Chapter Text
In hindsight, throwing a shrimp at Xavier’s head was probably a mistake.
It feels fucking awesome, at first. Brett’s aim is flawless. He watches for one glorious second as the shrimp soars onto the upper balcony and bounces off of Xavier’s stupid douchey hat.
Xavier lets out an indignant squawk and whirls around. Attempting to dart out of view, Brett loses his footing and knocks over the whole shrimp tower, but even that has spectacular consequences. Xavier’s whiny reaction—My prawns!—is deliciously satisfying.
That’s what you get for hitting on my wife, Brett thinks. But then the other shoe drops. Of course Zoë notices Brett immediately. She’s standing right next to Xavier; that was the whole reason he threw the shrimp. Operation: Silent Savior isn't looking so silent anymore.
“Brett?!” Zoë’s mouth gapes, and not for the first time that night, Brett thinks, Oh, shit.
I can fix this, Brett tells himself as he strides through the house and up the stairs to Xavier’s bedroom. “Zoë, don’t be mad—”
His confidence in his ability to fix this plummets as Zoë levels him with a furious look. “I asked you to do one thing tonight, Brett. One thing.”
Zoë’s disappointment is all too familiar, but it still makes Brett wince. He knows how it looks. Zoë had specifically asked him not to show up at the afterparty. And here he is, at the afterparty, throwing a shrimp. “I know, but Zo, I can explain.” I’m doing this to protect our family. (And by the way, Brett thinks, what are you doing in this greasy little shitbag’s bedroom? But he knows better than to go on the offensive when he's in the doghouse.)
Zoë points accusingly at Brett’s face. “You said you weren’t going to come. You even gave me that stupid speech about how your word is your bond—”
“—And it’s the only thing I’ve got worth a damn,” Brett finishes, in a solemn whisper. It really is a good speech.
“So why are you even here? And where’s Maggie?”
Shit, shit. Brett thinks fast. “Uh. She’s fine, she’s downstairs… in my parents’ basement, watching Moana.” Nailed it. “Can I please just talk to you for two minutes?”
“Is this man bothering you, Zoë?” Xavier asks, as if Brett is some random gutter-punk, and not Zoë’s literal husband. (And fine, technically they’re separated, but the idea that Xavier has more of a claim to Zoë than Brett does is ridiculous. He probably doesn’t even know about the umlaut in her name.) Brett isn’t sure what’s worse—the casual way Xavier touches her arm, or the fact that he isn’t even looking at Brett when he does it.
Zoë ignores Xavier and responds directly to Brett, which initially seems like a victory. “Are you serious? It’s almost 11, and you’re letting her watch a movie?” She brings a hand to rub her face. “You know what? Nevermind. But you better fix her sleep schedule by Monday—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, ‘course. She’ll be fine.” Brett suspects he’s already dug himself too deep a hole with Zoë, so there’s only one thing to do: tackle the threat head-on. He turns to face Xavier. “Do you wanna go, right now? I’ve been thinking about kicking your ass all night.”
“Brett,” Zoë hisses.
Xavier squares his shoulders. “That’s funny. I didn’t know you could think.”
“Hah hah,” Brett fake-laughs. “Real clever. Well, I’m here for a rematch, little man. And I’m all outta piss.” Good comeback, he thinks to himself. Brett had been furious at the way Xavier bested him at the urinal, earlier, peeing fast and then swooping in on Zoë before Brett could zip his pants back up. “Nice hat, by the way. Did Sam Jackson have a yard sale?”
Zoë looks back and forth between Brett and Xavier. “Guys, this is—”
Xavier’s nostrils flare. “Sam Jackson? Newsflash, bitch, only one of us is on a first-name basis with Nick Fury, and you’re standing in his casa.”
There’s no way Xavier is friends with Samuel L. Jackson. That’s far too cool a celebrity name drop. Xavier has to be lying. Either way, the hat’s still stupid. Brett flicks it. “What’s the point of this? Trying to make yourself look half an inch taller, or what?”
Xavier doesn’t flinch. “Nah. Wardrobe change, motherfucker,” he says, as if that means anything.
Zoë throws up her hands. “I am done with this.”
