The Boy That Broke America

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quick a/n: listen to the song in the media box thingy when you reach the roof. you'll know what i mean. it's the song for that part. it's very pretty music indeed.

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                  AS IT TURNS out, Oscar Emerstan was not at JFK International airport that evening, and neither was he in New York City. Oscar Emerstan was still half a world away, in Paris, and it took Lane half the car-ride back to Christopher Street, as well as half a dozen phone calls, to work out a semi-solution.

Cyril had filled them in, albeit intermittently through the various calls, about Oscar's predicament, of which Lane deemed all together annoyingly typical of Oscar. Long story short, he had gotten rather delayed at a one night stand's 8th arrondissement apartment, and instead of doing the seemingly normal thing and calling Cyril to let him know, Oscar had proceeded to 'just drive fast and hope for the best' (his words, as spoken sheepishly through the phone), which might have actually worked, had he not stopped and gotten breakfast and a coffee somewhere in the 18th arrondissement. Hence, he had missed their flight by quite a considerable amount of time, stranding himself in Paris, with just five days until Christmas.

By the time they'd travelled the better part of an hour towards Christopher Street, Lane had sweet-talked her way into landing her brother a seat on a private plane carrying one of her mother's closer business friends, and was in great need of a drink. She considered it a punishment of sorts, considering Oscar would have to spend the greater part of eight and a half hours making polite small-talk. Oscar, however, was just glad to be making it home before Christmas, a fact which he made very clear in the over-the-top thank-you speech he made over the phone as Lane's car pulled onto Sixth Avenue.

"Lane, I freaking love you. You are the best sister in the whole world and I pinky-promise with a cherry on top that I'll buy you whatever you want in duty free. Hell, I'll buy you all you want in duty free."

"Okay, but you might not feel the same way after I make you tell Mom, cause I sure as hell ain't doing it."

Oscar groaned on the other end, and she could feel his anxiety through the crackling line.

"We're turning onto our street now. I gotta fly, I'll call you back when we're inside. Je t'aime mon frère. Bisous!"

"Love you too." Oscar sighed.

They climbed out of the car as it drew up to the apartment, piling out and delivering their respective thanks.

Cyril swung his arm over Lane's shoulders, leaning into her as he tilted his head back to let the city wash over him.

"I forgot how much I love New York. I forget every time I leave, and then I come back and it's like I fall in love all over again. Is it normal to love a city more than you love a person? Probably not."

Lane laughed loosely, "Are you drunk?"

Cyril chuckled, closing his eyes, "Maybe. Manhattan'll do that to a guy. Then again, who knows what that flight attendant put in my drink. He didn't appreciate me joking about his hat."

"Manhattan'll do that to anyone." Lane shot back, gently shrugging herself out of his arm to unlock the main door.

"I can vouch for that. I dread to think what Lane's like in other cities, but in the past week alone, she's walked in on me in the shower three separate times. While I had the door closed." Ivor quipped, smirking.

"Very funny," Lane retorted, "But I'll have you know that all three of those times I was severely sleep deprived. Exams'll do that to a girl."

"Exams'll do that to anyone." Cyril mocked, grinning.