Disclaimer: See initial chapter.

A/N: I'm working on a much longer, more detailed addition for this (it's already over 12,000 words), and I wanted a little bit of a break from it. It is still Thanksgiving here, so, I'm posting. Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate. This is my offering - completely fat and calorie free, though I think it is a tad on the overly sweet side.

"Hey, you wanna hand me that spatula, Clay?" Uncle Bobby was holding a squirming Juan in one arm, and a cookie tray that he'd just taken out of the oven his other hand.

Clay knew that he had a lot to be thankful for this year. There were the Tellers who'd taken him in, and kept him, when no one else, not even those who were supposed to be his family, would. Mr. Unser had been upfront with him on that point – people didn't take in foster children his age, for long, and rarely did they adopt them.

Clay wasn't new to the system, so he'd known that, even without Mr. Unser spelling it out for him. For some reason the social worker seemed to think that Clay didn't understand how good he had it.

He was lucky, he knew that, but he missed his Mom and Dad. Great as the Tellers were, they couldn't replace his real Mom and Dad, and Clay missed them more than ever, now that it was Thanksgiving.

Clay handed the spatula to the man he'd come to think of as an uncle, somehow it had been easier for him to accept Bobby as a part of his family than it had been for him to accept the others. As an only child, he was still getting used to the idea of having other
children around, as well as the fact that he was the oldest of the four children that the Tellers had recently taken into their home.

Having been with the Tellers the longest – almost an entire year now – Clay knew the ropes, so to speak. He'd had time to get to know the Tellers, and how they ran their home.

He liked them just fine. They were firm and fair, and Clay didn't have any complaints about them. They just weren't his Mom and Dad.

"Careful, Juan." Uncle Bobby had placed the tray on the counter, and, as was typical of the energetic four-year-old, Juan was attempting to 'help' Bobby move the cookies from the
hot tray to the cooling rack. "You don't want to get burnt."

Clay wondered how Bobby could be so patient with Juan. He always wanted to be in the center of things, especially when Bobby was around, baking. It was a wonder that the man got anything done with Juan practically glued to his hip as he often was.

Clay didn't dislike the little boy, but he didn't exactly like him either. It was complicated. It was kind of cool to have a little kid who looked up to him, but it was a pain in the ass to
have Juan, and Alex, trail around after him all of the time.

Filip was almost the same age as he was, and he was okay. Clay didn't have much in common with him, other than age, but he was cool to hang out with and didn't talk much. The little boys followed Filip around too. Alex more than Juan. He didn't seem to mind it, and, even though he often bitched about it, Filip never once told the younger boys to get lost, and he was never mean to them.

"You want me to take him?" Clay asked, inwardly groaning even as he offered to take the younger boy. Taking care of Juan was like trying to catch an out of control bouncy ball, and sometimes just watching Juan made Clay tired.

He only offered because he wanted to be useful, and it was part of the assignment that Mrs. Delaney had given them for over their short Thanksgiving break. They had to help someone when they didn't want to and do three good deeds, without expecting to get something in return – according to Mrs. Delaney, that was called being selfless.

They had to write about what they did, and how it had made them feel. As far as assignments went, it wasn't all that hard, but Clay didn't' really like to write, and he wasn't all that excited about the project, and, they had to give an oral report afterwards. He really wasn't looking forward to that.

Clay wanted to get on Mrs. Delaney's good side, though. At least before parent-teacher conference time, which was in two weeks. After that, he could let things slide a little,
grade-wise.

At his other school, teachers had let him get away with not doing work, because they'd felt sorry for him, being an orphan. Mrs. Delaney, though, was different. She expected him to do his work, and to do it well, orphan or not. She was tough, but treated everyone the same.

Part of him was annoyed by this – he was used to slacking, and still pulling off passing grades, using his orphan status to his advantage, because there wasn't anything else good about being an orphan other than benefitting from the sympathy that others gave him – but there was a part of him that kind of respected her for not seeing him as a poor little orphan. The first time that he'd tried to play the orphan card with her, she'd called him on it, and he'd received his very first F. It had been embarrassing, and he'd not been allowed out for recess, and, even when he'd made up the missing assignment, he'd still gotten the F.

