For Ceili, who made me do it.

When they did interviews, Lance always insulted Eminem.

"I hate his music," he'd say, "it does nothing for me. Fuck you and you and you -- that's not a song."

Justin would jump in with rampant idolatry, or beatbox while Chris rapped "Under My Tree," or Jayce and Joey would trip over each other's tongues, full of praise.

Never Lance.

He hated Eminem's music, and he said so.

When the interview was over, though, Em would slide up behind him, wrap and arm round his waist, bite his neck gently. Reproving.

"Come home," he'd say, "and teach me how to sing."

* * *

It wasn't that Em *couldn't* sing -- he actually had a fairly nice, smooth voice. It was more that he didn't like Lance's music.

"Sing rock," Lance said.

"Oooh! Daddy!" Haily said, looking up from her coloring book, "you could be a rock star!"

Em continued stirring the spaghetti. "I *like* rapping, sweetie. It's a whole different persona. It's like. Playing make believe"

Lance kissed the back of his neck. "Certainly not like you really are."

"I was *talking* to my daughter."

"Well how'm I supposed to know? You call *me* sweetie too."

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Don't make me beat you down, Bass."

Haley giggled.

"You too, young lady."

"You've never beaten someone in your entire life," Lance said. He stole a crouton from the salad, and Em slapped his hand.

"Fine," he said. "I'll call my posse."

"My posse," Lance said, "would beat you first."

"Shut it," Em said.

Lance smirked. "Make me."

Em kissed him.

"Eeeeeewwwwwwwwww!" Haley said. "Daddy! Papa! EEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeewwwwwwww!"

They smiled at each other, and laughed.

* * *

When he toured, Lance kept a picture of Em and Haley in a silver picture frame. Em was tickling Haley, a huge silly grin spread across his face. She was curled into a ball, laughing hysterically, her little eyes squinted shut. On the back of the picture, she had drawn a red heart, and then written "Haley and Daddy, Sept. 14th, 2000. Love you, Papa. Call lots."

Every time they checked into a new hotel, or slept on the bus, every night Lance would pull out the picture and set it up by his bed. He'd run his thumb over the frame, smiling at the joy on their faces, and pull out his cellphone.

No matter how late it was, Em always answered. Always woke Haley up to say goodnight.

* * *

Sometimes Em would be able to get away, and Haley didn't have school, and they'd join Lance on tour. Joey said it had given him a heart attack, the first time he stumbled back onto the bus after an interview and found Marshall Mathers reading "The Long Winter" outloud, his daughter curled on his lap.

Nowadays, of course, Joey and Em watched movies together when Lance deserted them for the Bus of Sports. It didn't matter what season it was -- Baseball, Hockey, Football, Basketball -- Em hated all of them.

"Why would I want to watch grown men run around after a stupid ball?" he asked.

"So watching grown men in kilts singing in Scottish accents is a better use of your time?"

"It so happens," Joey said, "that Brigadoon is an excellent musical."

"Besides, we're watching Seven Brides for Seven Brothers next."

Lance shook his head, kissed Em on the cheek. "I'll see you later, hon."

"Bye," Em said. "Get me if tennis comes on, 'kay?"

Joey and Em would always join them for tennis. And figure skating, of course. Occasionally golf.

* * *

Once, Em and Brit had gone shopping while the boys rehearsed.

They'd gotten their nails done together, waiting for the dye in their hair to set.

"I always get a manicure before painting," Em said. "Oooooh... coral."

"I was gonna go with black," Britney said.

"On you? Sure. On me? So overdone."

They'd had fun, the two of them. Gossiped about men in the industry, split a low-fat frozen yogurt milkshake, caught the latest Josh Hartnett movie.

Then they went home, and all Hell broke loose.

* * *

"What are you wearing?" Lance asked suspiciously.

Em looked down at his blue silk button-down shirt and grey slacks. "Don't you like it? Brit helped me pick it ou--what are you doing?"

"Calling Justin," Lance said. "J?"

"It looks nice," Em said. "I wanted something to go with my nails, but--"

"Listen," Lance said, "I don't give a shit if Brit came home in a dog collar and ripped jeans or a Laura Ashley dress. You keep that trend-setting *thing* away from my man!"

"Laura Ashley makes nice clothes!"

"Oh, whatever," Lance said, "a black leather jacket isn't going to kill anyone! Now, pink nail polish, on the other hand--"

"It's coral," Em said, "and I like it."

"Fuck you too," Lance said, and slammed the phone down.

"Not tonight, I won't," Em said.

"Now don't be like that, I just. I like the way you dress."

"Maybe this is how I dress now."

"Maybe Dre's gonna kill you."

"Maybe Dre can kiss my sweet white ass."

"Maybe," Lance said, "but *I'd* have to kill *him.*"

Em grinned, and kissed his nose. "You're sweet," he murmured.

But Justin wouldn't let him shop with Britney anymore, and Em suspected Lance agreed.

* * *

Haley liked to sleep with Lexie insted of a teddy bear. She'd tried Dirk, once, when Lexie had been at the vet, but even in sleep Dirk was restless and smelly, and it hadn't worked. But Lexie would lie quietly on the bed, her head on her paws, while Haley curled around her. Her fur would tickle Haley's nose, making her smile sleepily in her dreams, and her even breathing would send Haley off faster than a story or good-night song.

Lance and Em would watch them, sometimes, arms around each other's waists. They'd stand there for nearly an hour, just watching as Haley sighed and rubbed her nose on Lexie's head.

Then they'd sneak away, gently closing the door behind them, and snuggle together in their own bed, instead.

* * *

Em kept a picture of platinum-haired Lance in his wallet at all times. He liked to take it out and show people, pointing out Lance' s eyes, smile. The way his lips, curled in amusement, his happiness, made him adorable and loving and sweet, despite the bad hair.

He had it labelled on the back, in his precise cursive. Black ink, spelling out The Real Slim Shady for all the world to see.