The next day, Timmy went to work at 7 am. Russell went to work at noon.

Timmy spent his break time researching the verification process for green card marriages. This was a mistake, as he was now more sure than ever that upon any kind of interview, he'd be assuredly called out for entering into a sham marriage and deported immediately. Regardless of whatever kind of relationship they were building now, and regardless of how long they'd known each other, Russell knew next to nothing about him, and they'd not had a formal wedding...a spur of the moment hospital ceremony looked more than a little suspicious. This would never work. He had set about making flash cards with facts about himself using the sample interview questions he'd found online in the hopes of quizzing Russell later and maybe having a shot at making this work. He felt ridiculous doing this, but it was the only thing he could think to do.

He began quizzing Russell throughout the day: When is my birthday?

To which Russell replied back: You don't even know when your own birthday is?

"Stupid question."

Other questions were more complicated and involved their day to day life together; something that didn't exist. Who gets up first, who does the cleaning, who does the cooking? This pushed all of Timmy's anxiety buttons. Perhaps they could concoct answers for all of these things and keep up this facade for a little while and pass as a couple - wait, yes, they were a couple now, weren't they? Good lord, they were. Were these questions that would one day have answers? Well, surely he'd get up first, he'd do the cleaning and the cooking...

"Oh. I'm the wife," bemoaned Timmy.

More questions: Who sleeps on each side of the bed? Have you ever had an argument that resulted in one of you sleeping in another room?

Suddenly his body recalled sleeping in Russell's bed, and the common pinpricks in each nerve set afire. He closed shop on this scenario, and set to thinking of how common a situation it would be - arguments, sleeping in separate rooms; they could barely get along sharing an office space separated by a door, how were they supposed to share a bedroom, a home, a life together? His head was spinning.

Across town, Russell was using his spare time - which was all of it - to panic. Now that the dust was settling, now that Timmy had somehow magically decided to stick around with him, to be with him, he was getting scared. As a distraction he'd taken to flipping through his little black books, reminiscing, chuckling knowingly at each name.

"Helen - she was Helen bed, all right. Mm. Rhoda...yeah, I sure Rhoda all night long. Heh!" He chuckled, looking around, and groused at the realization that nobody was there to hear his hilarious sex puns.

He contemplated calling any of the random numbers he landed on, going so far as to pick up the phone a number of times when he found a prospect particularly titillating. He kept reminding himself that he'd be doing the very thing he'd gotten so angry at Timmy for...and why? Why get mad at Timmy for sleeping with some random, inconsequential woman? Jealous, possessive. He didn't like feeling this way. His brain was starting to break in two directions: "I miss Timmy, I wish I was with Timmy right now" and "I'm terrified of Timmy, I have to get as far away from Timmy as possible" - and something was about to give.

A knock on the door. "Yeah?" The new assistant made his way in with a file folder. Russell leaned on his hand, uninterested.

"Those papers on the Anderson account. Oh, and Thompson called back again and wants to know if you got those emails with last month's reports on-"

"Hm? What's that, Kevin?"

"Mr. Dunbar, for the last time, my name is Edward."

Russell shook his head. "...Are you sure? Because I'm pretty sure I hired a Kevin."

"I know my own name!"

"Geez, touch-y! Somebody line that wheelchair of yours with spikes or something before you sat down this morning, is that the problem? You're sounding a little butthurt."

"Okay, that does it. This has been the worst week of my professional life, I have been belittled, insulted, ignored, and I'm not going to put up with this a minute longer, and you'd better believe me when I tell you, Mr. Dunbar, that I'm reporting you to corporate!"

Russell sneered. "Wait, seriously...?"

"Yes, Mr. Dunbar, seriously."

"Well, have fun with that one, wheels, like that ship hasn't sailed before."

"I'll just cite the list of ridiculous requests you've handed me all week."

"Ridiculous requests?! Like what! Name one ridiculous request!"

"You told me to dress up as Professor X and refer to you each day as a different member of the X-Men."

"Ha!"

Edward was less amused.

"Oh come on, it was either that or...who's the smart robot guy?"

"...Stephen Hawking."

