A/N: You ever feel like you just need some Addek fluff? Yeah, me too. I know it's February, and a lot of you may be distracted by the Superbowl, but here in Addekland it's Thanksgiving. I had almost forgotten about this story and then I got a message about Christa's cat Arturo and his taste for Addison's shoes and purses and, well, I couldn't resist re-visiting the family. So here we go: back to the brownstone on Thanksgiving Day where Carolyn showed up early and Addison couldn't bring herself to kill a turkey. I hope you enjoy Chapter 2!


Gobble, Gobble
Chapter 2: Carolyn
..


"Happy Thanksgiving!" Carolyn Shepherd calls from outside the door.

For a brief moment, all the assembled indoor Shepherds – human and not-quite-human, from baby to turkey – are silent.

Then Carolyn rings the doorbell again, rather pointedly in Addison's opinion, and everyone leaps into action ... and back into noise.

"Chris, get Olivia upstairs and shut her somewhere."

"Where?"

"Anywhere. Your bathroom, I guess. And close the door," Addison instructs rapidly.

"What about Arturo?"

"Shut him … somewhere else." Addison jiggles a wailing Jack in her arms, trying to calm him down; his high pitched cries perfectly match –

"Derek … the smoke alarm!"

"Got it." He pauses. "But someone needs to answer the door," he points out.

"Your mother is not coming in this house while the smoke alarm is going off. Please, go take the batteries out or something."

"What if something's burning?"

"Just – go!"

"That sounds safe," he mutters.

Addison throws the hand that isn't holding the baby heavenward. "Whose side are you on? Go!" She turns to their daughter. "Chris – grab that turkey."

"I'm trying!"

Derek hastens toward the kitchen while Christa attempts to catch Olivia. The turkey is apparently energized from its starter feed, because she's fast.

"Christa …" Addison shifts a wriggling, yelping Jack to her other hip. "You need to get that turkey upstairs."

"I'm trying," she pleads, "but she's faster than she looks!"

One well timed leap and Christa gets her arms around Olivia. Arturo puts his nose in the air, swipes half-heartedly at Addison's shin, and leads the pack of three up the stairs.

Addison exhales. Of course, it would be easier to concentrate if the smoke alarm would stop blaring – and the doorbell would stop ringing – and Jack would stop crying –

Finally, there's a moment of blessed silence. Derek must have taken the batteries out.

Jack suddenly stops crying as if his batteries, too, have been removed. "Turkey," Jack shouts happily, and grabs a fistful of Addison's hair just as she pulls open the front door.

"Turkey," Carolyn repeats, looking over her eyeglasses at Addison. "Exactly what I was thinking. What a smart little boy."

"Mom!" Addison says with as much cheer as she can manage. "Happy Thanksgiving. Um. Sorry, I didn't hear the doorbell. I was … too far away."

"I saw the top of your head through the glass," her mother-in-law says, indicating the transparent panels on the front door.

Oh.

"It's a very quiet doorbell," Addison tries. When Carolyn still doesn't look convinced, she thrusts the baby into her mother-in-law's arms.

Nothing calms Carolyn Shepherd like a grandchild, particularly a new one.

Even if she has to quickly drop her large quilted bag to catch the baby.

And if Carolyn is suspicious that she's suddenly holding Jack when she's only half a step over the threshold into the brownstone, she doesn't let us. Instead, she focuses on cooing to Jack, who blows an appreciative raspberry at the focused attention.

"He's gotten so big. And he must have just been napping, with these adorable pajamas."

… instead of actual clothes.

(Yes, Addison is practiced at reading into her mother-in-law's harmless comments.)

"Oh my, look at those teeth." Carolyn smiles at the baby.

"Don't bite Grandma," Addison says hastily.

"I'm sure he wouldn't bite anyone, the little angel. Oh, he looks just like Derek."

Addison has seen Derek's baby pictures, and she's quite certain that's an overstatement at best, but she lets it go.

"Mom, Happy Thanksgiving!" Derek emerges from the kitchen looking only slightly disheveled from his battle with the smoke detector.

"Happy Thanksgiving, darling."

"I see you already have the baby." Derek smiles at her. "Just be careful, because he – "

Carolyn yelps with surprise as her grandson grabs the glasses from her face.

"No, Jack," Derek says quickly, detaching the spectacles from his son's strong grip. "Don't touch, remember."

"Turkey," Jack protests angrily, reaching for the glasses again.

"Mom, maybe it would be better if you …"

" … suddenly didn't need glasses?" His mother raises her eyebrows. "Derek, dear, they're not a fashion statement."

Even Derek notices she gives Addison a disapproving look along with the phrase fashion statement.

"I need the glasses to see," Carolyn continues. "And besides, I've raised five children and Jack is my sixteenth grandchild. He's hardly the first to try to steal a pair of glasses."

"Yes, but …" Derek's voice trails off. He's not sure he, his sisters, any of his sisters' children, or Christa has been quite as … determined … as Jack.

"It's fine, really. Hush." His mother bounces Jack in her arms. "Addie, dear, would you like me to get this child dressed?"

"No, thank you," Addison says with a tight smile.

