AN: So this took a while. This chapter goes out to wintersmith and ... er ... I'm sorry, I have to check for your name. WeBe. Because you two are the most recent who asked for an update, and therefore the only ones I remember XD A re-cap: in the last chapter, Nick learned to pay the piano so he could be Gloria's accompanist. Then he called her ... and found out she gave him her work phone instead of her cell. Sadness ensued.

Some quick things. 1) Rush's "GET OUT" speech to Volker is one of my favorite things ever in the series, hence everything that follows.

2) For those of you who don't remember (probably all) Mr. Kilpatrick is a voice in Rush's head that tells him helpful things. It is based off a teacher or some shit. It's been like twelve years since I last wrote for this fic. Hell if I remember.

3) Up there, on the line above this, I accidentally put 'fuc' instead of 'fic'. I should've kept it.

And 4) My celebratory dance for finally doing another chapter was to the tune of Booty Jam by my favorite parodists, the Key of Awesome. Check 'em out.

OK. Enjoy.


She doesn't want you. Short-short-short-long. She was leading you on, just messing with you. Short-short-short-looooong. It's what rich people do, Nick, it's what keeps them entertained. Short-short-short-short, short-short-short-short, short-short-short-long! It's what gives 'em their kicks. Short-short-short—

"Nick," Kenny snapped, "would you put the fuckin' keyboard up?"

Shattered out of his thoughts, Nick only looked up and stared blankly into space.

"It's givin' me a fuckin' headache," Kenny griped.

"Sorry."

"Fine. Just-"

"It's Beethoven's Fifth."

"Yeah, jolly fuckin' good," snapped Kenny. He bent forward, leaning his weight into the spatula as he scraped grease from the stove. "Just, whatever it is, stop playin' it."

"OK."

He pushed the keyboard away, still staring. On the periphery of his vision he could see Kenny heaving his arms back and forth, trying to clean the old restaurant appliances. On any other day he'd be full of thousands of sarcastic, biting remarks. Now he could barely manage something like 'you fatass.' It just wasn't worth it.

"Gimme a hand?" asked Kenny, managing to convey a world of used-up patience in his voice. Nick rose slowly, hands hanging limply at his sides. He didn't even bother to straighten his uniform. With a ringing clang, Kenny threw the spatula down and faced Nick in exasperation.

"OK, look," he said, "you wanna tell me what's fucking wrong?"

"Eh?" said Nick, startled.

"You! There's something wrong with you! You're being all fucking – weird, and quiet! Stop it."

"Sorry," Nick said. Kenny pointed a large, accusing finger at him.

"And that! Apologizing! You don't apologize."

"You barely know me, Kenny," said Nick, beginning to sound annoyed. Kenny threw two jiggling hands into the air.

"For fuck's sake, if this is about that girl—" he started. Nick cut in stridently, loud and defensive.

"What fuckin' girl?"

"The girl who was in here –"

"There was no fuckin' girl!"

Rolling his eyes, Kenny just threw his hands up again and turned away. Really annoyed now – red-faced, one vein twitching in his forehead – Nick clenched his fists. Clench. Release. Clench. Release.

You're about to blow a gasket, son, said Mr. Kilpatrick. The steam decompressed and oozed out Nick's ears, leaving him cool and almost calm.

"Look," he said, voice mostly under control, "if you want my help—"

"I don't," said Kenny snootily.

"I'm trying to help," Nick snapped. "For fuck's sake, I'm Oxford-educated, I think I can clean a stove!"

"Oh, and I can't?" Kenny retorted.

"Why the hell are you so pissy today?!"

"I'm pissy!" Kenny roared.

"YES! You're fucking pissy!"

"Oh, that's it!" said Kenny. He jabbed his spatula at the door, face red and contorted. "Out!"

Nick faltered. "What?"

"Get out!"

Truly apologetic now – it had all been his fault anyway, hadn't it, he'd been all depressed since calling Gloria – Nick tried to take the spatula. "No, I'm sorry, I'll do it—"

"Too fucking late!" Kenny cried. "Too fucking late! Get out!"

"You can't just throw me out! You need me here! I'm the waiter!"

"You're SACKED!" Kenny thundered. He slapped the spatula down. "I don't need a fucking Oxford-educated waiter! I'll find another fucking waiter! Just stop playing your keyboard, stop fucking reminiscing about some girl, and GET THE HELL OUT!"

Nick stared at him, shoulders tense. Kenny's breath was coming raggedly, each pant angry and almost a growl. He wielded the spatula like some holy weapon.

"So ... that's it?" Nick asked, the tension in his shoulders draining. "I'm fired?"

Kenny merely turned around and faced the stove again.

"Come on, Ken," Nick pleaded. He came up behind the other man, stepping softly, looking over his shoulder. He couldn't see Kenny's face. "This is my only job. I need this."

Kenny turned his head a little and Nick caught sight of the surly glare.

"Ken," Nick said, putting a hand on Kenny's shoulder. It was shrugged off. "Ken, man –"

"Just take a day off," said Kenny roughly. "No pay."

Nick waited.

"But you can keep your job."

"Aw, thanks, man. Really. I won't let you down again."

Kenny nodded, just a hint of a smile – rueful and embarrassed – on his face.

Ignorant rube, Nick thought.


AN: Kenny has ... problems ... at home. He ... he doesn't lead a good life.

...