This fanfiction was a bit of a dedication to the members of MTC's production of "Arsenic and Old Lace", as well as the house members who sat and deciphered all the lovely sexual innuendos. I don't even know what genre this was supposed to end up as, but I can guarantee that it will be pretty much all of them in the end. Good Lord. Have mercy, this will likely be the worst, most unrefined, inappropriate thing I've ever written. ~Cat.

Rating: T+, I think. For swearing, blood, and implied sex.

A chill breeze soared through the picture window of the Brewster House, a new smell sailing in its grasp. Mortimer couldn't figure out what it was, he realized. It seemed familiar, in a bittersweet sort of way. Vintage, like the days that you can never return to. Childhood, watching leaves change, and growing. He shivered, straightening his tie. Mortimer Brewster had hated his childhood.

The young man couldn't help but feel ill at ease. Inside the kitchen, he could hear the faint sounds of his aunts pottering away at the task of dinner. Ages ago, it seemed as though there had been a similar dinner. In truth, it had only been a few weeks since he'd met Elaine, but it seemed as though the two were meant for each other. Tonight, she'd promised to sit back and let her father do the talking. It seemed as though Reverend Harper was curious about the man that kept his beautiful daughter up and out at all hours.

Mortimer couldn't be happier. He chewed at his thumbnail, something he hadn't done since he was sixteen.

Teddy bounded down the stairs, and his brother heaved up off of his seat. He was in the presence of the President of the United States, after all.

"Mr. Roosevelt! How goes things in Panama?" Mortimer tried to seem upbeat and hide his obvious trepidation. He didn't know the true contents of 'Panama', himself. There were now eleven bodies in shallow graves down there.

Teddy held his hands behind his back and grinned. "Positively bully, sir! The yellow fever appears to have quaratined itself for the time being, no troubles there." He chuckled, proud of himself. Mortimer laughed along with him, happy for the time being. The brothers had always taken care of each other, Jonathan being excepted. There would always be a sort of gap in conversations when it came to the darker member of the trio. An awkward silence. [Awkward silences lead to gay babies, you know. Looks like Jonathan's name precedes him...]

"Yellow fever, eh? Never knew you had any issues with-"

The doorbell rang, and Mortimer's heart leapt into his throat. He froze there as Teddy ran for the door, closely followed by Abby and Martha from the kitchen. The critic tried to mime a calm, composed face. His composure dissolved as his family greeted the guests.

"Mortimer," Elaine whispered in his ear, "relax." He snapped out of his daze and flushed, kissing her chastely on the left cheek. The sensation helped his nerves a little bit as he turned to greet the preacher, his hand nearly crushed by the man's grip.

Reverend Harper smiled a rather venerable grin. "Mr. Brewster," he murmured, "good to see you again. I'd hoped to speak with you at length, what with your relationship to my daughter at the moment." He glanced at Elaine, positively glowed. She was his daughter, that was true. Mortimer nodded, swallowing his fears for the umpteenth time. It seemed as though it wouldn't be quite so bad. [Preachers can't murder people; It's written down somewhere, I'm sure.]

Abby appeared at Mortimer's side and patted his back. "Dinner still has a bit of the way to go, dear. I hope you won't mind sitting a bit." All shook their heads as the small group seated itself on the living room furniture.

"So, then, Mortimer, Elaine tells me you're a man of the theatre. A secular fellow, I see."

The critic nodded again. "Yes, she tells right," he replied, squeezing Elaine's hand beside him. She squeezed back. "I work for the newspapers, and my job requires my attendance at performances in the evening. Today's my night off, in fact." His words came

Reverend Harper glowered, raising a bushy eyebrow. "I know that, dear boy. You've taken my daughter with you for the past week or so," he thought aloud, quiet laughter rumbling in his throat. "It's a bit unusual, having the parsonage all to yourself. But I daresay she's happier than she's ever been."

Mortimer smiled weakly at this, happy to hear one of them had enjoyed the myriad of shows. He himself had enjoyed the part that involved catching up on sleep. [Yeh lazy bum.]

"I commend you for that. Most men seem content with taking her to various church functions; picnics, prayer meetings, the lot," he sighed. "But a girl needs to get out, especially one at your age- Elaine." He gave the girl a smile. She smiled back. [In my head, I visualize going out being more of a 'clubbing' experience. But that's just me- it's obvious that this chick's been raised on saltines and Bible verses.]

The journalist ran a clammy hand through his blonde hair. "Glad to provide for her. It makes me content to do so, sir." Elaine rested her head in the crook of his neck, in the meantime. Her father seemed incredibly ecstatic, and showed all of his teeth. "I am religious, though. Born and b-bred. Aunt Martha and Aunt Abby wouldn't dare have it any other way."

"Oh?"