"Good, then I have time to check on the dinner preparations." Carolyn beams at her daughter in law. "Why don't I have a look at the turkey – "

"You know what, if you could get his outfit on, that would be great," Addison says quickly, moving to direct Derek's mother to the staircase. "Derek, can you take Mom up to the nursery?"

"I know where the nursery is," Carolyn says, sounded affronted.

"Derek," Addison repeats.

"We moved it," Derek lies helplessly, making a what do you expect me to do face at Addison when she glares at him. "Let's go, Mom, it will be nice to get some extra time together."

Carolyn doesn't seem able to contradict that, and off they go.

That was close.

..

"… and he's always dressed so nicely, but surely it would be easier to stick to hand-me-downs, especially when they grow so quickly, don't you think?"

Derek has mostly tuned his mother out, but now he checks back in.

"Yes," he says, hoping it's the right answer.

His mother nods smartly. "Good. Now. Let's put some clothes on this child."

She frowns when she sees the little outfit laid out on the pine dresser, with its white ferry-boat embossed drawer-pulls.

"Oh my," she says, stroking Jack's blond head. "Doesn't that look … fancy."

Derek just nods along. "Mom, why don't you let me help. Jack's very – strong."

"Nonsense, son, do you know how many babies I've dressed in my day?"

His mother is nothing if not efficient, so Derek just smiles weakly and lets it go.

And she does manage, after a fashion.

There's a broken necklace involved, a lot of hair-pulling, and an entire stack of clean laundry on the soft blue rug by the time she's finished.

But Jack is dressed, his hair sticking up at angles that attest to his struggle, in shades of grey and blue. Addison selected the delicate sweater and shirt and little pants, of course, and the precious suede shoes that both parents are well aware Jack will remove as soon as he can and hurl at the assembled Shepherds.

Still, he looks adorable, and Carolyn says as much, though Derek is pretty sure he also picks up the word European.

It's possible his mother isn't quite as attached to French baby boutiques as his wife is, but thankfully Jack's four-toothed smile is sweet enough to distract everyone.

"Let's get him downstairs," Derek suggests, hoping to vacate the second floor before Olivia makes herself known.

So far, so silent, which suggests Christa has worked her magic.

They walk right into his daughter on the landing. She's pulling her bedroom door shut behind her, eyes wide when she sees her grandmother.

Carolyn holds out her arms and Christa hugs her, deftly avoiding her baby brother's attempt to grab a hank of her long hair. "Happy Thanksgiving, Grandma."

"Happy Thanksgiving, darling. Oh, look at you, you're getting so tall." She holds Christa away to look her up and down. "She really takes after Lizzie, Derek, don't you think?"

In the back of mind he hears Addison complaining, your mother acts like I had zero input with Christa, genetic or otherwise!

(That's how good his wife is, she can actually participate in conversations from a floor away.)

"Sure," he says, more to placate his mother than anything else. Out of her grandmother's sight, Christa makes a face at him that only serves to highlight her resemblance to Addison.

"What's this?" His mother examines something in her hand. "Christa, why is there a feather in your hair?"

"A feather in my hair?" Christa repeats, glancing at her father. "Well, it's …"

"Fashion," Derek says quickly. "It's very fashionable now, right, Chris? Mom, you know how Christa likes … fashion."

His voice fades a little at the end, hoping his mother has enough grandchildren not to remember offhand that Christa's interest in fashion extends exactly as far as ensuring she doesn't wear any fabrics that use animal-based dyes.

"Oh." His mother examines the feather. "It's an … accessory? Something you paid for?"

He hears her judgment. And he can't really blame her. The feather is long and dark brownish-black and unless it's his imagination it actually smells rather … gamey. Altogether, to a woman who barely likes spending money on things that are far more appealing than that, it must seem like a terrible waste.

"Well, we give her freedom with her allowance." Derek spreads his hands expansively.

"It looks very realistic," his mother adds.

"Let me just get rid of that," Derek suggests, taking the feather from his mother and shoving it in his pocket.

"Don't throw it out, that cost money!" His mother frowns.

"No, of course not." Derek glances at Christa. "Chris, honey, why don't you take Grandma downstairs and see if you can help with the table."

"Okay."

"Aren't you coming, dear?" his mother asks.

Derek hadn't planned to – he was going to check on Olivia, well aware that Christa can be trusted to excel at almost everything that involves animals … except confining them.

"Um … sure," he says, when he can't think of a good excuse. Jack holds his arms out to his father, kicking off one of his little grey shoes as he does. Derek takes his son and walks downstairs with his mother and daughter, casting the occasional nervous glance toward the second floor. They just need to keep everyone away from upstairs …

… and from the kitchen.

He silently kicks himself for every time he complained the brownstone was too big. He wouldn't mind an extra addition right about now just to keep their secrets.

Carolyn puts an arm around her granddaughter's shoulders. Though she doesn't pick favorites, Derek knows she's fond of Christa, whether it's because she was named for Derek's father, because of her sweet nature, or because she disapproves of small family's on instinct and believes Christa needs extra love.

Then she draws back, looking troubled. "Derek, Christa's hair is wet."

"I washed it," his daughter says.

"And you didn't have her dry it?" Carolyn looks at Derek like she's just found out he makes Christa sleep on the sidewalk. "It's freezing, Derek, she'll catch her death of cold."