Brett takes another step forward, crowding Xavier’s space in a cool and menacing way. “Uh huh. Yeah. You look like Prince took a shit.”
“Stop it! Oh my god!” Zoë interrupts. “I don’t know what the hell is happening here, but I’m leaving. Have your little slap fight; I don’t care. Just leave me out of it. I am not a prize you can win.” She sounds moderately appalled—more than when Brett lies about shitting his pants, but less than the time he’d threatened that Starbucks barista for writing her name with a heart instead of an “o” on the cup.
“No, wait—I agree with you! I’m a feminist!” Xavier protests, but Zoë is already out the door. He turns to Brett. “Man, what is wrong with you?”
Jackpot, Brett thinks. Getting under Xavier’s skin is extremely gratifying. “Looks like you struck out again, Eugene.”
“Oh really?” Xavier taunts, stepping closer with a swagger that’d be more impressive if he weren’t 5’6”. His face is just a few inches away from Brett’s. “‘Cause to me, it looked like I was about to have sex with your ex. Until your stalker-ass barged in and started ranting to her about piss.”
That’s actually what it looked like to Brett, too, but he’s not going to give Xavier the satisfaction of admitting it. “First of all, I was ranting to you about piss,” Brett retorts. “And second of all…”
It’s on the tip of his tongue. It’s a trial separation. She’s still my wife, and I’m gonna crack your skull like a piñata. That’s what he’s been telling everybody tonight; hell, that’s what he’s been telling himself ever since Zoë told him she wanted a divorce. (Well, maybe not the part about the piñata. That bit is reserved for Xavier.)
But the words feel phony in his own head. What *am* I even doing here? Brett asks himself. He came here with a mission to protect his family (and maybe to punch Xavier’s lights out), but at what cost? Driving Zoë away even more? Ranting at Xavier about piss like a lunatic?
Xavier looks at Brett, expectantly. “Second of all, what?”
Have I lost sight of what really matters? “I’m gonna crack your skull like a piñata,” Brett grumbles, but his heart’s not in it. “…Bitch.”
“Weak,” Xavier declares.
“Shut the hell up,” Brett snaps, balling up a fist. He has to get his head back in the game. “See this fist? It’s about to go right into your windpipe. It's gonna mess up your vocal cords so bad that even your precious autotune won't be able to save you.”
“Oh, so you admit I’m a good singer,” Xavier fires back. “Thank you for the compliment.”
“And just as you're thinking, ‘Oh, my career is over. It's over,’” Brett says, in a high-pitched, fake Xavier voice. “Boom!” He smacks his fist into the palm of his other hand.
“X marks the punch spot,” Xavier whispers.
Little turd isn’t even taking this seriously. Brett decides to really hammer home the visual. “And then all your guts and your ribs are gonna spill out of your chest cavity like candy at a quinceañera, tú sabes?” Xavier’s not the only one who passed high school Spanish.
“Me… Me do sabes,” Xavier stammers, and Brett almost feels bad for the guy, because he fumbled that one hard. Maybe Brett’s threat has him rattled, or maybe he didn’t pass high school Spanish. “Me sabes real good,” Xavier adds, nodding.
The Spanish is working. The Spanish is throwing Xavier off his game. “Muy bien,” Brett mocks. Unfortunately, that’s nearly all of the Spanish Brett can remember off the top of his head. He skipped class a lot to go play hacky sack.
Xavier puffs out his chest. “We doing this?”
Fucking finally. “Oh, it's about to be done, dog.”
“Step into my arena, dog.” Xavier waves a hand at his surprisingly-classy rich-guy bedroom.
“Thank you for having me, bitch. I like how you designed this place.” Brett doesn’t mean to say that part, but it slips out.
“That's a very kind observation,” Xavier says, mockingly.
“Okay, are we gonna fight or what?” Brett is sick of dancing around it. He needs a release. The kind that can only be accomplished through sex or physical violence. And he’s pretty sure sex with Zoë is off the table, so physical violence it is.
Xavier sizes Brett up. Maybe he decides he doesn’t like his odds, because he just gives Brett a smug look. “Nah. This whole aggro routine is old hat. And I?” He presses his tongue to the top of his teeth and slides his stupid purple cap forward. “I’m new hat. You wanna pick a fight with me? Be my guest. But it’s not gonna get you back in Zoë’s pants.”
