uncool (queer as folk uk, stuart/vince, alfred, cameron)
Title: Uncool
Fandom: Queer as Folk UK
Pairing: Stuart/Vince implied
Notes: Thanks Margo for reuniting me with this story I wrote four or five years ago. It's set five or so years after the end of QaF-UK series 2. It was originally intended to be part of something longer, but it stands on its own, so here it is!
*
There comes a point in every man's life when he has to admit he's lost the epic battle to keep his cool.
Stuart was far past his expiration date in this respect, but it still came as a bit of a blow. Most men probably lost their cool when they fell in love and went bumbling about in a haze, all too willing to do just anything for the object of their affections. Stuart, though, had fallen for Vince, who'd conspired with him for years to preserve Stuart's unshakeable cool.
Still, it had only ever been a matter of time, and Stuart's time was finally up.
Saturday morning, Alfred came bounding into their room and onto the bed--as always, managing to jab one of his few sharp angles directly into one of Stuart's few soft spots.
Once he was through wincing and biting back curses, Stuart unwound himself from the covers and hurried Alfred out so they wouldn't wake up Vince, who hadn't been getting enough sleep since he'd caught the flu.
Standing in the hall outside their room in his bare feet and pyjama bottoms, shushing his son, Stuart was already further from cool than he felt comfortable.
"Daaaaad," Alfred said, which didn't help matters at all. "Dad, there's no peanut butter."
"So?" Stuart asked.
"So I want a peanut butter and grape sandwich."
"Well, you'll have to have something else, won't you?"
"How come?"
Stuart rubbed his eyes. "Cos there's no peanut butter?"
"Can't we go buy some?"
"What's wrong with cereal?"
"I don't want cereal."
"There's probably some more peanut butter tucked away in the cupboards somewhere," Stuart decided optimistically. "We'll just have a look."
He stood Alfred up on the kitchen counter so the boy could reach the cupboards. After a thorough exploration it was clear there was no peanut butter in the house.
"Have a Pop Tart," Stuart suggested.
"There's not any grape ones."
"There's blueberry. That's the same colour."
Alfred stuck his lip out, but he took a Pop Tart and chomped a bite out of the side.
"Yuck," he said. "It doesn't taste good."
"What's wrong with it?"
"It's all dry and ugh." Alfred looked up at him with big needy liquid eyes.
Alfred hadn't been hit by the flu as badly as Vince had, but he had been ill, and he hadn't been able to keep much food down for a couple of days, so it seemed best to indulge him. Stuart sighed and lifted him down from the counter. "Peanut butter, eh?"
"Please?"
"Put your shoes on," Stuart capitulated, and went back to their room to dress.
Vince was still sleeping the sleep of the diseased, shadows under his eyes, his nose red and chapped. He was breathing through his mouth, which he only did when he was hideously congested, and wouldn't it have been nice to go an entire lifetime without ever knowing something like that about another person?
Nevertheless Stuart didn't want to wake him, so he quickly ransacked the bureau for socks, shirt and trousers, and quietly headed for the bath. No time to shave, but he was fairly certain he could pull off a reasonably sexy can't-be-bothered look with beard shadow and an untucked button-up, so long as his hair was stylishly askew.
"Dad! I'm ready to go!" Alfred yelled from the first floor.
Still buttoning the shirt, Stuart went to the top of the staircase and yelled back, "Quiet down! I'll be right there!" and then rolled his eyes at himself; he'd easily been louder than Alfred. He hopped about putting socks on, shoved his feet into a stray pair of loafers, and made his scruffy way down the stairs.
It was wet and windy outside. By habit, Stuart drove all the way to the Harlo's where Vince had once worked, rather than going to the nearer Sainsbury's. Once they were at the shop, he looked down and saw how drastically he'd miscalculated.
The trousers he'd grabbed were a rather sharp pair of cords; together with the loafers they completely undermined the loose ends, bed-headed look he'd been trying for. He didn't look casual, just untidy. The weather doubtless hadn't been kind to his hair either.
Alfred wanted to carry the basket, and after they found the peanut butter, he decided he wanted apples too. He picked out a pair with slow deliberation.
A look in the mirror behind the produce confirmed that Stuart's attempt at a sort of rumpled, offhand come-hither mien had come off more like a rumpled, offhand go-away. He didn't look hung-over, debauched, and beddable, as he'd intended. He looked like the overtaxed parent of a rambunctious young child.
Stuart waited for the inevitable crowning touch. Someone was going to see him in this state, someone whose gaze would be unspeakably humiliating. Might be an ex-shag that would assume he'd permanently fallen from his pinnacle of gorgeousness to this wretched nadir. Perhaps a wannabe rival, someone like Mark or Rob, who'd gloat, assuring themselves that they'd never leave the house looking so badly thrown-together. At the very least, he'd be looked over and dismissed by some nice young bloke with a basket full of skinless chicken breasts and yoghurt.
