we just had to balance everything. It worked really well, as long as Wakko didn't get too hungry. Once we made the entire city of Paris out of asparagus that we didn't want to eat and reenacted Disney's version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame." He grimaced. "I know, we're supposed to hate Disney movies, but we were kids. We just liked the dancing animals."

She had no idea how to react to this behavior. She took Dot's stool, seating herself gingerly and watching him like he was rabid. She would have to tread very carefully. She couldn't pry, couldn't say anything rash that would hurt his feelings. Her words would have to be very diplomatic. "Why are you happy?" she blurted out, cringing as soon as she spoke. Why hadn't she been blessed with the easy elegance and manners of the princesses? It would be so convenient.

Yakko didn't seem bothered by the bluntness of her question, however. Turning his attention away from the tower of shells, he met her gaze and grinned. She noticed that there was a very small gap between his front two teeth, one that was hardly noticeable unless she looked closely. "She talked to me," he said. He handed her a peanut, showing her how to peel off the shell without breaking it. "That looks like a boat," he said. "Now, if you take this little shard here, you can turn that into a mast, see? By the way, did I tell you about the time Dot and I took over the intercom system on the Warner lot? Plotz was so mad, but it was enough of a distraction that Wakko got to steal us a bunch of cookies from the actors' trailers. He still won't tell us which celebrity has an addiction to Oreos, though we've guessed almost all of them. . . ."

Smiling, Emily worked on creating a little house out of peanut shells and let him talk.