Lance found Jeremy on their doorstep, abandoned, sucking his thumb. When he took him inside and fed him, Jeremy crawled onto his lap, rested his little head on Lance's shoulder.

The adoption was finalized as soon after that as possible.

* * *

When Jeremy cried at night, his face screwed up in anguish from nightmares he couldn't talk about, it was Lance who picked him up, kissing his tears away and rocking him back to sleep.

When he was hurt, though, scraped knees and bruised elbows, it was Em who healed his wounds. He found the band-aids, the anti-septic creams, the magic kisses that banished frowns and made his baby smile. He cuddled Jeremy, told him outrageous stories of Joey Bunyan and his purple cow Chris. Tickled him until the hurt was forgotten and nothing was more important than stacking his colored rings in exactly the right order. Let him go, and put the band-aids away until next time.

* * *

When Em went on tour, he couldn't bring Haley. It was part of the divorce agreement. So every night he would call Kim's, sing Haley to sleep, harmonizing unconsciously with the low rumble of Lance's voice as he tried to put Jeremy to bed.

He never realized he was doing it until he put the phone down, and Lance leaned in from behind, kissed his ear.

"So much nicer than rap," Lance murmured, and Em rolled his eyes. He was always on stage the next evening, performing.

He always called Haley, later, and sang.

* * *

Once, Em convinced Chris to take him for a ride on his motorcycle.

When Lance found out, he nearly had a heart attack. "You broke your own *hand* on that death machine, and you thought it was okay to take *my* *boyfriend* for a spin?! We have *two* children, Christopher!"

"Don't have a hissy fit, Lansten. He's okay, isn't he?"

"That's not the *point*!" Lance said.

"I'm a *rapper*," Em said. "I can ride a chopper if I want to."

"Chopper?" Chris said. "*Chopper*? You did not just. Jesus Christ. And I took you for a. It's a fucking *motorcycle*, Marshall. A *bike*."

"But. But Bruce Willis calls it a chopper in Pulp Fiction."

"Bruce. That's it," Chris said. "That is *it*. I'm calling your fucking manager. How the *Hell* do you fool *anyone*?"

Em wrinkled his forehead. "Isn't Bruce Willis straight?"

* * *

On the weekends, when he wasn't working, Lance liked to garden. He liked digging in the dirt, liked getting it stuck under his manicured fingernails, liked weeding, and planting, and watching things grow.

He had a flower garden, wtih a hodgepodge of blooms -- any species he found pretty. Roses, orchids, irises, crocuses, lilies. A small patch of lavender.

Then there was his herb garden, with fresh-smelling greens that Em or Joey would use when they cooked. Basil, thyme, sage, parsley, chives. And the vegetables, too. Carrots, and tomatoes, and squash.

Haley had a little plot of land, where she tended dandylions and a patch of sweet potatoes. Every Thanksgiving, when they made yams, she nearly burst with pride. And her room always had a small bouquet of what she insisted were "pretty yellow flowers." They growled at anyone who dared to argue otherwise.

Jeremy had a corner, too, where he kept planting pieces of chocolate. On Easter, Em would sneak out early in the morning, and leave him a giant hollow bunny, and a few weeks later he'd be back to saving m&ms, carefully planting the green ones underground.

* * *

Once, at Christmas, Jeremy woke up in the middle of the night, and ran on his chubby legs to shake Em out of bed.

"Daddy! Daddy!" he said, "Santa Claus looks just like Papa!"

It was the first time he'd ever called them that, and Lance nearly blew his disguise, his grin was so broad.

Joey took to calling him Father Christmas from then on, and every time, Lance would smile sheepishly, and remember when Jeremy called him "Papa".

* * *

When they first got together, Em liked fucking hard and fast, with biting and scratching and marks that took ages to fade.

With the children around, though, they had to be quiet, and Lance started slowing down, lingering in kisses and whispers and touches that caressed instead of hurting.

Every so often, he'd bruise himself gardening, or Em would bang his shin on the table. Their eyes would meet, slowly, and they'd smile, and disappear for twenty minutes or so.

Sometimes ten.

* * *

Dre liked to say that Em had been domesticated.

When he'd said that about Kim, Em had called him a lying fat fuck, and told him to shove it up his ass before he did it for him.

Now, though. Now he smiled, shook his head, and continued talking to anyone who'd listen about his family.

His daughter, his son. And the man that he loved.