"Da-ad, can I have this?" Alfred asked, waving a magazine.
"All right, give it here," Stuart took it, still contemplating the odds of getting out of the shop with his tattered cool intact.
He didn't. It was door number three; the bloke was young, hot, and bleached-blond. His basket contained shrimp, spirits and mixers, but otherwise he was exactly as lovely and exactly as disinterested as Stuart had pictured, with the added sting of an indulgent little smile as the bloke took in the whole picture of Alfred tugging at Stuart's one hand and-- Stuart glanced down and for one moment genuinely longed for sudden death-- not a magazine after all, but a Winnie the Pooh colouring book in Stuart's other hand.
So that was it. At the age of thirty-five, RIP, Stuart's cool was irrevocably a thing of the past.
If Stuart couldn't be assured of cool any longer, he might as well be considerate and responsible; he had nothing to lose for it now. "Come on," he led Alfred to the medicine aisle. "We're going to pick up some stuff for Vince."
"Dad, let's get doughnuts," Alfred said as Stuart studied the back of a box of TheraFlu.
"The whole reason we came out here was because you said you absolutely had to have a peanut butter and jam sandwich for breakfast," Stuart reminded him. He reversed a box of Advil Cold & Flu Remedy and compared it to the TheraFlu. The Advil didn't seem to cure as many symptoms, but it had better copywriting.
"Can I... we could, um, I can have peanut butter for lunch and then we can have doughnuts for breakfast. Vince likes doughnuts," Alfred said, twisting his hand in Stuart's, drifting down the aisle to try to see the bakery. "It can be like a surprise."
"Vince doesn't like anything solid right now," Stuart said, tossing the TheraFlu into the basket. "Quit squirming, Alfred, don't go wandering off."
"Hiya," Alfred said to a bloke ambling down the aisle.
"Hi," the man said, with weird, sarky amusement in his voice. "Didn't your dad ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"
Australian accent. Stuart glanced up from a package of sinus decongestant.
Stuart hadn't thought to include Vince's ex-boyfriend among the people he dreaded seeing him just now. But now that it was happening, he found that being spotted at this low ebb by Cameron dealt a special, exciting new blow to his battered vanity.
Cameron certainly seemed to be savouring the moment, scrutinising Stuart at his leisure, his eyes crinkling with undisguised pleasure. No doubt this was partly because Cameron himself was looking not too bad, considering. He looked every bit of forty-two or so, but he wore it well enough.
"Well, who have we here? Long time," he said, his tone just a little biting. He must have gathered from Vince how much Stuart hated thinking about his age.
It should've sent Stuart right into his bitchiest, most defensive mood, but instead, bizarrely, he found himself cheering up.
"Ages," he said. "How've you been?"
"Good," Cameron said, thrown.
Stuart gave Cameron his professional smile. "Glad to hear it," he said, scouring any trace of nastiness out of his voice. "This is Alfred. You remember, mine and Romey's son."
"I remember," said Cameron, now out and out bewildered.
"Alfred, this is Cameron."
"Hiya!" Alfred said, and to Stuart's absolute glee, he set down the shopping basket and stuck out his free hand.
"Hi." Cameron shook Alfred's small hand, looking more and more uncertain and misplaced, like a man shoved abruptly into an episode of the Twilight Zone-- or even, Stuart thought, Doctor Who.
"I'm five and a half," Alfred went on, picking up the basket again.
Cameron mustered up a smile. "Imagine that," he said. "Last time I saw you, you weren't even a half."
"I remember you," Alfred said with perfect aplomb, "you're the bloke that got all ate up by the dinosaur."
Cameron raised his eyebrows at Stuart.
"Five and a half," Stuart shrugged.
The older man hesitated, a short searching pause, and regarded Stuart with fading suspicion. Then he said, as though he just couldn't help himself, "How's Vince?"
It must've really killed him to ask, and he never would've done it if Stuart hadn't disarmed him with a smile. Stuart congratulated himself on this subtle, brilliantly evil tactic. Sometimes he planned these things so well, he even got ahead of himself.
As guilelessly as he could, Stuart said, "He's fantastic." Half a beat and then he gestured to the medicine box. "He has a touch of flu just now actually. But he's doing well." Stuart dropped the sinus medicine into the shopping basket and said jovially, "We live in Swinton now, but we keep coming back here to do the shopping. Force of habit."
