Work Text:
Tripp made his way around the coffee table slowly, a kind of shuffling sidestep, holding on with both hands. Bristol's dark eyes scanned from the thick textbook on her lap, to the toddler, then back again. Anya lounged in the big leather armchair, drink in hand, still in her work clothes. She was wearing the smart, coral-colored suit Bristol picked out specially for the stockholders meeting.
"What kind of music do you think he'll like, that you hate?" Anya asked, shaking her glass a bit, making the ice clink against the glass. The liquid was an appealing translucent pink. She didn't have as much time to exercise now that she had started her own business, so she was hitting the Crystal Light pretty hard.
Bristol looked up from her textbook and paused thoughtfully. A year of motherhood and a semester of college had made her more serious, more grown-up. "I don't know . . . probably something that hasn't been invented yet."
"Yeah . . . you're right," Anya agreed. "Like . . . something with all gongs . . . gong bands."
Bristol raised an eyebrow.
"And you'll be all 'I don't see how you call this music, in my day, music had lyrics and guitars!' And he'll be all 'I hate you, Mom! This music speaks to me! It speaks to my whole generation!' and then he'll run upstairs and slam his door and play his gong music really loudly."
"We don't have an upstairs, Anya," Bristol said, turning a page and peering down at the full color illustration of the digestive system.
"Well, all the same," Anya said, undeterred. She took long sip of her drink and smiled at Tripp, motioning for him to come to her. He giggled mischievously and went the other direction. "How was your playgroup thing?"
"OutMoms? It was good. Although a couple of them starting going on about politics. Why is everyone in Los Angelos so liberal? Why do people always assume I'm a Democrat, just because I'm bisexual?"
"I'm not sure, Sweetie . . . I think most humans go through life assuming that people they like agree with them about everything. It's not your fault that their naive, privileged existences don't allow them to understand that the welfare state does far more harm than good--"
"Hey, hey! Not you too. I've have enough of that for one day."
"Right. Sorry."
"If you put Tripp in his highchair and start him on some dinner, I can put the pizza in the oven," Bristol said, putting her work aside, smoothing her skirt down as she unfolded herself from the couch. Anya noticed the appealing tug of the skirt around Bristol's graceful hips.
"You made pizza?"
"Just the way you like it . . . home grown tomatoes, turkey bacon, goat cheese, the works . . . I think it turned out really well. I'm so glad you taught me about all these different kinds of cheeses! I can't believe I used to eat the kind that comes wrapped up in those little plastic sheets."
"Well, we've all done things we can't believe in retrospect," Anya said charitably. The success of her meeting that day had put her in an exceptionally good mood. "But just think, if we hadn't all made mistakes, I wouldn't have a gorgeous girlfriend and a fantastic stepson"--Tripp picked up the TV remote and banged it on the coffee table menacingly, as if on cue--"I certainly never thought I'd want one of those. Who knew I'd run into an old vengeance client at a Log Cabin Republicans meeting? And so I'd get a second chance with the perfect girl?"
Anya got up and scooped Tripp into her arms. He was currently attempting to put the remote control batteries in his mouth. "I'm so lucky," she added, leaning over to give Bristol a kiss.
"So am I," Bristol said, smiling and kissing her back. "So am I."