Derek looks from the crackling fire in the fireplace, sending warm smoke through the living room at regular intervals, to the ancient radiators along the wall that pump not-always-welcome dry heat at nearly desert levels all autumn long. In fact, he has to brush some perspiration off his upper lip before he responds.

"I'll keep that in mind," he says weakly, one of Addison's favorite phrases when dealing with his mother's advice.

Miraculously … it seems to work.

..

"Look, Derek, Nancy and the kids came early too," Addison says through gritted teeth when they've reached the first floor, somehow injecting a note of false cheer he hopes only he can detect.

"I hope you don't mind. We'll stay out of the way," Nancy assures Derek as she kisses his cheek. He promises her they don't mind, though he's well aware that stay out of the way is as far from Nancy's motto as keep your opinions to yourself.

"Where's Doug?"

"He'll meet us. He had to check on a patient." Nancy hands Addison her fur-lined coat, which Derek hopes Christa won't notice.

"Kids, go play out of the way and let Uncle Derek and Aunt Addie finish getting ready," Nancy instructs, even though two-thirds of the children present are in high school.

"Dad, Jack bit – " Christa skids up and then stops talking when she sees her aunt and cousins.

"Hi," she says warily.

"Hi," her cousin, Tyler, responds, taking off his canvas knapsack and dropping it on the floor.

Tyler, Nancy's youngest, was born two weeks before Christa.

And of course Nancy declared this timing wonderful.

She also started comparing them as soon as she could, from APGAR scores to rolling over.

For their part, Tyler and Christa are sometime friends – usually when outdoor activities were involved – and occasionally bitter enemies. Tyler is a notoriously poor loser, which is challenging in a big family. Until Jack's birth, Nancy generally blamed their squabbles on Christa's only-child status, and then moved on to politely suggesting their unconventional family planning was at issue.

"It's just Tyler, Gillian, and Molly," Nancy announces. "Caroline's staying up at school and Gabe went to his friend's family in Boston."

Derek can tell by her pronunciation of friend – and also her expression – that she means girlfriend.

"Well, that's great. More food for everyone," Derek says gamely, distributing greetings and hugs to his nephew and nieces.

Nancy is toying fondly with Christa's hair. "Such a pretty color," she says. "Why don't you take your cousins upstairs, sweetheart."

"Um…" Christa looks from Nancy to Derek.

"You know, we have a lot of things for the kids in the family room," Derek interjects. "They can hang out in there."

"Whatever." Nancy shrugs as Christa smiles with relief and darts off with her cousins.

..

"Nancy, thank goodness you're here," Carolyn says, not very quietly, hugging her daughter. "Addie's just insisting I put my feet up but she's going to need help." She lowers her voice. "You remember …"

"Nance!" Addison says loudly, announcing she can hear them perfectly. "Great to see you."

"Actually," Addison adds, once she's exchanged hugs and kisses, "can you take Jack? He's in the cage – I mean, his play area – but he's actually gnawed off a fair amount of the wood, so…"

"I'd love to." Nancy scoops Jack up from the floor. "I miss having little ones sometimes," she confesses, "and his outfit is just so darling, Addie, is it Bonpoint? I'm certain I recognize the color scheme." She sighs, fingering the delicate fabric. "Of course, with five children, you have to cut certain corners … but it's lovely to be able to indulge."

"Thank you," Addison says, figuring it's a response both to her sister-in-law's offer to baby sit and to her rather whiplash-inducing backhanded compliments. It's not that she's not fond of Nancy – because she is – more that you have to be constantly on guard around her. But Addison, whose private secondary school excelled at fencing, can handle it.

With Jack safely in the arms of his aunt (whether Nancy is safe from him remains to be seen), Addison turns back to the numerous pots on the stove. She fell in love with the set the moment she saw it at Sur La Table. Made of hand-forged cast-iron with porcelain enamel in a deep, Christmassy green, they just announce I Can Totally Handle Thanksgiving Dinner Preparations.

What's in them, of course, is a different story. Leaning her head out of the kitchen and hoping she looks as unruffled as she doesn't feel, she tries to sound casual.

"Derek!"

He meets her in the kitchen entryway. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing, honey, everything's great. The food is cooking beautifully, our company arrived just when they should, and there is certainly not an enormous filthy bird hiding in a bathtub you will be cleaning!"

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asks.

Addison debates throwing her potholder at his face.

(But it's hand-stitched Scottish lambswool over a silicone base, so there's no need to treat it poorly just because her husband is making her crazy.)

"Derek. I need you to do a lot of things to help. Like keep your mother out of the kitchen –"

"She's staying out!"

"Yes, because I told her to. And you know how she loves taking orders from me. She keeps saying she wants to check the turkey!"

"Okay. Just – calm down," Derek says, apparently not having learned in nearly fourteen years of marriage the dangers of that phrase.

"Calm down? Calm down? Derek, we're at DEFCON 5 here!"

"DEFCON 5 is actually 'normal readiness,'" Derek says. "It's a common misconception. DEFCON 1 is –"

"Please stop talking." Addison rests her hands on her husband's shoulders. "Derek. Honey. I need you to go out there and distract your mother. And you checked on Olivia, right? You made sure Christa didn't just set her up in bed with a tea tray?"

