A coffee table, a plan, a thousand magazines. This is what lies before Tavish and Jane as they sit on the living room floor, thumbing through the various publications, scratching out ideas on a pad of paper as inspiration strikes them. Tavish hadn't even known there were this many wedding magazines before today; not until his Mum had dropped what looked like an accumulated decade's worth on the coffee table before them and declared that no son of hers would have a wedding to shame the clan. In the same breath, she'd absolved herself of any planning duties, and left the two grown men their afternoon to spitball ideas and occasionally wad up bits of magazine to shoot actual spitballs.

It is during a lull between determining how to make BBQ into catering and whether they should allow swimming in the champagne fountain, that Jane holds up a magazine sideways and asks, "should I be the one in the dress?"

Tavish, who is surprised, but at this point desensitized enough to take all things Jane with a mild amiability, says, "that would be very modern of you."

Jane doesn't seem to hear him. He holds the magazine up by one hand—gravity flipping the pages past his face—and scratches his chin with the other. "Wait, no, you probably want to wear the dress. Due to your sissy Scottish traditions."

"I will be wearing the kilt, aye" Demo raises a brow. "You know neither one of us has to wear a dress, right lad?"

"In every one of these magazines, at least one person is wearing a dress! It must be some sort of essential wedding tradition."

"Mum's been holding on to these wedding mags for ages. They're a bit…old fashioned in their ideas about-"

Jane holds up a full-page spread of a pair of grooms, both of which are wearing flowing white dresses.

"Now see you just disproved your own point," Tavish says. "They're both wearing 'em! Clearly the number of wedding dresses can be anywhere from zero to two."

"Hm. Point conceded!"

"I think the important question is whether you wanted to wear one or not."

"Negatory! If it is not required, I have my own ideas about what to wear to the wedding." As he says it, he withdraws a folded page from an entirely different magazine and displays it for Tavish.

"Oh," Tavish says. "That's good. You should definitely wear that."

"Thank you! It was Scout's idea." Jane sets the page amongst the pile of fun enough ideas they've already ripped out from the stacks. "She stapled it to my bunk as a way to mock me, but the joke's on her because it is the best goddamn thing I have seen in my life."

It's amazing that neither of them have realized it before now, but the obvious conclusion comes upon them both in that exact moment.

"…I do have to invite her," Jane admits.

"Aye. And I have to invite my team."

They both stare at each other for another moment.

Tavish says, "the last time we were all together for a wedding, the Coast Guard had to get called in. They were on us for weeks."

"Yes. This is a terrible idea."

They stare at each other again.

"I can't wait," Jane says.

"I'll make sure centerpieces are good-sized blunt objects," Tavish says, already scribbling furiously.

REDs and BLUs mingle on the mansion's lawn on a hot evening in early September. There has yet to be a threat against anyone's personage or a round of fisticuffs, but Tavish knows to give these things time.

Jane is gorgeous. He is resplendent. Tavish feels the love in his heart swell to heights he never thought possible as he watches his husband-to-be stride across the green while wearing a blue jacket and red-and-white pinstripe pants. The Uncle Sam hat falls diligently over his eyes, knowing exactly where it should be on this momentous day.

"That is…" Spy says as he watches Jane approach them with the beleaguered BLU Engineer in tow. "…Horrific."

Tavish shushes him harshly.

Soldier snaps to attention in front of them. "It is my duty to greet you and welcome you to my wedding; even if you are a couple of lazy, commie REDs. (Not you Tavish. I love you.)"

"That literally just leaves me," Spy points out. Tavish shushes him again.

"I am Soldier: tactician of this wedding. And this is my Maid of Honor." He slaps Engie heartily on the back.

Engie opens his mouth to protest with the air of a man who had already made this correction several times today. Then, he slowly closes his mouth, this time with the air of a man who is very tired of trying to correct Jane Doe.

Tavish is just about to introduce Spy as his Best Man, when something far more pressing catches his eye. "Jane. Trouble," he says instead, and jerks his chin towards the archway that's been receiving their guests.