Brett clenches his fists at his sides. He can feel his anger cresting like a wave, and then, inexplicably, it ebbs. The only thing left in its wake is resignation.
Little shit is right, Brett realizes. He’d been so desperate to cling to the remnants of his marriage, but the truth was, he no longer had a claim to Zoë. And acting like he did just pushed her further away. Resigned, Brett steps closer until he can smell the alcohol on Xavier’s breath. “That hat sucks,” he whispers, then flings it off the balcony.
“What the hell!” Xavier whines. “That hat cost eight hundred and seventy five dollars!”
In all honesty, Brett should have called it there. They say you should quit while you’re ahead for a reason. And tossing Xavier’s hat off the balcony definitely meant Brett was coming out ahead. Weirdly enough, so did the subsequent heart-to-heart conversation he had with Zoë on the stairs.
An hour ago, Brett couldn’t have imagined admitting that his marriage with Zoë was over and agreeing to sign the divorce papers. It would have meant giving up the thing he was fighting to protect at all costs. But almost punching Xavier on that balcony had turned him into a new man. A mature man. A man who owns up to his mistakes, and recognizes that the most important thing is for Zoë to be happy, even if it’s not with him.
So yeah, Brett’s coming out ahead. Still, it all feels like a house of cards that could collapse at any moment. Maggie does not stay in the car, and Brett only narrowly manages to avoid Zoë spotting her by pulling out the old fake-diarrhea excuse. Once Brett finally catches up to Maggie, he decides to bring Operation: Silent Savior to a close, scooping her up and carrying her back to the car.
Brett’s coming out ahead. He’s 1000% coming out ahead. So why does it feel like something’s missing? Maybe that’s the problem with quitting while you’re ahead—you’re giving up on the possibility of a total victory.
He continues to scan for threats while walking down the driveway, because you can’t just turn off those kind of instincts. Luckily, Zoë is still inside the house, so there’s little danger of her discovering that he brought Maggie to the afterparty.
Yasper is pacing by the stairs, talking to Xavier and wringing his hands. Xavier—hatless, Brett notes with satisfaction—crosses his arms indignantly. Brett can’t make out what Yasper is saying, but he imagines it’s something like, “Wow, Xavier, you look so swagless without your hat.” And Xavier responds, “Shut the fuck up. You better not tell anyone I was bested in combat by Brett. It’ll make my dick look really small.” And then Yasper says, “Sure thing, Mr. Tiny P.P. Penis. You’ve suffered enough for one day.”
None of it is Brett’s circus, anyway. He has an adorable six year-old to drive home. As soon as he straps Maggie into her car seat, Kevin Koala in hand, she’s out like a light. The only problem is that the valet still has his damn keys. Looks like it’s time for Operation: Silent Savior (Redux). Get in, get out. Make a clean extraction.
That’s a way better name. Operation: Clean Extraction.
Brett books it back into the foyer and finds the keys to his 1971 Chevy Nova in a bowl. Pretty terrible security, he reflects. There’s nobody to stop him from taking everyone’s cars for a joyride, except that there would be no point because he has the best car of them all.
Yasper passes Brett on his way back out of the house. He doesn’t seem to notice Brett (which bodes well for Operation: Clean Extraction) but he seems kind of upset, almost fragile. Emotionally, not physically, although also physically. Maybe Xavier had a really good comeback to “You look so swagless without your hat.”
Which would be weird; Xavier may have a hot face and body, and the confidence of someone who knows he has a hot face and body, but deep down, the guy’s still a wimp. Brett isn’t sure how anyone could lose a verbal sparring match against Xavier. (It’s not a loss when you realize the victory conditions have changed, and adapt accordingly.)
Or maybe Yasper had tried to hit on Xavier, and Xavier turned him down, and that’s why he looks like he’s about to cry. Yasper certainly seemed to have a lot to say about Xavier at dinner.
Brett really should be getting back to the car, but he decides to indulge in a little flashback. No secret operation would be complete without a cool movie flashback, after all. He puts on his sunglasses, for dramatic effect, and thinks back to the beginning of his evening.