"I … sort of," he admits.

"Sort of?" Addison drops her head into her hands. "This is going to make the salmonella Thanksgiving look like a treasured memory, isn't it?"

..

Having calmed Addison down sufficiently to ensure she's not going to murder his mother, Derek rejoins the family in the living room. Nancy is sipping a glass of wine – like Addison, she seems able to conjure them at will – while she dandles her nephew on her knee. Jack is doing a decent impression of a regular baby, babbling and smiling, and Derek crosses his fingers he can keep it up.

All of a sudden, a squawk descends from upstairs.

Derek's mother and sister swing their heads in unison toward the staircase.

"What on earth is that?"

"What on earth is what?" Derek asks innocently.

Olivia … come on … we spared you death, the least you can do is shut up …

"That – crowing," Nancy says.

"It's more like clucking," Carolyn corrects.

"I think it's really more like crowing."

"Well, I think –"

"Dad!" Christa jogs into the living room. "I need to –"

"Christa, darling, do you hear that noise?" Carolyn asks, frowning. "Your father doesn't seem to hear it."

Olivia emits an especially loud squawk, making Derek wonder if she's actually descending the staircase at the moment.

"Oh … that noise?" Christa smiles at her grandmother. "It's one of Jack's toys," she lies smoothly. "It makes farm noises."

"Oh. They're very … realistic."

Christa nods enthusiastically. "Yeah, Jack loves it, but my dad says he plays them so much he can't even hear them anymore."

"Well, I suppose that explains it," Carolyn says slowly.

"Chris?" Derek signals his daughter. "Why don't you go – see if you can turn off Jack's toy?"

She nods and darts away; he hears her footfalls on the staircase. Noticing Addison standing in the kitchen archway watching their daughter, he excuses himself and joins her.

"Did you hear that?"

"Which part, Olivia's solo or Christa's coverup?"

"Both," Derek says.

"Yes, and yes." Addison pauses. "Did you notice our kid is a very good liar?"

"I did notice that." Derek frowns. "We should discuss it … after Thanksgiving."

"After Thanksgiving," Addison repeats. "Assuming we all live that long."

..

The squawking settles down then, and in the silence, with all four children occupied in the family room and his mother and sister distracted by Jack, Derek escapes to the kitchen to help Addison.

"Eight years later and I'm still in here doing all the work by myself," she grumbles.

"You told me to keep my mother away," he points out.

"Fine." She shoves her hair behind her ears. She's given up on it, apparently, and scraped the whole thing into a pile on her head that reminds him of how she used to wear it to study in med school. Her apron – a gag gift to him at some point in a Secret Santa that he's pretty sure was intended for his brother-in-law – is spattered with a variety of evidence. And her face is flushed from the heat.

"It smells good in here," he says tentatively.

Actually, it's true.

Whatever is happening in the outrageously expensive pots Addison purchased for the occasion is a mystery to him, but the fragrance is actually lovely, warm and autumnal. Thanksgiving-y even.

And if he's not mistaken, the pungent, savory smell wafting from the closed oven is … poultry.

"Can I?" He gestures toward the oven door.

"The internet says you have to add 15 minutes of cooking time every time you open the door." Addison pauses. "Or is it 15 degrees of heat?"

"I'll just turn on the light, then," Derek compromises, and does so.

Inside the oven, in the enormous roaster intended for Olivia, is … something.

Something small.

He has to squint but can't quite make it out.

"Is that … the chicken?"

"Yes," Addison says with dignity, "but when I hacked off the ice I realized it was actually kind of … tiny."

"How tiny?"

"Two pounds," Addison admits. "It, uh, it might be a Cornish hen. Or squab. Or a pigeon from Central Park, I have no idea, Derek, but Liz is going to be here soon, right? She said she was going to look in the basement. She'll find something at her place. And … well … until then, at least it kind of smells like turkey, right?"

Her expression is hopeful – slightly murderous, too, and where was that killing spirit when she was supposed to slaughter Olivia but had cocktails with her instead?

"It's great," he assures her. "Everything is going to be great."

"It smells wonderful in here!"

Addison and Derek jump apart so fast at his mother's voice that he flashes back to their first Christmas together when she walked in on them getting reacquainted in the garage.

"Mom!" Derek says quickly, moving to block her from the kitchen. "Let's give Addison some space."

"Oh, I only want to help, dear," Carolyn says, jiggling Jack in her arms. "Here, you take the baby, and I'll roll my sleeves up and jump in. Addie, you have a meat thermometer, right? A working one?"

"It's okay, really. You watch the baby, that's helpful," Addison tries. "Go relax, Mom."

"I hate relaxing," Carolyn insists airily, and it's hard to deny that. She holds out the baby to Derek. "You take Jack."

"Derek," Addison hisses.

"Derek," Carolyn says, confused, "aren't you going to take the baby? I want to go check on the turkey."

Addison looks stricken.

"All right, I'll just bring the baby with me. I used to cook with a baby on my hip all the time, you know," and she gives Addison a look over her glasses as she says it.