"Yeah, and I mean I can't afford that kind of technology, I mean you could fake the little voice. Hey, try it, that might be funny!"

"...No."

"I mean, we could have gone with Eisenhower, but really, politics in the workplace?" He hissed. "Touchy subject, that can get people all 'offended'."

Russell was staring at the most deadpan, unimpressed face he'd ever seen.

"What...?"

"I'm not a prop!"

"Wha-a-at?! I'm not treating you like a prop!"

"I thought this was why your last assistant quit until I heard the two of you screwing around in here on company time, should I mention that to corporate, too?! God, you're one sick bastard, there's something seriously wrong with you!" He turned, wheeling away.

"I'll have you know I used Timmy as a prop all the time! Timmy was a better prop than you could ever be!"

"Yeah, I know what kind of prop you used him as."

"You're just in a wheelchair, that guy's foreign and posh, double whammy buddy, jokes galore, I kept 'em coming, lighten up, you just don't know how to take it! He never reported me to corporate like some little-" Door closed. "Like some little..." Russell's voice went soft. "Like some little prop."

A text came in on his phone. Timmy.

What kind of toothpaste do you use?

Russell looked to his phone in confusion and typed back simply: wtf?

I'm sorry. No more stupid questions. I'll leave you to your work. As soon as Timmy had sent the message he rolled his eyes and smirked gingerly. "Hm, yes. I'm sure he's hard at work."

Russell was stoic, lost in quiet contemplation. A prop. He looked back over at his book of girls' names, then to the phone with Timmy's name emblazoned at the top of the text stream. He texted back: What's up?

Timmy was pleasantly surprised at a genuine prompt for conversation.

Not much. I'm trying to figure out this whole green card marriage thing. I'm growing nervous. That's what all the random questions were, I'm sorry for that, I must have looked like I was losing my mind a little. I hope you're doing okay, it's strange to hear so little from you when we're in the same city. Perhaps we can speak more after work. I almost hate to admit it but I enjoyed the time we spent together at your apartment. I'd not be opposed to more of it.

He sent the text nervously, awaiting a reply. It took Russell a good five minutes, and all that came back was: That's nice.

Timmy put his phone away.

After the work day, the men spoke little to one another; Timmy still focused on logistics and how they would make this work, Russell still coming out from the cloud he'd been hiding in and losing his sense of self. As evening came on, Timmy grew more concerned with the fact that they had barely spoken aside from his random quizzing, and feeling strangely about this, called Russell.

"Are you alright?"

"Why would you ask me that?"

"It's just I haven't heard much from you today and I was a little concerned..."

"I texted you."

"You said 'what's up' and when I responded you said 'that's nice' and nothing else. Is something wrong?"

Russell was quiet for a little too long.

"Something's wrong, what is it?"

"I don't know, Tim, I'm just, uh...what time tomorrow?"

"Mrs. Bingham wants us there at four but I thought maybe I'd see you in the morning..."

"Sure, yeah, where?"

"I'll get ahold of you and we'll figure it out."

"Yeah, that sounds good."

"Are you sure you're okay? I'm sorry we haven't really been in touch, I know you were uncomfortable with that and-"

"It's okay. It's fine. Listen, I can't talk much right now, I'm sorry, it's not...it's not you or anything, I'm...I'm spastic right now, it's weird, I've got some kind of issue, I can't explain it, I need...I need to...Timmy, I'm sorry."

The line went dead and Timmy stared at his phone anxiously for a bit too long. He was worried about Russell, but was growing increasingly more anxious for himself; his livelihood was entirely dependant on this man, this singular human being held his future in his hands and he was counting on him. He had never felt more vulnerable in his life. If Russell quit on him now, it was less a matter of broken hearts and more a matter of his financial future and the independence he had built for himself. Maybe he was crazy for caring about this person in this moment, for wanting to be near him, because classic Russell Dunbar was threatening to seep out, just as Timmy had predicted. He grabbed the flash cards he'd made during the work day, fingering through them.

He landed on one that read: What do the two of you have in common?

"Good lord, what have I done?"