Jane turns. "Oh not on my watch, buster."

And just like that Jane is on a mission. Tavish is right behind him; he might be mellowed from a pre-wedding bloody mary and the ongoing revels of the best day of his life, but one thing to cut through even the most good-tempered of moods is a wedding crasher.

They arrive at the drive in moments. Standing under the arch twined with cornflowers and poppies, the BLU Scout has an arm slung over the one person who should very much not be here.

"You!" Jane says, jamming a finger at Miss Pauling's chest. "You have eleven seconds before we toss you out of here for failing to obey a direct order by a superior officer. We will entertain a surrender and no more!"

"What he means," Tavish says, stopping and folding is arms. "Is we'll give you one chance to explain yourself. Start talking lass."

Pauling has the gall to look offended rather than abashed. She puts one hand on her hip and says, "so funny story. Scout got a wedding invitation in the mail. And right next to it was a sheet of paper that wasn't even postmarked like you literally waited until the invitation arrived and then put it in our mailbox, and on it was 'Miss Pauling you're explicitly not invited'."

"Wrong. It said MISS PAULING YOU ARE EXPLICITLY NOT INVITED. The emphasis is important."

"You guys are so rude!" Miss Pauling puts both hands on her hips.

"Yeah!" Scout says. "Stop being rude to my girlfriend!"

"Quiet Scout," Pauling says, putting one finger in her direction but otherwise not looking. "Anyway. Super rude. Why are you being so rude?"

"The time you planted false information and drove us apart for four years not ringing a bell?" Tavish glares.

"That was aaagees ago," she says. "You guys can't still be hung up on that."

"You did not even say you were sorry!" Jane barks.

Pauling looks around momentarily. From the party, to Jane, to Tavish. She lifts both palms and says, "sorry?"

Jane narrows his eyes.

Scout glances at Tavish, like she's hoping he'll intercede on her behalf. Tavish just gives a slight shake. As if.

Finally, Jane relents. "Fine. You may enter. But I'll have my eye on you missy, and you, traitor."

As the two women of dubious loyalty waltz in, Tavish says, "glad that's settled. Because if you don't like who Scout brought, you're going to hate Sniper's plus one."

When Jane looks over his shoulder, it is to see the Administrator already inside, her fourth cigarette of the day in one hand and a champagne glass in the other.

Snarling, Jane cracks his knuckles. "Excuse me Tavish. I need to go punch an old lady."

"Good luck, love," Tavish says, kissing him on the side of the cheek as he goes.

Sure that Jane can handle that on his own, Tavish is free to greet the next wave of guests. He welcomes the RED Soldier and his family with a double-gripped, manly man's handshake, telling him how glad he is that they managed to make it out. Zhanna is intensely pregnant, just like that last time he'd seen her. However, the product of that go-around is currently strapped to Soldier's chest in a baby carrier, and the reason they went for a handshake instead of their usual backslapping embrace.

He's just about to ask if Heavy's going to show, when he feels a tugging at the bottom of his kilt.

"Hai."

He looks down. George Washington, John and Zhanna's eldest, stares up at him. With his attention, she raises her hands, opening and closing them into fists.

"…You doing that because you want me to hold you?"

"Mmhhm."

Tavish obliges, scooping her up and swinging her onto his shoulders. She sits there happily: you don't get a very good view when you're a three-year-old, so any elevation is welcome.

Soldier salutes them both. "We are going in search of the snack table. George Washington! Be good for Uncle Demoman!"

"Okai."

Tavish doesn't mind being saddled with her for the time being; she's a very low maintenance child as long as they're heading somewhere or looking at something. Tavish decides to do some heading and looking in Jane's direction.

He's leaned against the champagne fountain, holding frozen steak against a bruise and looking quite miffed.

"That old biddy can still pack a mean right hook," he says by way of explanation as Tavish approaches. He offers a respectful nod to George Washington. "Madam President."

"Other than that, party going alright?" Tavish asks.