Carolyn takes one step … and then another … and then yelps with surprise and Jack reaches up, grabs his mother's glittering spectacles, and hurls them to the floor.

Where they shatter into an unfixable cobweb.

"Oh, no," Addison says, looking like she can't control her smile. "Jack, that's … bad … Mom, I'm so sorry."

"I'll clean up the mess," Derek offers. He takes his son from his mother's arms. "Mom, go and sit down in the other room and I'll see if I can fix the glasses."

"How can I see my way there?" she demands.

"Okay, I'll help you." He ushers his mother out the door, stopping to throw Addison a look of wonder. She's holding the shattered glasses in her hands looking – well –

Not exactly upset.

..

His mother, though, is upset. She can't see, or at least not well enough to examine Addison's cooking, so she might as well be Helen Keller – that's his impression.

"You don't have a spare pair?" Nancy asks.

"No, but – oh, that's a good idea, I think Liz does. Let me call her, maybe I can catch her before she leaves."

"Wait – " Derek remembers that Liz is supposed to be bringing poultry, but his mother is already dialing her number.

"Great," she announces when she's done. "Liz will look for them."

"…great," Derek echoes faintly.

He's pretty sure, though, that he can hear Addison humming in the kitchen.

At least someone is happy.

He takes a deep breath, trying to enjoy the crackling fire and the surprisingly homey scents wafting from the other room. Thanksgiving in his beautiful home with his beautiful –

A sudden shriek from upstairs cuts into his gratitude.

A decidedly human shriek, and then another.

Addison's head sticks out of the kitchen at the chaos.

"I'll go," Derek says quickly.

Addison gives him a look he decides to interpret as appreciation rather than suppressed irritation.

He ascends the stairs quickly and follows the commotion to Christa's bedroom. Pushing open the door, he finds Christa and her cousin Tyler standing six feet apart, yelling at each other.

He can't quite make out any words, but none of it sounds particularly like a peaceable negotiation.

"Hey. Hey!" he shouts when neither of them seems to notice his presence.

Both of them fall silent.

"What's going on?"

"Christa punched me!" Tyler cries, pulling his hand away from his face.

"Derek? What happened in here? Tyler!" Nancy has suddenly appeared in the doorway, her face a mask of horror like she's just walked in on a crime scene rather than two bickering ten-year-olds. "Oh my god," she intones dramatically, turning to Derek.

"Christa punched me," Tyler repeats, sobbing, while Nancy holds his face in her manicured hands and studies it, occasionally turning to throw glares in Derek's direction.

For her part, Christa is very quiet, holding a purring Arturo in her arms.

"Chris." Derek turns to her. "Did you punch Tyler?"

She doesn't respond; Derek takes a step toward her and Arturo hisses loudly at him.

"Derek," Nancy snaps, "that vicious animal is frightening my son."

Arturo leaps lightly out of Christa's arms, fastens his yellow eyes on Derek for one long moment of vaguely threatening eye contact, and then disappears under the bed.

Christa, who is rubbing the knuckles of her right hand, raises her eyes to meet Derek's.

"Did you punch Tyler?" he repeats.

"Yes," she says, "but he deserved it."

"I did not!" Tyler yells.

"You did too!" Christa yells back, starting to stalk toward him; Derek grabs hold of her before she can make much headway.

"Christa …" He shakes his head.

"He did deserve it! I punched him because he kicked Arturo!"

Now they all turn to Tyler. "Only 'cause her dumb cat scratched me first!"

He holds up his arm and there's a long pink scratch – Derek, who has seen Arturo single-handedly destroy more than one hand-stitched leather purse that looked like it could withstand a tornado, is well aware that Arturo hardly did his worst.

Not even close.

Still…

Nancy, on the other hand, seems to think Tyler is in danger of immediate shock from blood loss.

"He broke the skin," she whispers in horror. "Derek – do you see this?"

"I see it."

"Dad," Christa is tugging at his sleeve. "Arturo only scratched him 'cause he was teasing him. He hurt him! He was pulling his tail!"

"Tyler would never do that," Nancy responds primly. "Christa, you must have misunderstood, sweetheart. Derek," she adds, drawing up to her full height, "it's irresponsible to have such an aggressive animal around small children."

"He's not aggressive! Tyler's the aggressive one!" Christa protests, quieting at a look from Derek.

"Why are you playing up here when the cat is so easily provoked?" Nancy demands.

"We weren't playing up here," Christa says. "We were playing in the family room but I had to come up here to check on my … homework."

"On your homework? It's Thanksgiving." Nancy frowns at her brother. "Derek, I really think you put too much academic pressure on this child."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"And Tyler followed me up here," Christa says. She throws her father a meaningful look. "So I didn't even get to check on my homework at all."

"I'm sure he just wanted to help you, darling," Nancy assures her niece. "Tyler is academically gifted, you know."

"We know," Derek says mildly. "And I'm sorry about the scratch," Derek says mildly. "The thing is, Arturo needs his space – he's not really a cat that can tolerate being bothered."

"Tyler didn't bother him," Nancy contradicts. "Did you, Tyler?"

"Nope," Tyler tells his mother, his tone tearfully innocent.

"That's not true!" Christa's hands are on her hips. Derek rests his on her shoulders, half to calm her down and half in case she lunges at Tyler again.