They didn't speak for the rest of the evening. They both tried to carry on with their normal lives as though nothing was really happening, pretending for a moment, unconsciously perhaps, as though there was no "Russell & Timmy" - just to see how it felt for a moment, trying to remember. There was no phone call good night, and both of them were laying in bed trying to sleep when Timmy's phone received a welcome text message.

sorry...see you tomorrow...love you

Timmy felt relieved and happier than he could have anticipated, with this.

Everything's fine. I'll text you in the morning. I love you too, sir.

Russell was still acting weird the next day. Timmy had texted several times and, when this failed, had tried calling. Upon being sent to voicemail he knew something was wrong.

In a final act of desperation he went over to Russell's apartment. He knocked. No answer. He knocked again. He was starting to grow worried, when finally the door opened and Russell appeared with a blank expression.

"Where on earth have you been, I've been trying to reach you, have you any idea what time it is?"

"Cool your jets," Russell said a little too casually as he made his way back inside.

Timmy followed him. "It's one, Mrs. Bingham wants everybody there by four and I've been trying to get ahold of you all day."

"Yeah, Mr. Desperado, I know, lay off the phone, already."

Timmy stood unable to move for a moment, shocked. "Wh-what?"

"I said I know, you're driving me nuts, how about a little me time, geez. How long is this thing gonna take, anyway? I've got a date tonight."

"Excuse me, you've got what tonight...?"

"A date, Timmy. I'm married, not dead. Not like this is a real marriage, anyway. Howsabout you stop trying to make this more than what it is, huh? Cut and dry, buddy, simple little deal, you get what you need and we go our separate ways, just like you wanted."

Timmy was almost too stunned to react, but found it in himself to march straight to Russell and spin him around, gripping his arms a little too tightly. "Okay, I don't know what this is, but I'll not stand for it. What...the...hell...is...your...problem?"

For a moment Russell allowed his face to melt, to show his true feelings, and he looked sad and confused. He shook it off quickly, along with Timmy.

His voice remained melancholy, however. "No problem. Everything's cool." He turned away. "I'll be there, okay, just...just go."

Timmy wasn't prepared to leave. "I'd like to know what happened within the last two days to make you act this way. Have you any idea what it took for me to say the things I said to you when I saw you last? And now you're acting this way? Are you serious? Do you honestly think I can't see through your nonsense?"

Russell spun back around. "Just go!"

Timmy turned to walk away, and Russell quickly amended his previous statement.

"No, wait. Wait." He approached Timmy quickly, facing him, hugging him awkwardly. Timmy stood firm, arms at his sides and confused in the embrace. "I'll be there, when, four? I'll be there, it's all cool, we're cool, are we cool?" He pulled back, looking at Timmy. "We're okay?"

Timmy's brain was trying to catch up to Russell's onslaught of affection.

"Timmy? We're okay?"

"We're...yes. Okay. Have you been drinking?"

"What? No. Maybe. A little. Tim?"

"What...?"

"We're cool?"

"Yes."

At this Russell hugged Timmy again. His grip was tightening.

Timmy sighed heavily. "Russell? Russell, you can let go now. We're...we're fine. We're cool. We're just peachy keen, Russell. I think you're crushing my kidney."

"You have two of them. And if you ever need an extra one we're good, I've got one on stand-by. I'd go under a knife for you, Tim, I'd give you a kidney."

"Russell, please let go of me."

He finally released his grip.

Timmy placed a hand to either side of Russell's face, staring him down. "Listen to me and listen very carefully."

"Okay..."

"Mrs. Bingham wants us there by four o'clock."

"Four o'clock."

"So you will be there when?"

"Four o'clock."

"Very good."

"Timmy?"

"What?"

"Get your hands off of my face."

Timmy let go. "A moment ago you had me in a death grip and now you're offended by me touching your face?"

"I know I'm irresistible, Timmy, but you can't just sneak on over here for afternoon delights whenever you please, I'm a human being, show a little sensitivity!"

Timmy, feeling the aggravation building in his body, began walking carefully to the door. "Fine. I'm leaving now. I'll see you in a few hours, yes?"

Russell nodded. "Sure, whatever, don't get your panties in a bunch."

