Traffic in the Attic

Ramblings and Rumblings

At the same time, back up in the attic...

Riley did his best to pull his brother down the hallway and away from the attic, before his mouth did any irreversible damage. When it came to Rider, as anyone who knew him could tell you, every second counted. After all, Rider was simply doing what he always did when Riley dragged him away from trouble: turn his head back around and yell at it.

"You're on your own with the thermometer placement." Rider yelled to his father. "I'm not even telekinetically goin' there."

"The horse is dead, Rider," returned Chris. "You can stop beating him now."

"Hey, I'm just trying get on board with the whole 'baby dad' thing."

"That's funny," Chris hollered, in an animated tone. "Is it me, or is your hair getting pinker by the second?"

Rider suddenly switched directions and marched briskly back towards his father, towing Riley behind him. "Hold up!" he shouted. "What happened to the purple option? It's by far the more socially acceptable!"

Chris teasingly replied, "Way to keep the dream alive, son!"

Rider halted at once, forcing Riley to bump into him, causing both of them to 'oomph' and stumble slightly. Finding his footing, Rider turned to his brother. "You don't think he'd really... ya know... "

"Sometimes I wonder if we have the same father," said Riley, "Mine's the one threatening every hair on your head... Which one's yours?"

Rider became uncharacteristically self-conscious. "Wha-... but I... He... Wait; what do ya mean?"

"That settles it," said Riley. "From now on, I'm monitoring the amount of time you spend with Uncle Steve." Riley spun his brother around and recommenced tugging him back down the hallway. "Let's just go while you've still got some brown hair left."

Chris called out one last time, "Here's an idea, Rider. Why don't you try sleeping in your own room tonight?"

"Yeah yeah yeah... Grumble grumble grumble..." Rider shouted back, as Riley pulled him determinedly along.

Chris folded his arms and sighed contently as he leaned against the open doorway. "Damn, I love those two." he said silently to himself, as he gazed reflectively down the hallway. He willingly allowed the moment hold him for a while.

Behind him, Wyatt, Tristan, Shane, and Dylan (seated in that order) watched attentively from their places on the futon, just as they'd done throughout the entire conversation. Only when he turned to go and take his place on the far end of large, plush sofa across the way did Chris realize just how attentively the four spectators had been watching and listening.

"Okay," said Dylan, breaking the collective silence. "either you're the most gullible father in the history of fatherhood, or you have the memory of a fruit fly."

Chris plopped tiredly down on the sofa. "Is there a third option?" he asked.

Having had no success instructing Rider himself, Shane asked, "This is your kid we're talkin' about, right? Why do you even bother tryin' to get that kid to do anything?"

"I dunno," Chris answered in a sportsman-like challenge. "Why do you make him call you 'Uncle Shane'?"

Shane deepened his voice dramatically. "Because it makes me feel manly and superior."

Dylan gave his older brother a taunting pat on the knee. "Shane, you do me proud," he said joshingly. "It takes a lotta courage to admit that you're a giant step backwards in evolution..."

Squinting his eyes devilishly, Shane warned, "You might wanna make sure you're not in strangling distance before you go flappin' that smart mouth of yours."

Dylan 'hmmphed' and folded his arms. "Oh fine then!" he snapped. "And here I was about to go join the 'Family and Friends of Neanderthals' support group, but you can just forget it."

"Oh yeah?..." returned Shane, visibly wrestling to think of a clever comeback, as his brothers looked on with amused sympathy.

Feigning extreme boredom, Dylan sighed and pulled a strand of his reddish-brown hair in front of his nineteen year-old eyes. "Uh-oh! Is that my first gray hair?" he asked patronizingly. "Any day now, Stanford."

"Harvard." Shane grumbled.

"Same thing."

Having been around the longest, Wyatt was well aware that the 'Dylan & Shane Show' could quickly and easily take on a life of its own, and, even though the 'show' was one of his favorites, he sensed that something was knawing at the team's 'co-captain'. He figured it best to 'open' with the lighter topics, hoping to eventually reach the deeper issue. "Seriously Chris," he said, "Why do you tell Rider to go to his own room? You have to know that, sooner or later, he's gonna end up in Riley's."

"Because Rider's always happier when he's breaking the rules, and Riley doesn't handle change very well." Chris explained. "This way, Riley will have his brother to talk to and Rider gets to think he's getting away with something. Everybody wins."

"Wowww," said Dylan, truly impressed. "You do realize you're gonna raise my kids when I have 'em, right?"

"Simmer down there, Dyl." said Shane. "I'm older; he's gonna raise mine first."

"Yeah, but my wife won't have 'Cell Block C' as a return address."