"And even if he did … try to play with the cat, that's no reason for the cat to attack him so viciously," Nancy continues in her bossiest older-sister voice. "Derek, you have no excuse not to get that creature declawed."

Derek hears Christa's inhale and moves his hand quickly to cover her mouth before she can launch into her outraged speech on the inhumane practice of declawing cats.

(He doesn't disagree, he just doesn't think it's particularly politic at the moment. Not when Nancy is involved.)

"Okay," he says calmly, "Nance, we'll figure it out. Why don't we go get Tyler cleaned up – here, you can wash off his arm in the bathroom right through there – "

Christa is struggling against him, making muffled sounds of panic, and when he turns her around he sees her eyes are wide with anxiety; she gestures toward the bathroom. Derek takes his hand off her mouth and her lips form two syllables.

Turkey.

"Actually," Derek interjects quickly, taking his sister's arm and moving between her and Christa's bathroom door, "let me get you set up in the bathroom down the hall. It's better for … cleaning cat scratches."

"You must clean a lot of them," Nancy responds icily. "And what's wrong with the bathroom right here?"

"Oh, you know how … girls are," Derek says, silently apologizing to Christa, Addison, and Gloria Steinem for the unfortunate but handy excuse. "They like to have their own private spaces for their … things, and I'm sure you'll be more comfortable out there. Come on, Ty."

"Fine," Nancy says, "but Derek, a cat who attacks an innocent child needs to be reported to animal control."

"No!" Christa grabs onto his shirt, panicked.

"Nancy, take it easy," Derek says patiently, resting a hand on Christa's head to calm her down.

"We'll see how deep the wound is," Nancy sniffs, apparently not at all embarrassed to be referring to surface scratch that could have been caused by a strong gust of wind as a wound.

"Dad…" Christa pleads as he starts to escort Nancy and Tyler away.

"It's okay. Just stay here," he directs her, and leads his sister and nephew out the door.

Once Nancy and Tyler are safely behind the closed hallway bathroom door, he returns to Christa's room. She's sitting on her bed as he instructed, looking glum; he sits down next to her.

"Let me see your hand."

She extends it; he turns her hand over in his and studies her reddened knuckles, manipulating her fingers carefully. He can't help marveling at the size of her hand – the same one that used to fold around one of his fingers when he leaned over her in her bassinet what feels like forever ago.

Relieved at the minimal damage, he returns her hand to her lap.

"Sit here for a minute while I check on your ... homework," he instructs. In the little bathroom off Christa's bedroom he finds Olivia preening her feathers in the claw-footed bathtub lined with soft blankets - including one he recognizes as his mother's hand-crocheting - in easy reach of copious food and water. Olivia gives him a friendly head bob of recognition, the loose skin at her neck wobbling.

"Hi there," he mutters, "just ... keep it down, okay?"

I'm talking to a turkey.

"Thank you," he adds, figuring he might as well be polite if he's going to talk to the animals, Dr. Doolittle-style, and then closing the door behind him.

"Is she okay?" Christa asks anxiously, standing up and searching his face.

"She's fine," Derek assures her. He looks down at his daughter. "Listen ... you can't punch people, Chris."

"He kicked Arturo. You're not supposed to kick people either!"

"Arturo's not a – " Derek can't bring himself to finish the sentence when he looks at Christa's face. "The point is, two wrongs don't make a right. You should have come to get me or Mom instead of punching him."

"If I did, then Tyler would've been alone up here with Arturo and …" she gestures wordlessly toward the bathroom, indicating the brownstone's newest animal resident.

Derek raises his eyebrows. "So this is Olivia's fault?"

"No," Christa says immediately, and unsurprisingly. Derek can't imagine circumstances under which his daughter would let an animal take blame. "But Dad, he was bothering Arturo and I told him to stop and Arturo doesn't like it. He only scratched him a tiny bit, and only 'cause Tyler was being so awful."

Derek sighs. He knows Christa shouldn't have punched Tyler, and lord knows Arturo is certainly not a fan of Derek – or Addison – but he's extremely loyal to Christa and Derek has to respect the cat for that.

"Daddy, Aunt Nancy said she was going to report Arturo," Christa reminds him tearfully. "You won't let her, will you? You won't let them take him away?"

"No, of course not," he says, and his daughter throws her arms around his waist. He hugs her back, then holds her away gently to talk to her. "But you need to help me out a little here – help Arturo out," he amends. "You need to apologize to Tyler for punching him."

"I'm not sorry I punched him."

"Yes, you've made that very clear." Derek massages his forehead where a tension headache is gathering. "You need to apologize to him anyway."

"But I won't mean it."

"That's fine."

"But it's a lie."

"Chris … it's a white lie. A harmless little lie like the one I'm going to tell Aunt Nancy about how Arturo is a friendly, non-violent, not-at-all-aggressive cat who doesn't deserve to be reported to animal control. You do your part, I'll do mine. Deal?"

He holds out his hand.

Christa considers this. "Deal," she says slowly, putting her hand in his.

They shake, Derek glancing one more time ruefully at her reddened knuckles.

He's not proud of her for what she did.

But he's not exactly disappointed that his daughter can stand up for herself, either.