Timmy couldn't bring himself to leave yet. He found himself staring at Russell, confused, trying to pin down what was happening. "Yes, well. Maybe when I see you later today you'll be back to the Russell Dunbar I've so stupidly allowed myself to grow closer to these last few days."

Russell shrugged, trying to not look directly at Timmy.

"You know, the one who slept in that bed with me just down the hall...sensitive and kind for a change, willing to show me a different person. What's happened? You can talk to me. I'm quite sure I shouldn't even be so generous as to make that offer."

"...There's nothing to talk about."

Timmy, despite thinking better of it, walked back up to Russell. His voice was soft and deliberate. "I'm giving you a chance, because I'm an idiot and for some god forsaken reason I told you I love you and I meant it." A deep breath. "But so help me, Russell, if you fuck this up for me and I'm somehow deported, you and I both know that's the end of this." Their eyes met. Piercing. "Don't fuck this up."

Russell's voice was firm now, serious. "I won't. You can trust me. I'm not losing you again."

Timmy turned away with a nod. "Four o'clock."

"I'll be there."

The studio Audrey had chosen was a weird amalgamation of 'cutesy family in a shopping mall' and

'brooding artist trying to make a statement' - there were backdrops lined up against walls depicting random scenes of beaches, castles, rock concerts, political rallies, and for some reason, funerals. Scattered props of teddy bears, swords, lightsabers, chains and whips.

Timmy stood in confused awe for a moment until Audrey called to him.

"Timmy! Over here!" He walked his way towards Jeff and Audrey, baby beside them sleeping peacefully in her stroller, as they examined an old-timey prison scene.

Jeff looked less than impressed.

"How much are we paying this guy?"

"I heard he's good," muttered Audrey. "He's...up and coming."

"We couldn't have gone to Sears?"

"He's an artist, Jeff!"

Timmy chimed in, "This does appear a tad insane, Mrs. Bingham. As if perhaps we'd just walked into a fun fair being held in a serial killer's basement."

Jeff motioned to Timmy in victory.

Audrey nodded. "Okay, it's...it's a little weird, but he came highly recommended and there's...there's some normal backdrops over there, I think we'll be fine and if we do want to have a little fun with it some...some of these aren't too weird, the beach one isn't so crazy."

Jeff sneered, "All of us in bathing suits, Audrey, are you nuts? Even if we weren't all sacks of lard, do we look tan enough for the beach?"

Audrey and Jeff slowly looked back to Timmy.

"Okay, you'd pass," offered Jeff.

"Mm." Timmy nodded. "So no on theme pictures, then."

Audrey realized something. "...Did you call me a sack of lard?"

Jeff's eyes widened and he looked for a diversion. "Hey, how about that weird flying carpety Aladdin looking thing over there? Timmy?"

"Right, so no theme pictures then. Where are the newlyweds?"

Audrey had been successfully distracted. "They're on their way. Where's Russell?"

"He said he would be here. Which means...precisely nothing, so excuse me, I'm going to go make a call."

As Timmy was walking away, Jeff spoke.

"Definitely bottom."

Timmy had heard the comment.

"...Pardon?"

"Nothing."

Confused, Timmy continued slowly walking away.

Audrey elbowed Jeff in the ribs. "What the hell, Jeff!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't think he could hear me!" He lowered his voice. "...He's wearing an argyle sweater vest."

"Oh, come on Jeff, Timmy looks very nice!"

"You're making my point for me!"

Timmy was pacing the hall just outside the studio; he had tried calling Russell, to no avail, and was beginning to feel mild panic set in, when Adam and Jen strolled up to him.

Jen immediately noticed his expression. "Hey, Timmy! Everything okay, where's the lesser half?"

Timmy forced a smile. "Yes, everything's fine, just...you know. Fashionably late and what not."

"Plenty of time," said Adam. He wrung his hands nervously. "Listen, uhm...we're really sorry for the other day, we-"

"No, it's quite alright, really."

"No, it isn't," said Jen. "Timmy. I lost sight for a minute of the fact that you're my friend and what you're going through must be really complicated and I'm sorry about that. Like I said before, you deserve better than gossip. Really, I'm sorry."