"Of medium success. We have yet to incite an inter-team altercation of any significant level of violence. The two Medics looked like they might start going at each other over the vintage of one of the ports, but then it was just a bunch of yelling and insults with many syllables." Jane snorts in disgust.

"Medics," Tavish shakes his head to commiserate. George Washington has to wrap both arms around his head to hold on. "Anything else?"

"Several raccoons got into meat storage."

"Ach! Bloody rodents. Are the ribs okay?"

"Yes, but they got all of the steaks. Nearly lost an arm prying just one out of the jaws of their weakest link." Jane gestures with his impromptu ice pack.

George Washington is getting tired of all the important wedding management, and begins bouncing up and down on Tavish's shoulders. "Mmmm…" she says, pointing at the nearby champagne fountain.

"You can't have any, lass, I'm sorry," Tavish tells her. "Not until you're at least seven."

She shakes her head.

"No? Not drink?"

One hand still holding Tavish's ear, the other makes a motion: fingers against thumb.

"Ah, you want to throw a coin in?"

"Aaa!"

"Well we can do that."

He sets her down and fishes a penny out of his pocket. Carefully, he helps her line up a shot, guiding her wrist through the motions until the penny lands in the fountain with a plop. Nothing like a little copper to accentuate the flavor.

When he lifts his head, Soldier's looking at him with that crooked grin of his, ice pack hanging at his side.

"What?" Tavish says back.

"Just. You are very good with kids."

Tavish doesn't have much to say, so he simply lets his smile widen.

"Uh," George Washington says, tugging on his kilt again.

He follows her pointing figure across the intermingling RED and BLU crowd. "Ah, you want to go bother your Uncle Mikhail instead?"

"Mmhhm."

Tavish guides her until she's standing, pointed in the general direction of a now-arrived Heavy, who's standing unamused beneath a group balloons designed to look like cartoon bombs.

"There you go. On your way." Tavish orients her, waiting until Heavy has noticed her, and her short yet confident strides have taken her the majority of the distance.

"Tav," Jane says once they're alone again, the party that's ostensibly for them flowing around them like a multicolored tide, "before the ceremony starts, and we have a moment alone, I just wanted to sayis tHAT SWORD WEARING WHITE TO MY WEDDING?"

That sword is indeed wearing white to their wedding. Tavish can spot them from a distance, Mum setting herself down in the first row and maneuvering Eyelander in the folding chair next to her. Eyelander's sheath is decorated with a fine, doily-like material that drapes off them in long rivulets, and it's so clear it's meant to piss Jane off that Tavish has to hide a smile with his hand.

Jane is off again, this time to give Eyelander a piece of his mind. Tavish isn't bothered being left alone. They're about to have the rest of their lives together after all.

His stomach does a funny little flip at that. He grabs some wine from the bar in order to calm the finicky organ down.

He's into a third—or maybe fourth, or fifth—one of those little nerve-settlers, when he decides to meander around the raised stage where they'll be saying their vows in just a few short hours. He catches snippets of the argument as he walks (that's right eejit, I'm a bridesmaid. Now eat shit and die) but mostly he focuses on the hum in his bloodstream and the pleasant distraction in his head.

What he finds purely on accident beneath the makeshift platform knocks his right out of that like a neon sign to the back of the skull. They'd spent so much energy planning what would happen when their respective teams eventually started a fracas, that they'd never even imagined there were other ways REDs and BLUs might end up clashing. After his initial shock, Tavish settles into amusement. He leans against one of the support beams, crossing one ankle over the other, and says, "oi. You know I'm the only one who's supposed to be shagging BLUs under here."

His Best Man who up until this very moment Tavish believed hated the BLU Engineer more than anyone on earth, extracts his tongue from the Texan's tonsils. One, or both of them, squawks. It's hard to tell who's more horrified. The pair try very shoddily to untangle themselves from one another in their half dressed state, causing Spy to crash into one of the support beams and Engie to trip over a misplaced garter strap. He lands on the ground and mutters and embarrassed, "shucks."

Tavish takes a swig of his drink.