Juan's brow furrowed, and his lower lip trembled. "I wanna he'p."

"I know you do, monkey-boy, but..."

"Wanna take a look at my bike?" Clay bit his lip to keep from groaning.

He wished he could take his words back almost as soon as he'd said them, but the little boy's eyes lit up and he scrambled out of Bobby's arms almost as deftly as the monkey Bobby had likened him to. What was Mrs. Delaney doing to him? Working on the bike that John had given him was something almost sacred, it was special, and it was something that he didn't have to share with anyone else – it was only for him.

Sometimes he and John worked on it together, and Clay would imagine that he was working, side-by-side with his own father. It made him feel...loved, and almost like he wasn't really an orphan. When he was working on his bike – it was a junker that John had found at a junkyard when he was looking for parts for a car he was working on at his shop – it was like the world around him disappeared, and it was just him and the bike and the tools.

Gemma had given him a motorcycle repair book. It was the only book that Clay had read from cover to cover. There were pages that he'd earmarked, and some were smudged with dirt, oil and grease. He loved it almost as much as he loved the bike, because it gave him something to do, something that he could control.

"I'll call you when it's time for dinner," Uncle Bobby promised, and he gave Clay a grateful smile over the little boy's head. As good as Bobby was with the younger kids, Clay could see that even he needed a little break from them every once in awhile.

"Where's Alex?" Clay asked. It was rare to find Juan without Alex. The little boy practically worshipped him.

Juan frowned and held a hand out for Clay to grasp. "He's outside wif Fiwip, an' Jax, an' Opie, an' Mr. John," he said darkly.

"They're playing football," Gemma explained.

The only reason Clay wasn't out with them was because he'd offered to help Bobby and Gemma in the kitchen – something else he could blame on Mrs. Delaney. He'd much rather be outside playing football.

Gemma had the oven open and was pulling out the rack, revealing the biggest turkey that Clay had ever seen – even when his family had been whole, his parents not dead. She fussed around with it for a bit, blowing at her bangs when they fell across her eyes.

"You need any help?" Clay offered suddenly, remembering how his mother and father had worked together to prepare

Thanksgiving dinner. How his father would offer to help his mother with the turkey, and how they'd often end up laughing and kissing, and how he'd turn away, with an embarrassed, 'Ew'. Now, when he thought back on that, he thought that maybe it was romantic for his parents, and it wasn't so gross or embarrassing anymore, the thought of his parents kissing.

Gemma turned toward him, her dark hair swirling around her face, flushed pink from the heat of the oven. She was smiling at him, and Clay felt heat creep up into his own face. Juan tugged on his hand, and, reluctantly, Clay turned away from Gemma to look at the little boy.

"Clay, c'n I he'p you wif the bike?" Juan asked the question with as much reverence as most kids asked if they could open their Christmas or birthday presents. Juan gave him a smile, revealing two missing teeth – one on either side of his two front teeth.

"Uh, it's a lot of hard work, Juice, not something for little kids," Clay said, using the little boy's nickname to lessen the blow of his rejection.

When Juan's smile faded, Clay ruffled the little boy's curly brown hair, and Juan gave him a shy smile in return.

"Go on and show Juan your bike," Gemma said, turning back toward the turkey. "Juan, you listen to your big brother, okay, baby?"

Clay felt something tug at his heart when Juan nodded enthusiastically, his eyes wide and serious, and he squeezed the little boy's hand.

"C'mon, let's go." He led the way outside, Juan bouncing along beside him, tugging this way and that on Clay's hand.

The bike wasn't much to look at. Parts of it were rusted, and the seat would need to be refabricated. John said that he'd help Clay with the finer work on the bike, and he was looking forward to that. For now, though, John had given him the task of figuring out how to put it together, and get it running.

It had come in parts, and they'd worked together on it on Sunday mornings – just John and him. It was the second project that John had given him – the first, a dirt bike, was sitting in its own space in the garage – and, after three months of working on it, trying this and that, it now actually looked like a bike. Now, all Clay had to do was figure out how to get it running, and let John know what parts he needed to get the job done.