..

"Everything checks out," Derek says as patiently as he can, having given Tyler a third visual check for neurological damage.

(At his sister's insistence, and even after he politely explained to her how rarely ten-year-old girls cause concussions.)

"If you're sure," Nancy says suspiciously, stroking her son's hair with one hand while she props the other on her hip.

"I'm pretty sure, Nancy, but feel free to review my credentials."

With Nancy's reluctant seal of approval, he knocks on Christa's door.

Christa looks pretty reluctant herself, but she sidles out of her bedroom and closes the door behind her.

"Chris … did you have something to say to Tyler?" Derek prompts her. He rests both hands on her shoulders, partly in reassurance but firmly enough to remind her of their deal.

"Sorry I punched you, Tyler," Christa mutters to the floor, "even if you deserved it."

"Mom!" Tyler complains, while Nancy shakes her head disapprovingly.

"Christa…" Derek leans down to speak to her quietly. "You are not making it very easy for me to help you out here."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry I punched you," she tells her cousin, folding her arms over her chest.

"Thank you for that sincere apology, sweetheart," Nancy says, giving Christa a sugary smile and then glaring at Derek as if to say it's your parenting to blame here, not the kid.

"Tyler should apologize to Arturo now," Christa announces.

"Okay, you know what?" Derek speaks over the hubbub that ensues. "Nance, why don't you and Tyler go downstairs and … join the others. You don't want to miss Liz's famous cheese turkey."

At the word turkey, he feels Christa freeze, and then he freezes too, worried Olivia might overhear her calling card.

When everything is silent, he gives Nancy his most believable apologetic smile and encourages them to go enjoy the holiday.

"You stick around," he adds, snagging the back of Christa's dress when she starts to follow her aunt and cousin downstairs.

"We had a deal," he reminds his daughter when they're alone.

"I know," she says, looking a little ashamed. "But I did apologize to Tyler!" she reminds him. "You didn't actually say he couldn't apologize to Arturo. And he really should, you didn't see what he was doing." Her face falls. "Don't you believe me?"

Derek sighs. "I believe you, Chris. We'll keep your bedroom door closed so Tyler doesn't have any more … animal access. But you're not solving problems by punching people."

He hears the disconnect in his words and hopes she won't notice, but Christa has never been one not to pick up on hints.

"Am I in trouble?" she asks tremulously.

He has to look away from her sad little face – the problem is, being upset somehow makes her look like a miniature version of her mother. He steels himself.

"Let's see if we can survive Thanksgiving without Olivia giving Grandma another heart attack, and we'll figure it out."

He holds out a hand. "Let's go downstairs."

..

Addison is attempting to figure out how to mash a sweet potato with the device Kathleen produced from her handbag. Of course her sister-in-law showed up mid-chaos, with Derek and Nancy upstairs mediating whatever the kids have gotten into.

Kathleen's daughters sped off to the family room to join the circus and it's just the two of them in the kitchen now, Addison trying to decide what's worse: cooking for her mother-in-law or listening to her sister-in-law's stories about psychiatric theory.

"Am I doing this right?" she asks uncertainly, peering into the bowl.

"Sure," Kathleen says offhand. "Anyway, then my research assistant said…"

Addison turns back to her work. The implement in question looks like a medieval torture instrument … and this is coming from someone who regularly cuts into human flesh. She's frowning at the orange mush in the bowl in front of her – it's rather brown, too, but Kathleen assured her that was okay – when Christa slinks into the kitchen.

"What's wrong?" Addison sets down the squisher, or crusher, or whatever it's called.

Christa shrugs. "Hi, Aunt Kathy," she says.

"Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart. Come give me a hug," Kathleen instructs, and when Christa does so she whistles softly. "You're getting so tall, Christa! You know, Addie, girls who get their height early – "

"Chris," Addison interrupts, troubled by the look on her face, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing, Mom. Need any help cooking?" she asks.

"We have it under control," Addison lies. She glances from Kathleen, who has that hungry look she gets when she thinks there may be some counseling to do, back to her daughter. "Why don't you go spend some time with your cousins, honey."

Christa doesn't say anything, just twists a lock of reddish-brown hair around her fingers. Addison is about to tell her not to play with her hair while they're attempting to prepare food when she sees her daughter's knuckles.

"Chris, what happened to your hand?" she asks, wiping her own hands off and approaching her.

"Nothing," Christa says, glancing at Kathleen. Addison folds her arms and fixes her daughter with a stern look.

It's possible that it's not entirely intimidating, since she's currently wearing the type of high ponytail she associates with the late 1980s, scrunchie included, and a bright red apron that says KISS THE COOK AT YOUR OWN RISK, but it seems to work.

"I kind of punched Tyler," Christa admits, "but he kicked Arturo first!"

"He kicked the cat?"

Addison exchanges a glance with Kathleen.

"That's two," Kathleen says quietly. "Remember the fire at –"

"What fire?" Christa asks with interest.

"Don't worry about it," Addison says. "He shouldn't kick Arturo, but you can't punch people, Christa!"

"I know that," she sighs. "Dad said the same thing."

"Okay, then." Addison straightens up. "What else did he say?"