"This is all a mistake-" Spy sputters. "We are not- I wouldn't sully myself with-"

Tavish puts up his hands. "I understand. Hooking up with the Maid 'a Honor is a time honored tradition, and I wouldn't want to interrupt. Just make sure you lads are done before the ceremony starts. We need the stage." He leaves them with a wink.

"Where is that useless boy 'a mine? Tavish! Tavish Finnegan are you in there?"

Tavish, sitting on the lid of one of the mansion's seven toilets, startles to wakefulness as his mother's fist hammers on the door. He tries, fuzzily, to pull himself together, double checking to make sure there's no errant strand of drool hanging from his lip.

"Sorry Mum," he says as he opens the door. "Lost track of time."

"Bloody right you have! The ceremony starts in thirty minutes."

Tavish's stomach flips again, and he wonders if he may need to use the toilet as more than an improvised nap/hiding spot. "Sorry," he says again. "May have drank a few more champagnes than my usual…"

"Tavish!" she scolds.

She seems so small in the hallway. The hallway of this big old mansion, that's soon to be filled with post-marital bliss, forever and always, unchanging. Locked in.

He can't go out there. Not yet. He needs to tell her, so she'll help him stall.

"I," he struggles to admit. "Mum I…I'm so scared I'm not doing the right thing."

Mum's face doesn't soften, per say. She's been through too much, and had features hardened by time into that of someone perpetually tasting a lemon. But the corners of her eyes ease past her glasses, and her mouth draws inward.

"There wasn't even a real proposal," Tavish starts to blabber. "All this started because Jane was saying he couldn't believe he was dating someone who wasn't American and I made some joke about marriages getting you visas-"

"Shh, shush now," she says, reaching up and patting several times to find his face. He closes his eye and leans into his mother's touch. "You love this man, don't you?"

Tavish doesn't have to hesitate. "More than anything."

"An' ye know you'll be happy together?"

He thinks of him and Jane, sitting in the living room, on the lawn, how perfect it'd felt when they'd started being more than just mates.

"…Aye."

"Then I think you're doing the right thing," she says matter-of-factly. "No matter what that little doubter living inside your noggin is telling you."

He lets out a breath. "Thanks Mum. I needed to hear that."

"Happens to all of us before the wedding," she dismisses, guiding him out of the bathroom.

"Even Jane?"

"I think that horrid wizard is talking to him right now."

"Even you?"

She scoffs. "I never make mistakes Tavish. And don't you forget it. Now get on that bloody stage! Shame on a man's whole clan if he's late to the alter!"

He's up on the platform in minutes.

Merasmus is supposed to be officiating, but he's misplaced the Bombinomicon he's meant to be reading from, and is now digging in the various pocket dimensions in his robe. They've got time.

Using the chatter of the assembled RED and BLU on either side of the aisle as cover, Tavish leans over and says, "who do you think 's going to catch the bouquet?"

Jane looks at him out the corner of his eye and discreetly says, "Pyro. You know what they like to do with bouquets."

The smell of burned plant matter echos through time. Tavish nods. "Yours or mine?"

"Both. They've been putting their heads together on the best strategy."

"What do ya know! Maybe REDs and BLUs can get along after all. Which reminds me: our best men are sleeping with each other."

Jane forgets to be discreet, eyes widening. "No!"

"Aye. I found out about it the hard way, catching an eyeful of Engie's bare arse."

Jane shudders. "No one should have to go through that."

"Agreed. Though I'm happy for them I suppose. Might be another inter team wedding on the horizon, who knows!"

"I think your Spy would kill you for even suggesting that."

They lapse into silence, punctuated only occasionally by the eight-foot tall wizard beside them who occasionally swears in ancient and forgotten tongues.

Tavish can't take it anymore. He says, "Jane I want you to know-" just as Jane says, "there is something-"

They fall off again. Then, they both smile knowingly.

"I am very happy right now," Jane says.

"Me too."

"I am…" Jane starts again. "…Very happy."

Instead of pointing out he's said that already, Tavish reaches out and squeezes his hand. Merasmus finally finds his book, and the pair turn to face the music.