It was like the puzzles that he used to work with his mother when he was younger. She'd lay the pieces out on the kitchen table – they'd never used it for eating, instead using the island in the kitchen, or eating in the living room - and they'd work at the puzzle a little each day until it was complete. Then, after taking a picture, his mother and he would take it apart and re-box it. Even though the potential was there, they'd never solved the same puzzle twice.

One puzzle had taken them six months to complete. Sometimes a day or two would go by when he and his mother would stare at it, trying to figure out where a particular piece went, only to walk away frustrated when they couldn't find where it belonged.

It was like that, working on the bike, putting the pieces together, and making sure that they fit the way that they were supposed to. Sometimes Clay would have to undo something he'd done the week before and rework it.

It was slow, tedious, and sometimes frustrating work, but, whenever he worked on the bike, no matter how little work he got done, it still felt like he'd accomplished something. Clay liked the feeling that he got, even if it was just a little thing he'd managed to put together right.

Working on the bike took his mind off of other things – like how much he missed his parents, even though they'd been dead for almost three years now. It would be three years a week after Thanksgiving. It made his heart ache, thinking about it, so, he tried not to, tried to pretend that everything was just fine, because it needed to be. Others needed for it to be okay.

His Aunt Amy and Uncle David had needed for Clay to be okay when they'd told him they couldn't keep him, that it was too hard having a reminder of his mother around. Foster parent after foster parent had told him that he was a good kid, and any family would be happy to have him, but, in the end, they'd needed for him to be okay when they sent him on to the next foster family, because: they didn't have the room, or they were only a temporary set up, or they were trying to start a family of their own, or, or, or...

Clay had stopped listening to the excuses after his fourth placement. After that, he'd bided his time, figuring that he'd be in the system, bouncing from one foster home to another – like one of the older boys had explained to him in one of the homes he'd been in early on – until he aged out.

Working on the project that John had given him, reminded Clay that he was no longer in that situation, that, if things worked out, he would be a part of the Teller family, permanently. Or, until they got tired of him and kicked him out.

Much as he wanted to believe John and Gemma when they told him that, once the adoption went through, he could live with them, even past his eighteenth birthday (if he needed and wanted to), he still had a hard time believing them. His aunt and uncle had promised him that, and, after not even two months of living with them, he'd been placed in his first foster home.

"Wow," Juan exclaimed. His whole body seemed to be vibrating with pent-up energy and excitement as he looked at the work that Clay had done on the bike. It was funny to watch, and Clay stifled a chuckle as Juan let go of his hand and stood, staring, mouth agape, at the bike.

Even though they could be a handful, kids were easy to impress, and it took all of Clay's self-control not to laugh aloud at the little boy's blind-eyed wonder at what he had done, when in reality, he still had a lot of work to do on the bike. To him, the puzzle looked incomplete, and he could see those missing pieces.

Even so, it was kind of nice to have Juan looking at what he'd done with such amazement. He felt his chest swell with pride, and proceeded to walk Juan through all that he'd done, thus far, on the bike.

To his surprise, Juan listened, and he followed Clay around the bike, listening intently as Clay talked about what he'd done. His little hands were held tightly together behind him because Clay told him not to touch it. It wasn't that he was afraid that the little boy would break something, but that one of the sharp edges of a patch of rust that wasn't sanded would cut Juan, and he didn't want the little boy to get hurt.

"I'm gonna make a bike too," Juan said when Clay had finished. He was looking, not at the bike, but at Clay. "Jus' like you."

Juan's hands were still clasped behind his back, and he was rocking back and forth on his heels, something that he must've learned from Bobby who often did that when he was thinking about something. Juan seemed to take on the characteristics of those around him: Bobby's rocking, Alex's stance when he was trying to look tough, the way that Filip tucked his hands into the back of his pockets when he wasn't sure what else to do with them, and there were other things that Clay hadn't noticed before now.

It reminded Clay of the chameleons he'd learned about in science class. That lesson hadn't been too bad, and they'd even gotten to handle a real chameleon, watching how it blended into its scenery. It was a defense mechanism, and Clay wondered what Juan was trying to protect himself from.