Timmy forgot for a moment to panic, genuinely touched by Jen's apology. "Oh. Thank you, Jennifer...sincerely, you have no idea. I needed to hear that."

"I know this is super weird, like, I've known you for a long time and we've never really hung out or gotten to know each other all that well, but I think we're sort of stuck with each other, so...hug? Friends?"

Timmy nodded with a smile and hugged Jen. He hadn't realized just how much he had needed this right now, a genuine reassuring hug from a friend. Adam followed suit, and for a moment the three of them were joined in a group hug, only slightly awkward. As the hug broke and Adam and Jen walked away from Timmy with a wave as they entered the studio, the good feeling started to fade and Timmy began to worry again.

He realized finally that he was less concerned about Russell's actions - being late, not answering calls - and more worried for Russell; something was wrong with him, he was clearly upset, and where in the past this would have been of little concern to Timmy aside from how he was forced to navigate the work day, it now left him with a strange desire to somehow fix the situation, to make Russell feel better. And yet he still felt the familiar pangs of annoyance growing the longer it went without returned contact.

So when a few minutes later Russell came walking down the hall, head down, looking full of attitude, Timmy was not impressed.

"Are you alright? I tried calling. Everybody else is here, come on."

"Uh, I don't think I want to."

Timmy steadied himself. "I thought we-"

"Well, you thought wrong."

Timmy's face went from one of mild confusion to aggravation. "No, I reiterate, you aren't going to do this, not today."

"Mm, oh really, let me check where it's written that you're in charge of me..." Russell mimicked reading his hand. "Oh wait, that's right, you're not."

"Russell, this means a lot to a dear friend, in that way it's rather something of an obligation, and-"

Russell was mocking Timmy talking with his hand, now. Timmy began to speak a little more pointedly.

"And we are going to maintain this obligation because we are good friends to the Binghams, we aren't going to let our petty little-"

Russell began to add facial expressions to his mocking.

"Okay, that's enough!"

"Listen, Ali Blah-Blah, I'll decide when it's enough!"

Timmy closed his eyes and breathed deeply to center himself. He wasn't going to fight, not in public. "Okay, Timmy, remember why you're here, remember why you're doing this, he's not a complete and total ass one hundred percent of the time and..." opening his eyes, releasing a breath, "...we're good. Now, Russell, please, I don't know what's gotten into you today, but I am begging you to pull it together for long enough to do this for the Binghams. Smile, take happy little photos, and then you can go about stewing in a corner for the rest of the evening about whatever it is that's suddenly in your craw."

Russell grew pensive again. "I'm not talking about...you know. Us. With them."

Timmy sighed. "Fine. You know that it has to happen eventually, it may even happen without us mentioning it, but fine. Have it your way, just don't ruin this for everybody else."

Russell nodded. "Okay."

Satisfied with this, Timmy turned to walk away, expecting Russell to follow him. Instead he heard a door close, and turned back around to find Russell gone and a door reading "Maintenance Closet".

Timmy stared at the door, blank faced. "Oh, dear. Well, this certainly isn't good."

Timmy heard a click. He rushed to jiggle the handle. Locked. "Russell Dunbar, so help me, if you don't come out of this closet right now, I will-" Stopping himself short, turning his words towards himself, "What will I do, send him to bed without any supper? I suppose I'm his father now, oh, this is just peachy."

Russell's voice floated out softly, "I'm not coming out, you can't make me."

"So that's where we are, are we? Russell, I'll break this door down!"

"I'd like to see your skinny little ass try!"

Under his breath, "Oh is that so, 'I'd like to see your skinny little'- son of a bitch." And with this Timmy rammed the door angrily with his shoulder. And at that, he retreated away from the door and recoiled in pain. He took a moment to let the sting settle before attempting gentle verbal persuasion.

"Russell, I know you're scared, but everything's going to be fine."

"I'm not scared."

"Then why are you hiding in a closet?"

"I'm not hiding."

"Then what do you call this, exactly?"

A very long pause.

"...Russell?"

"Go away."

Timmy leaned against the door, sliding down slowly and collapsing on the floor. "I can wait as long as you can. I'm just as stubborn as you are."

"No, you're not."

"I'm getting there."

And so the game was on.