A/N: I wrote this and number one in one sitting. I hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Willy buttoned up his shirt and put on his jacket. It was time for the week's last tour.

He didn't do anything to make himself presentable, like waging a war with his hair. He would've lost.

He turned into the lobby to see a roomful of people. The tours were a big attraction.

"Are we all ready to go?" he asked.

"Yes!"

"All right," he said, and was about to leave, when a pair of teenagers came in, late. One was a boy, tall with long brown hair. The other, a girl -

A girl who looked exactly like Tawny.

His breath caught in his throat. *Oh my God! It - it can't be . . .*

Then he saw her eyes. His eyes. A sensitive, honest, sparkling blue. She smiled, looking exactly like Tawny.

It was her.

By this time she had noticed he was staring at her. She was silent.

He shook himself, and grinned wider than he ever had before. "Ladies and gentleman, this way."

He had gotten them into trouble on purpose. He made it easy for them to snatch up some candy, and turn into two strawberries.

Now, the tour was over, and the former strawberries sat in his office.

"I'm really, really sorry, sir!" the boy pleaded, practically on his knees. "Don't call my parents!"

He hadn't. He'd only called the girl's.

"What's your name?" he asked him.

"Stanley Turner, sir."

"And I can tell by your accent that your from England."

"Yes, London."

Willy turned to the girl, casually sucking on a gobstopper. "Your name is . . ."

"Wednesday Mars," she said.

His heart boomed in his chest. "Where are you from?"

"Around here," she replied, licking her fingers.

"How long have you to be friends?" he asked.

The boy lit like a light bulb. "Oh, since I came to America -"

"What is this?" Wednesday interuppted. "The Spanish Inquisition?"

He shook his head. She didn't seem like Tawny, outwardly, anyway. She seemed more like him, if he had had more of a rebellious, careless streak.

He knew why when her mother walked in.

Her mother was beautiful. Not beautiful like Tawny of Wednesday was, but in a different way. A more quirky, striking way.

She immediatly started defending her daughter. "You have no right to accuse her! This is all your fault!"

"Please, please, Mrs. . . . Miss Mars?"

She blushed slightly. "Miss."

"Yes." He moved around in his chair. "I admit. It is my fault. I did this so I could talk to you about something." He took out a photograph of Tawny from his desk. It was old and crinkled, and she was six months pregnant, but it was enough evidence.

He handed them the picture. "Does this look like anyone?"

Their mouth's dropped open. "Yes - yes -" the girl stuttered. "It's - it's me."

He smiled. "No, it's your mother." He tapped her bulging stomach. "*That's* you."

"Who is this?" she asked, astonished.

"She is - I mean, she was, my wife."

Stanley and her mother were silent, having already figured it out.

"That means . . ." Wednesday drifted off.

"I'm your father."