Somehow, in the night, Chris had turned into an elf.
"Dude," Justin said. "You're an elf."
"By the Light of the Moon over Craig Liath," Chris solemnly replied, "I am at long last acknowledging my Sidhe ancestry."
Joey studied him carefully. "The fuck, Kirkpatrick?" He flicked Chris' ears, undeterred that Chris was trying to bat him away with pale, slender fingers.
Lance, on the other hand, was merely annoyed. He folded up his newspaper, walked over to Chris and held out his hand. "The five disc special edition DVD. Hand it over."
"Your lack of faith will not diminish mine," Chris informed him loftily, flute-like voice lilting over the crude and clumsy words of the English language.
JC wandered in, late as usual, blowdryer in one hand, half-eaten banana in the other. He saw Chris. He stopped short. He gasped in shock. "Chris!" he cried, dropping his accessories. "I love what you've done with your ears! And the shoes! They must be Gaultier?"
"But of course, dear friend," Chris said, nodding wisely. "He is of the old blood too."
"Fuck," Justin said, and turned pained eyes to Lance. "Please, make it stop."
Lance got out his cellphone. "This is way beyond me. I'm sorry, Chris, but I'm going to have to call Theresa."
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