Boxers or Briefs
"Explain this to me again. If it's boxers, Sam wins the cash. And if it's briefs, Tucker does. Yet I, who have no part in this bet, will make no money whatsoever, am the one doing all the dirty work."
Two heads tilted and then pondered. Finally, Tucker shrugged and said, "That seems about right."
Sam nodded. "Yeah. That sums it up."
"And you aren't going to leave me alone until I do it." A statement, not a question, and Danny sighed resignedly at the two nodding heads. "Fine. Fine, I'll do it."
With a glance around Danny knocked his spork off the table and ducked underneath it, supposedly to retrieve it. A flash of light later and Sam heard the muttered comments Danny made as he floated past, invisible.
And then it happened.
Dash yelled and fell headfirst into a trash can as his pants dropped to tangle at his ankles. A flash went off—Tucker's PDA—and Sam smirked as Danny crawled back out from beneath the table.
"Hand it over, Tuck. Sam wins."
"Yes, I do," she smirked as she fanned the stack of ones in her hand. "And so do you, Danny."
"Huh?"
Sam smiled. "I feel the need to celebrate in style. I'm flush, Ghost Boy. Want to go see a movie?"
For a moment Danny stared at her bemused, and then he grinned. "I'd love to. But I'm not pantsing Dash before every date."
Amethyst eyes slid over to Tucker and the grin Sam shot Danny was positively evil. "Deal. But you didn't say anything about Tuck."