Mortimer nodded vigorously. "You remember, sir. Although I am passed off as some sort of worldly fellow, I do pray to something other than myself. And I know my words are answered."

"Then, Mortimer, what is your opinion on marriage?"

The critic flushed, his caustic columns burning in his mind. "Well, I -" In truth, Mortimer had never thought of it. In off moments at the office or in the dark of theaters he had only thought of him and Elaine together, not necessarily married. The word itself seemed painfully binding, like shackles. "I suppose it's what's right, Reverend."

"Right in what way?"

Mortimer exhaled and looked at Elaine, thinking. "Well, it's a sort of unbreakable vow you make when you say 'I do'; to be with anyone else afterward is a mortal sin. A good way to stay bound to the person you love for - forever." The word 'forever' had the same blistering finality as 'marriage'. There was no telling what laid after death.

Dr. Harper smirked, folding his hands. "Would you marry, then?"

[The hell kind of question is that? Nosypants.]

"It's true I've offhandedly snubbed Romeo and Juliet as the stupidest mistake anyone's ever made," the journalist sighed, staring the cleric in the face. It was hard for a man as good-natured as that to be menacing. "I've coughed at every love scene in virtually every play I've ever seen. That doesn't make me cold-hearted or solitary. I'll admit, I may have considered the idea in the past few weeks."

The preacher grinned. [HA! I KNEW IT WOULD WORK! (ELAINE PLUS MORTIMER EQUALS HAPPYFACE).]

"Considering is all I've done, sir. Don't look quite so happy." He took his other hand and ran it through Elaine's golden hair. She felt perfect beneath his arm. Despite being drilled on his most secret of thoughts, Mortimer couldn't help but feel a little relieved.

They picked themselves up and moved to the table as dinner was brought out. Conversation shifted to easier topics, and the aunts filled many of the gaps left open by the young people. Mortimer couldn't help but feel a little euphoric as he felt time passing, the moments filled with something other than work, other than his everyday worries. Other than the past.

The weight of Elaine's hand on his knee under the table made him want to get up and sprint laps around the cemetery outside. In fact, he would. [Hey. Looks like you might need more than a jog.]

"I think I'll skip dessert again," he interrupted, biting his lip. "I need a walk around the street, and there won't be many more warm evenings like tonight." Before he even left the room, Elaine was at his side. They joined hands and exited through the front door, leaving a table of beaming people behind them. Ah, young love. [So damned sappy. Aww.]

Outside, there was a clarity in the air. The sun, bright pink, began to set just behind the trees. The streetlights had not yet come on, and everything had a warm, fuzzy glow to it. The couple walked like young schoolchildren do, and the feeling any passerby would have experienced was overpowering.

"Did you mean what you said back there? To Father?" Elaine asked, looking up at Mortimer. He seemed preoccupied, dazed.

The blonde looked up at the receding sunlight. He smiled thoughtfully and blinked, stopping on the cracked sidewalk. His hands came to grasp her shoulders, and he glanced down at her. "Yes, I suppose I did. But you need to understand what this means." He paused. "Me, the picture of the American bachelor, married. It's difficult to visualize- I hope you'll help."

Elaine touched Mortimer's cheek. He shut his eyes. "Mortimer. I don't think you can tell. Or understand." She smirked. "I love you. I can't help it." He opened them again and looked down at her.

"You too, huh?" His question sounded a wee bit unsure. "I do love you, Elaine. The feeling is more than I can fathom."

Her hands caressed his face, and he looked away, jaw tense. "Then what's so wrong?" [I have Erectile Dysfunction...]

"It's more than just me, my self-image...My past is more than I can handle... And should it come back to haunt me in the flesh, I'd hate to expose you-"

She interrupted him, her green eyes wide. "It doesn't matter! I may be just the woman you love, but I'll protect you!" He swallowed and turned back, his eyes pleading for her to drop the subject.

Mortimer couldn't help himself. He picked her up and kissed her, sighing desperately. [*UNCONTROLLABLE COUGHING*] She smiled her half-smile and wrapped her arms around his neck. They belonged to each other for a few seconds, and then the journalist put her down.

"Alright, alright. We'll be together, I promise. By the end of the month, I'll try to pull myself together."

Elaine kissed him again. "You've made me happier than anyone ever has, Mortimer." [Minx. Minx. MINX.]

"I hope so," he said weakly. "I hope you won't come to regret this."

And as they embraced again, it was hard to tell if they would.

Afternotes: Holy God. This fluff nonsense makes me want to go skip around the street and sing stuff from The Sound of Music. Read and review this nonsense, please.

Special thanks to the people that actually wanted to me to continue, the Fedora Thief, and my muse, the re-incarnated Priscilla Lane.

Bah, must go squee my lungs out now. More by Monday, I hope.