Shane gruffly cleared his throat and turned to his verbal opponent. "I'll take Reasons Hippie-Boy Should Start Running for 800, Alex." he said. "Would ya look at that? A 'Daily Double'!"

As usual, Dylan accepted the challenge. "Are you threatenin' me, Grease Monkey?"

"If it looks like a threat.. and walks like a threat."

"Fine by me." clipped Dylan, "Bring it, 'Gravity Boy'."

"Oh it's brung, 'Freeze Flamer'!"

"Sounds like it's 'GO time' then!"

"Oh I'll show YOU 'go time'!"

Anyone not familiar with Shane and Dylan's relationship would've most likely been holding their breath, waiting for Shane to devour his younger brother. However...

"That was actually pretty good," said Dylan, pleasantly surprised. "Did you come up with that just now?"

"Which part?" asked Shane. "The 'Reasons to Run' bit or the 'Freeze Flamer' part?"

"Both of them held tremendous promise." answered Dylan. "Ya miiight wanna hold off on the 'Daily Double' bit though."

"Overkill?"

"A little bit." Dylan replied. "Good, instincts though, eh?"

"I thought up another one this afternoon." said Shane. "Wanna take her out for a test-drive."

"Next round work for you?"

"I'll be there."

Tristan sighed contentedly and leaned his head on Wyatt's shoulder. "Ah, the warm glow of excess testosterone."

Wyatt laughed. "And you were worried we'd outgrow the need for a second family mediator."

"You know," said Chris, looking at Dylan and Shane, "if I didn't know better... and I'm still not sure that I do... I'd say you two were an 80 year-old married couple."

"No, Sweetheart," replied Dylan, impersonating an elderly woman. "It's as good as over; he just doesn't make me feel special anymore. The magic's gone... Gone, gone, gone." He slapped Shane on the knee. "Seriously, Snuffy, I can't even remember the last time you brought me flowers."

Shane grumbled towards the ceiling. "My kingdom for a rock to hide under!"

Wyatt noticed the relaxed smile on Chris' face gradually sink into a look of meditative concern. "You're really worried about them, huh."

"Not so much about Rider," Chris replied. "You could drop Rider in the middle of nowhere and he'd be fine. I'm just a little concerned about Riley."

Dylan suspected that Chris had misspoken. "Are you sure you're not mixing your boys up?" he asked. "Riley could sell snow to an Eskimo; Rider couldn't sell sunscreen to an albino."

Chris folded his arms, as though offended by the comment.

"And..." Tristan quickly added, "I'm sure he means that in the best possible way."

Chris grinned mildly, then let it go. After all, Dylan wasn't entirely wrong about the twins. He just didn't understand them the way only a parent could.

Wyatt shot Dylan a look that was at once teasing and disapproving. "Snow and sunscreen aside..."

"Geek." Dylan muttered.

"I heard that." clipped Wyatt.

"So the rumors are true then?" Dylan returned. "You're not really deaf?"

"Is it 'cause they just turned eighteen?" Tristan asked Chris concernedly, subtly plowing through the tangents. "Is that what you're worried about?"

Chris threw his hands up in quiet exasperation. "Maybe I am..." he said with a sigh. "Maybe I'm worried that bringing them back here wasn't the best idea... Maybe I'm worried that they're not ready to be adults yet... Maybe..."

"Maybe you worry too much." Shane interrupted, smiling with his 'Papa Bear' charm.

It was as though Shane's words effortlessly guided Chris to a memory, as crystal clear as the day it was made: "I'm their father..." he said with a subtle smile, "It's my job to worry."

"Then you should demand a raise." said Dylan.

Chris rolled his eyes, though he appreciated Dylan's best intentions.

"Chris," said Shane, "they went to the same Phoebe Heart-Halliwell School for Ass Kicking that we did."

Dylan added, "Not to mention the Paige Matthews-Mitchell School for Nightlighters."

Wyatt jumped in. "You mean Whitelighters?"

"You are sooooo lacking in imagination." griped Dylan.

Wyatt turned back to Chris, pretending not to hear. "Oh!" he exlaimed. "Did we mention that their father's one of the most talented and powerful witches in the history of magic?"

"Guys, cut it out." said Chris.

"Cut what out?" returned Shane. "You're the only witch in history to have advanced telekinesis. Hell, you're the reason they made the term up in the first place."

Shane turned to Tristan, who'd been sitting quietly, knowing that a 'pep talk' was one of the worst possible ways to get through to Chris, and said, "Whenever you wanna chime in here, Fussy."

"Did you guys hear that?" asked Tristan.

"Hear what?" asked Chris.

"That voice." said Tristan, upping the sarcasm a bit. "It's got a sort of Chicks-Dig-Me/Fonzie's-My-Hero/I-Can-Burp-The-Entire-Alphabet-Backwards kind of quality to it."