He wondered what mannerisms Juan had taken from him, if any. He couldn't see much of himself in the little boy, and wondered if that was because he held him, and the others, at a distance, because he was afraid of losing them, just like he'd lost his parents, his aunt, his uncle, and everyone else.

It was always in the back of the head, the thought that he would lose everyone that mattered to him, so, he decided that he wouldn't let anyone matter to him. If no one mattered to him, then he couldn't lose them, and, if they went away, or sent him away, well, then it wouldn't be a big deal, because it wouldn't be like he really knew them in the first place.

An idea formed in his mind of its own accord, and, before Clay could stop it from materializing, he was kneeling so that he was eye-level with Juan. The little boy's eyes glistened, as though they had stars in them, and Clay's heart did a little flip-flop in his chest.

"How about if we work on the bike together from here on out?" he suggested, the words sounding strange and foreign to his ears, as though they were coming from someone else. "It'll be yours and mine."

Juan frowned, and he shook his head. "'S danj-rust," he said, his voice serious as John's sometimes got when he was having a 'talk,' with Clay, or one of the others about something important. "I'm too little."

Clay shook his head, and tried to work out what he wanted to say to Juan, because he thought that maybe it would be important. Maybe the most important thing he'd said in his whole life, up to this point in time.

He'd just turned eleven three months ago, his latest project had been a gift from John, the book from Gemma. He was the oldest one of the four boys currently living at the Tellers, and that meant that he had a lot of responsibility to the younger ones, because he'd been in the system longer, and he'd been with the Tellers longer. Responsibility that he would not have had had his parents not been killed by a drunk driver when they were out buying Christmas presents for him.

"I can teach you what to do. You can hand me tools," Clay said, words failing him, in a way they rarely did.

He was good at spinning tales, twisting the truth in his favor. He'd had to learn how to do that after his parents had died, in dealing with some of the foster parents he'd had. Living with the Tellers, though, he'd found that he had to do that less and less. He didn't need to twist things, or bend the truth. It was strange, and it wasn't a habit that he found easy to rid himself of, like a snake shedding its skin.

"I'll keep you safe," Clay promised. He wasn't even sure why he was trying to convince Juan to work with him, because, in a day or two, when it wasn't Thanksgiving, and he had time to think things through, and Juan was pestering him to work on 'their' bike, he was sure that he'd regret this.

"But 's yours," Juan said, his brow furrowing in confusion, and his hands fitting neatly into his back pockets as he rocked back on his heels. "'n..."

"I don't mind sharing," Clay said, biting his bottom lip, his heart screaming at him to stop as he added, "with you. Besides, I can use a good assistant. Uncle Bobby's always saying what a good assistant you are."

Before Clay knew what was happening, Juan pulled his hands from his pockets, and his arms, surprisingly strong, were wrapped around him in a hug that nearly toppled Clay and did steal his breath. It was like being hugged by an octopus, and Clay fought the urge to disentangle himself before the little boy did, letting Juan make the first move.

Juan's curly hair tickled Clay's nose, and the little boy's body was warm, his hands sticky, and he smelled like the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches they'd had for lunch. It was almost overwhelming for Clay who liked to keep touch at a minimum, because he was too old for it. The hug seemed to last forever, but just as Clay worried that it would never end, Juan released him and pulled back, giving Clay his space.

Before Clay could stand, however, the little boy leaned forward and kissed him, sloppily, on the cheek. Clay resisted the urge to wipe the little boy's slobber off his cheek as he stood and turned around, facing the tools that he'd been using to work on the bike.

"Okay," he said, turning around to face Juan who was standing, rocking on his heels, head tilted up so that he could see Clay's face.

"First things first..." he knelt in front of Juan, a tool in hand. Juan squinted at the tool, leaning in close, his head touching Clay's as he looked at, but didn't move to touch the tool, his hands were jammed firmly in his back pockets, once again, just like Filip.

"If you're going to be my assistant, you need to learn all about the tools." Clay held the torque wrench out to Juan, and waited for Juan to reach out and touch it.

