little t&a

wonderin' what i'd do when i'm through tonight

Gene carried the groceries in for Paul. It felt like the lousiest apology, but he didn't know what else to do. Paul looked as if he were seconds from tears—pretty horrifying, for Gene to try to realign his whole thought process, to try and reconcile the Paul he'd known for the last eight years with the pretty brunette currently slumped over the kitchen island—and Gene didn't know how to mitigate that, either. Paul wasn't much of a crier. Under the circumstances, though, Gene couldn't exactly blame him.

"I shouldn't have done that."

"Forget it."

"Look—I thought it might be you from the tattoo, but I had to make sure—"

"You made sure, okay? You definitely did that much." Paul's elbows were resting on the counter. His mouth was pressed against his clasped hands, muffling his words. "Fuck it, Gene. You were supposed to just write me back."

Gene rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, you cut off contact with everybody a month before we go back on tour, and then you send me a two-sentence postcard and expect me to act like a fucking pen-pal. C'mon, Paul."

"Well, obviously, I didn't want you coming over! You think I wanted anyone to see me like this? I already had to run Peter off!"

So that had been him earlier. Shit.

"How did this even happen?" Medically, it was impossible. Paul probably hadn't had this little hair on him since he was ten years old. To say nothing of the drop in height, or the total reconfiguration of his body shape. He still looked pretty similar in the face, same big brown eyes, same slightly crooked chin and full lips, but the features were a little softer. Really, he looked like a good bit like his older sister, although Gene knew better than to mention it. Paul hadn't seen Julia in at least three years.

The guys had always made fun of Gene for his lack of discernment, and he knew there were plenty of women that looked like dogs dotting his photo albums, but Paul was—actually kind of pretty. Or would be, if his eyes, always a little sad-looking, weren't all watery and his mouth wasn't glued in that firm line behind his hand. Even Peter, who, oddly enough, probably had better taste in women, looks-wise, than any of the four of them, had said Paul was cute. And the tits—shit, Gene was distracting himself. Paul had taken his time answering anyway.

"How should I know how this happened? I woke up like this!"

"When?"

"Wednesday morning."

"That's five days. You've been like this for five days?" Before Paul could answer, Gene added, bewildered, "Have you gone anywhere?"

It wouldn't have surprised him much if Paul had holed up in the house the entire time. He did that enough normally. Gene could understand that, to a point. Gene never knew what to do with himself off-tour, either, except get laid, but Paul usually added a healthy dose of self-pity on top of the lays. Given what had happened to him, he'd probably been feeling sorrier for himself than usual.

Paul surprised him by bringing his hands down from in front of his mouth and nodding.

"I drove to Peaches yesterday."

"You drove?"

"You think I could've convinced my chauffeur I was Paul Stanley?"

"Might have an easier time with him than you would a cop."

"A cop? I'm a great driver—"