"That he won't know if I'm in trouble until we get through dinner without Olivia – "

Christa freezes and stops talking.

Kathleen picks up on it immediately.

"Who's Olivia?" she asks.

"Olivia is …" Addison glances at her daughter, whose blue eyes are wide. "Olivia is a friend of Christa's," she lies. "From school."

"Oh." Kathleen looks suspicious. "What does she have to do with dinner?"

"Christa … wanted her to join us tonight," Addison invents, glancing at her daughter for buy-in.

"Yeah," Christa says, catching on quickly. "But, um, my mom and dad said I couldn't 'cause I need to play with my cousins, even the awful ones."

"She doesn't mean your kids," Addison tells Kathleen quickly.

Kathleen nods, looking from mother to daughter. "Well. It's very normal at Christa's age and developmental stage to form close bonds of female peer-to-peer friendship. In some of my research, I focused on 19th century Maori culture using methodologies aimed at – "

"Oh no, I think I heard the baby crying," Addison interrupts. "So sorry. Chris, honey, why don't you stay and let Aunt Kathy tell you all about her research?"

Shooting her mother a look that very clearly says I thought I wasn't in trouble yet, Christa gives reluctant assent.

..

"Where's Christa?"

Derek smiles at his nieces. Kathleen's twins are identical, but after reading – and making the entire family read – multiple books on successfully raising independent multiples, telling them apart isn't too hard.

(Claire's shorter hair helps, too.)

"She's in the kitchen helping her mom," he says. He's only stopped in the family room to check and make sure the cousins weren't killing each other. They're actually playing a surprisingly civil game of Scrabble, though the older ones are on their phones as well.

"But Aunt Addie's over there," Audrey says, pointing.

Derek follows her gesture to see Addison is, indeed, over there, on the floor of the family room with Jack either embracing him or attempting to detach his teeth from her shoulder. Either way, they look sweet together.

"Addie." He squats down next to her. "Should I go check on the food, or …?"

She groans. "Fine, I'll go." She stands up and hands Jack to Derek, who follows her out of the family room and back to the kitchen.

Christa is alone in the kitchen, wearing a large gray potholder and studying the contents of one of the green pans on the stove.

"Chris, go play with your cousins and keep an ear out for Olivia," Derek instructs, relieving her of the potholder.

"You don't have to stay in here, Addie," Derek assures her once they're alone. "I can. I just didn't want to set off the smoke detectors."

"I think I'd prefer an actual fire at this rate," she snaps, then shakes her head apologetically. "I'm sorry, Derek. I'm trying, I really am. But your mom is driving me crazy."

"She's not doing anything," he protests. "She can't even see since Jack blinded her."

"He didn't blind her," Addison says with dignity, "although I'm sure I'll never hear the end of it since your mother has never met a grudge she doesn't like keeping, especially where I'm involved."

"Okay, look. Everything is going fine. No, really." He deposits Jack in his play area and then sets his hands on his wife's shoulders, hoping his face looks convincing. Sometimes Addison knows him too well.

"Addie. We've made it so far. No uninvited poultry guests, no food poisoning, only minor physical violence, and surprisingly few bite marks. This is a victory. Let's enjoy it."

"Liz isn't here yet, though. She's supposed to bring an emergency bird - a dead one, just to be clear - and she's not going to be here for hours now that Mom has her looking for spare eyeglasses!"

Derek sighs. "Maybe she'll get here faster than you think. You know William is a speeder."

Reluctantly, Addison nods.

"So we just need to get through a little longer."

She smiles slightly up at him. In her flat slippers, she almost looks small. Or maybe it's the effect of the oversized apron. "You really think it will work out?"

"I really do."

"Turkey," Jack shrieks without warning, frustrated, rattling the side of his play area. Derek scoops him up, wishing he could focus on a different word.

"Addie, dear?" His mother calls out then. "Why don't you bring me out of a spoonful of whatever smells so … fragrant … so I can tell you if it's fully cooked?"

Addison just opens and closes her mouth a few times.

Mercifully, the doorbell rings before she can speak.

"Oh, thank god. I'll get it," Addison says. "But if it's Jehova's Witnesses, I'm asking them to take me with them," she adds in a low voice, for Derek's benefit only. "Or maybe I'll luck out and it will be a serial killer."

"Very funny," Derek mutters, shifting a protesting Jack, who is yanking on his father's hair in frustration, apparently, that he can't find anything to bite.

Addison takes merciful steps away from the loud living room into the foyer.

Ah … peace.

And quiet.

Until the doorbell rings again.

Fine. She'd jump for joy if it could be Liz, but even William can't drive that fast. Can he? Maybe it's later than she thought.

But when she pulls open the door, it's not Liz at all.

Nor is it Jehova's Witnesses.

Or even a serial killer.

(But she's fairly certain that a serial killer might have been more welcome.)

"Addison, you look surprised. Don't tell me you've forgotten it's Thanksgiving." Bizzy removes her sunglasses in time to raise a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Well? Are you going to invite me in?"


To be continued. I have to admit, Addek with an older kid is one of my favorite setups. I didn't know how much I liked it until I started writing it, so expect more! Thank you so much for reading and I hope you will review and let me know what you think. Reviews keep the #addekrevolution going! xoxo