Pan down over the gymnasium. In the midst of balloons and streamers lurks a man on a mission. Brett’s leather jacket might as well be camo, because he blends in perfectly. The crowd is oblivious. Well, except for Indigo, who immediately corners Brett about her weird breast milk cheese.
Still, Operation: Silent Savior is off to a promising start. At dinner, Brett strategically positions himself so he can keep a watchful eye on Zoë. She’s two tables over talking to Aniq, which is great, because Aniq is like, threat level zero. No sex appeal whatsoever. Plus Aniq and Yasper had been flouncing around the whole night, being gay together. All in all, Brett couldn’t have picked a safer dude to keep Zoë company while he assesses the room for threats.
Threat No. 1, of course, is Xavier, with his slutty outfit and his dumb swooshy hair. He’s short, sure, but famous enough to make up for that. If Brett were a girl with terrible taste, he’d probably be dropping his panties for the guy. And Zoë—well, Zoë has excellent taste. But she’s in an emotionally vulnerable place, what with the trial separation. Easy prey for a guy like Xavier.
Brett grips his butter knife, masculinely, as he complains to Yasper about how awful Xavier is. He isn’t really sure why Yasper is there, but they seem to be on the same page vis-a-vis the objective terribleness of Eugene Duckworth Jr.
“Oh yeah, Xavier sucks,” Yasper agrees. “When someone as nice as Zoë thinks he’s a tool—”
Yasper goes on yapping, but Brett doesn’t need to listen to the rest. “Wait, Zoë said that?” He does a subtle but triumphant fist-pump underneath the table. “Oh, thank god. I’m so relieved. That guy is the worst.” Yasper is now Brett’s third favorite person at this reunion. (Zoë is No. 1, of course, with Ned the Sled coming in at a distant second.)
The fact that Zoë apparently sees right through Xavier takes some of the pressure off. Brett had been prepared to hack into the mainframe and add some heartwarming pictures to the Jennifers’ reunion slideshow, to remind Zoë that family was the most important thing in this world. But if Zoë already knows Xavier is a turd, there’s no need to set Operation: Nostalgia in motion. It would definitely make her cry her eyes out, and Brett would rather spare Zoë that pain.
Now, he can just enjoy his dinner and bend Yasper’s ear about how much Xavier sucks. “I mean, why wear a suit if you're not gonna wear a shirt? You wanna show off—what, you don't have hair on your body, and you got muscles? There’s no way women are into that. Are gay dudes into that, or what?” Brett could buy Xavier being gay, what with his looks and demeanor and everything, except that he’s apparently laser-focused on having sex with Brett’s wife.
“I’ll ask around at the next meeting,” Yasper offers.
“You know, in some countries, if the man doesn't have hair when he turns eighteen, they kill you,” Brett points out, as Yasper listens attentively. He’d seen this on the internet somewhere. Reddit, maybe? Or was it the plot of a porn?
Then, Yasper hits him with a freight train. “Have you ever tried making out with a dude, Brett?” he asks. “Just to see if it does anything for you?”
“Woah, I’m flattered.” Brett holds up his hands. “But not into dudes, buddy. Don’t you already have one boyfriend? Gettin’ a little greedy, don’t you think?”
Yasper hitting on him is kind of a cool ego boost. Not in, like, a gay way. You really can’t get more straight than Brett. But gay dudes are supposed to be picky. They’re probably not settling for second-rate wiener, Brett reasons. If a gay dude hits on you, even a scrawny-looking one like Yasper, you know you’re a stud.
“Oh my god.” Yasper puts his head in his hands, undoubtedly embarrassed to have been rejected by Brett. “I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about Xavier.”
“You wanna make out with Xavier?” Brett laughs. “Good luck with that. He’s way out of your league. No offense.”
“Okay, first of all,” Yasper holds up one finger, “that’s hurtful. And second of all, I'm talking about you and Xavier, you doof. You are obsessed. Maybe there’s a reason.”