The little boy was hesitant at first, his eyes searching Clay's for permission before moving, his body strangely still for Juan whose body never seemed to stop moving. Clay nodded, giving Juan the impetus he needed to move. Much to his surprise, the boy moved slowly, taking the tool from Clay, gingerly, as though he feared that he'd break it.

"You're not going to break it," Clay said, causing the little boy to startle. "It's strong, don't be afraid to hold it."

Juan gripped the tool tighter, and lowered his eyes to look closely at it, squinting, and bringing it up close to his face. He ran fingers along it, and smiled as he started to explore the feel of it.

Clay could relate, he'd been that way too, when he'd touched his first tool – which John had given him, and taught him how to use. It had felt heavy, and smooth, and like there'd been an electric current running through his body. It was exactly like what Clay had imagined Harry Potter's magic to be like.

"Wow." Juan's eyes were bright, and he was smiling so that the gaps of his missing teeth showed.

"It's called a torque wrench," Clay said.

"Toke-once," Juan repeated, several times, scowling and blowing out a frustrated air when he couldn't seem to wrap his tongue around the word.

Clay nodded, to encourage the little boy, and bit back the laughter that bubbled up at the little boy's pronunciation. Clay proceeded to show Juan some of the other tools that he used while working on his bike. He tried to explain how the tools were used, but discovered that showing Juan worked better than explaining it in words.

"And, this one is used for..." Clay was in the process of showing Juan how to use a rather tricky tool, tongue sticking out of his mouth as he undid some of the work he'd done on his bike previously, to show Juan how it worked, and to let the little boy try the tool himself.

Clay was so engrossed in his work, little Juan sitting cross-legged on the cement floor beside him, that Clay didn't notice when the shadow fell over them, nor did he notice the first click of the camera when a photo was taken. It wasn't until several photos had been taken, and Juan sat there eerily quiet – throughout the time that he'd been teaching the boy; Juan had peppered him with questions – that Clay realized something was wrong, and he looked up from his work to find Uncle Bobby, camera dangling from his hand, and a big smile on his face.

"Dinner's ready, boys," Uncle Bobby said. Juan held his arms out to the man who easily plucked him off the ground.

"You two should probably wash up first," he added, making a face that had Juan giggling, and holding the boy out away from himself, as though he stank.

Clay stood and stretched, shaking out the soreness in his muscles from working so long on the ground. As he followed Uncle Bobby and Juan into the house, Clay realized that he had a lot more to be thankful for than he thought he had, and that, while the Tellers might not be his real parents, they did care about him, and the others. Also, he kind of liked being someone's big brother, having someone, like Juan, look up to him.

Being selfless made him feel like he was on top of the world, and it made him happy. It didn't make him feel like he'd given something up, or angry, or like he'd wasted his time – as he'd thought it would. Instead, it made him feel like he'd done something rather amazing, and he wanted to do it again.

Later, when they're all seated around the table, after everyone's washed up, and they've said grace, Clay looks around at his family, and for the first time since he's arrived at the Tellers, he really sees them.

Jax and Opie are telling John a story about something that happened at college, finishing each other's sentences. Filip and Alex are re-enacting a scoring play that he and Alex led during their football game – Bobby and Juan are listening to the play-by-play details with rapt attention, Juan wriggling with excitement. Gemma, like him, is watching and listening to it all, a small, happy smile on her face.

"Pass the potatoes, would you?" Uncle Bobby asked, poking him with an elbow and jarring Clay out of his much too deep thoughts.

Clay reached for the potatoes and contemplated a more liberal interpretation of the word, 'pass,' when Gemma caught his eye, and with a raised eyebrow shook her head. He sagged back in his seat and passed the potatoes, sharing a look with Juan who'd apparently caught onto his moment of mischief, even though he hadn't acted on it.

Maybe being a part of the Teller family wouldn't be so bad after all. In Gemma, he had a mother who could keep him out of mischief, but who would also encourage him and give him a wide berth in which to express his talents. In John, he had a father whom he could work side-by-side with and learn from. In Juan, he had a doting little brother whom he could teach things to, like how to fix a bike, and how to start a food fight.

Please let me know what you thought. I felt like I should give Clay a bit more of a background in this story. I hope that this works.