"Yeah right." scoffed Shane, though no one seemed to agree with him. "Wait... seriously?"

"I'd need proof on the alphabet part, but he's pretty much got the aesthetic down." answered Dylan. "Don't worry, Bro; we know better. That's what people who don't know you are gonna think. It's all good."

"Please stop helping me." groaned Shane.

Dylan exclaimed, "Dude, I'm trying to make a case for you here."

Gasps, gasps, and more gasps filled the room.

Dylan hid his reddening face in his hands. "Ohhh no."

"Was that the 'D' word?" asked Shane. "Did you just 'Dude' me?"

"So Dylan," said Chris, "how're those 'Hypocrites Anonymous' meetings workin' for ya?"

"It slipped, okay." quipped Dylan. "It was a once-in-a-lifetime-thing. Two maximum. Just... don't tell Steve."

"Tell me what?" chimed Steve, as he stood in the attic doorway. He was wearing a long pajama shirt that went down past his knees, as well as a long nightcap with a fuzzy ball at the end.

"Um..." Dylan began, "Ya know, Steve, I bet Mom has some heels that would go great with that dress."

"Oh, this old thing?" asked Steve, "It's just my old nightshirt."

"Steve, it's a dress." returned Dylan. "It's a dress with sleeves, but it's still a dress."

Steve replied, "Yeah well, at least I know what color the dress is."

"Come again?" said Dylan.

"Oh yeah, I said it!" exclaimed Steve. "Dylan Halliwell, you're the Stevie Wonder of Color Town."

"Ya know, you must be the dumbest genius on two legs." clipped Dylan. "Colorblind people are only blind to certain colors, ya moron."

Steve replied, "Well, it took you three times to get your drivers license, so I think we can safely put red, yellow, and green on the list."

For the first time in what seemed like years, Dylan was stuck without a comeback.

Shane looked ecstatically toward the ceiling. "Thank you GOD for letting me be here at this moment!"

"Seriously Steve," said Wyatt, "What's with the 'Night Before Christmas' costume?"

"I've got these big red whelps on my skin from wearing Dad's underwear all day." Steve said innocently. "They're the only pajamas I could find that didn't rub me in my sore spots."

"Wuh-ho, hold it!" exclaimed Shane. "Are you saying you're going commando under there?"

"No way. Absolutely not. Negative... No nuh-nuh no no no." Unable to contain himself, Steve added, "Okay yeah. Yes, I am."

"Oh God, Steve!" snapped Chris.

"But, I didn't know! How was I supposed to know that wearing Dad's underwear was considered self-inflicted wounding?"

"You mean, you can't heal it?" asked Wyatt, speaking and chuckling at the same time.

"Nope." Steve replied. "I tried three times and I've still got red bruises running all the way around my waste that say HANES in big, capital letters. This is why the Elders need to make an official rulebook for Whitelighters."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Chris said, "Steve, even if they made a rulebook for Whitelighters, somehow I doubt you'd find anything on whether or not bruises from wearing Dad's underwear are considered self-inflicted wounds... in any of the chapters."

"Of course I wouldn't, silly boy," said Steve. "It'd be right up front with the other Frequently Asked Questions."

"Hold up a sec." said Wyatt. "I'm still stuck on why you were in Dad's underwear in the first place."

Dodging Wyatt's curiosity, Steve suggested, "Okay, if not a rulebook, maybe the Elders could have a comment box."

"You mean, like they have at restaurants?" asked Tristan.

"Hey, if WENDY's can do it, the Elders can too."

Dylan asked sarcastically, "Can you see that there's a pretty big difference between, 'Could you please toast the buns a bit more," and "Listen here, you cheap-choir-robe-wearin' wackos, stop tryin' to take our Dad away or you're gonna be fighting the coming war by yourselves.'?"

"Of course I can." returned Steve. "You'd need more room to write the second one."

"Elder Sandra's pretty nice, though." said Tristan. "She even waits 'til Mom's done yelling at her before she orbs out."

"See, Dylan." said Wyatt. "Even our resident pessimist agrees; the Elders aren't all bad."

Before Dylan could reply, Tristan continued on in one of his occasional, curious ramblings, saying, "Ya know, in a way it's a good thing that all the great artists that made paintings of the Second War in Heaven are dead. They'd probably be kinda disappointed to find out that they actually should've painted a bunch of teenagers and 20-somethings in blue jeans protecting a group of semi-retired losers in beige polyester from an army of rage-aholics who just robbed an Abercrombie & Fitch store during their 'Black Clothing' promotion."

When he discovered that everyone was staring at him, Tristan snapped out of his trance.

"Sorry! Was that out loud?"