Brett decides to let the doof thing slide as an apology for saying that Xavier was out of Yasper’s league, even though it’s true. “No shit, there’s a reason. Were you even listening, or were you too busy staring at Xavier’s tight ass? I’m trying to protect my family. But if Zoë already thinks he’s a tool, well, let’s just say…” Brett puts on his sunglasses for a few seconds before dramatically whipping them off. “Mission accomplished.”
Yasper groans and says some more stuff that Brett doesn’t really pay attention to, because he’s thinking about Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol.
“—then, when you’re trying to figure out why you have a weird hate-boner from pressing Xavier up against his balcony, try sticking your tongue down his throat. Maybe something will click into place,” Yasper finishes.
Eugh. What kind of gay advice is that? Press Xavier up against his balcony? French kiss him? It takes Brett a second to see the logic. “Oh, I get it. You’re saying it’s an intimidation tactic. I should try to catch him off his game.” It makes sense; if Brett were trying to sleep with a hot chick and all of a sudden, a random dude made out with him, he’d be pretty distracted.
So distracted that just thinking about it is enough for Brett to miss Yasper’s response. Then the guy is gone, and it’s up to Brett to see the rest of his mission through.
But he should probably fuel up first. Brett helps himself to Yasper’s uneaten chicken piccata. You can’t save your family on an empty stomach. It’s like that old Snickers commercial: You’re not you when you’re hungry.
Maybe that’s why Yasper was giving out such bizarre advice. Make out with Xavier? Brett shakes his head, even though there’s no one around. Ridiculous. It’d have to be a last resort plan. Brett doesn’t want to make out with any dude, let alone some slimy Bieber wannabe.
But he isn’t going to write it off completely. There are some things worth making sacrifices for, and family is at the top of that list. Brett would do anything for his family.
Speak of the devil. Brett ends his cool movie flashback and returns to the present, taking off his sunglasses just as Xavier is entering the house.
Xavier looks out of breath, and the stupid purple hat is back on his head. That’s on Brett; he’s been staring into space, flashbacking, for at least three minutes, so Xavier probably had time to grab it from the beach. This is the problem with movie flashbacks. They’re fun and cool, but you end up wasting precious minutes, giving your enemies an opportunity to retrieve their douchey purple hats from the beach.
Did that asshole follow me? Brett wonders. Or was he just going inside his own house? …Or is that what he wants me to think? Brett is so caught up in his internal monologue that he nearly plows into Xavier by the front door.
Xavier stops short, and blinks. He seems distracted.
Brett realizes he has a choice. He’s got his keys. Maggie is sleeping in the car. He could quit while he’s ahead: Go back outside and drive his daughter home, secure in the knowledge that he’s a new man. An evolved man, who still protects his family, but who’s able to admit that if you love something (i.e. Zoë), you have to let it go.
Or he could see this mission through to the end.
It’s an easy decision. Brett isn’t sure whether it’s the desire to rub a little salt in Xavier’s wounds, or the fear that if he leaves now, Xavier would have an opening to go after Zoë. But he decides to keep engaging the enemy. “You following me?”
“Piss off, Brett,” Xavier replies, absently.
Huh. Brett was really expecting more of a fight. Does Xavier not think Brett is a threat? The idea fills him with rage. “What, Round One wasn’t enough for you? You wanna go again? I’ll nail your ass.” He sizes Xavier up. Yeah, Brett could take him. Brett could definitely take him. This is exactly what Brett is supposed to do. This is why it felt like something was missing, earlier: there was always supposed to be a Round Two.
“Are you…?” Xavier blinks, confused, then catches onto the fact that Brett is preparing to initiate combat. He looks Brett up and down in disbelief. “Alright. You wanna go?”
“Yeah, let’s fucking go. But we’re not doing this in front of my kid.” It’s bad enough that Maggie was there for Brett’s scuffle with Xavier’s caterer/security guy, though he did a great job covering that up. If he and Xavier are gonna fight, it needs to be back in the house. “You and me, your bedroom.” With any luck, he’ll be able to throw the dumb hat off the balcony a second time.
And he still has one trick up his sleeve: Yasper’s advice. It was bizarre advice. Incapacitate Xavier by making out with him? He’s starting to see some holes in the logic. It may actually be more hole than non-hole.
But that’s the beauty of a secret weapon: it might just be crazy enough to work.