If he wanted to rub it in, Stuart could easily mention some of the trappings of their success together, the house, the travel, the adventures. But he didn't feel the need, any more than he felt the need to insult Cameron. He wasn't sure why, but it didn't matter, or he couldn't be bothered. Something.
This was turning out to be much more fun anyway. He could see how confused Cameron looked, like he was wondering if he'd had Stuart all wrong, five years back.
He hadn't, but let him wonder.
"Vince said you showed my mum and Lisa ‘round the outback," Alfred piped up. "Where's the outback?"
"Sorry?" Cameron asked.
"That wasn't real, Alfred," Stuart told him, twigging to what he meant. "Remember? That was just a bedtime story."
"He said a dinosaur bit your head off," Alfred went on.
Stuart wanted to hug him; he'd never been more proud. He only held off because he didn't want to risk interrupting in case there was more.
There was more. "He said it chewed and chewed," Alfred finished. "Like a gobstopper!"
Nothing Stuart could add to that could possibly make it any better. Taking a moment to compose himself, Stuart just schooled his expression to mild concern and reiterated, "It's this bedtime story Vince tells him. Vince makes it up as he goes along."
Cameron looked entirely lost. To him this must have seemed like some strange parallel universe, where Stuart, rather than being a malicious bastard, was friendly, while Vince, rather than being a hapless good-natured pushover, was fantasising about Cameron's bloody demise.
Vince's ex had sussed out Stuart rather well five years before, Stuart would admit to that. But though he'd seen through Stuart to some degree, Cameron had never really understood Vince. Otherwise this wouldn't be coming as such a surprise.
"If it's any consolation," Stuart couldn't resist adding, "I think most of his other ex-boyfriends tipped up as villains. At least you got to play tour guide."
Cameron narrowed his eyes with that look Stuart remembered, that hard, unimpressed look. "What about you?" he asked. "Where are you, in this story of his?"
"I don't have to be in the story," Stuart said. "I'm right there."
At that Cameron gave a hint of a laugh, short and private. "Well," he said.
"Well," Stuart replied. "I'll tell Vince you said hi, shall I?" and there was no pretending he'd meant that as anything but a dig.
Cameron gave him a withering look. "Of course. You'll tell him everything," he said. "Nice," he raised an eyebrow and let his gaze rake over Stuart in all his dishabille, "seeing you again."
"Oh, you too," said Stuart insincerely. "Take care."
"There's Scooby-Doo Band-Aids," Alfred reported once Cameron had gone.
"D'you want them?"
"No. I don't like Scooby-Doo. Was he mad when he died? Mum tried telling him to duck," Alfred said, "but he was too busy bossing them about."
"I bet," Stuart grinned.
"Can I have some gum?"
"You can have whatever you like."
They went through the line. The bleached-blond was at the next checkstand. He glanced over and gave Stuart a once over; he smiled again, and this time, a little more in the manner to which Stuart was accustomed.
Just about then, Alfred started singing the Winnie the Pooh song, off key and with no lyrics other than "Winnie the Pooh, Winnie the Pooh, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie the Pooh," with a boundless enthusiasm that promised he'd be singing it the whole way home, and possibly for the rest of the day.
Stuart took his hand and couldn't stop smiling. "Come on, Pavarotti, let's go home."
As they left, he saw Cameron again, and gave him a jaunty wave while Alfred jumped up and down, yelling, "Bye! Bye!"
After all, no matter how old Stuart was, Cameron was just that much older, and no matter how grotty Stuart looked at the moment, he was only a change of clothes and a shave away from looking his usual magnificent self.
And even those consolations didn't matter all that much, because ultimately, even if Stuart was thirty-five and scruffy and quite bereft of cool, he was here with his devastatingly cute and intelligent son, and he was the one going home to Vince.
He should be nice to people more often. Living well really was the best revenge.
Fandom: Queer as Folk UK
Pairing: Stuart/Vince implied
Notes: Thanks Margo for reuniting me with this story I wrote four or five years ago. It's set five or so years after the end of QaF-UK series 2. It was originally intended to be part of something longer, but it stands on its own, so here it is!
*
There comes a point in every man's life when he has to admit he's lost the epic battle to keep his cool.
Stuart was far past his expiration date in this respect, but it still came as a bit of a blow. Most men probably lost their cool when they fell in love and went bumbling about in a haze, all too willing to do just anything for the object of their affections. Stuart, though, had fallen for Vince, who'd conspired with him for years to preserve Stuart's unshakeable cool.
Still, it had only ever been a matter of time, and Stuart's time was finally up.
Saturday morning, Alfred came bounding into their room and onto the bed--as always, managing to jab one of his few sharp angles directly into one of Stuart's few soft spots.
Once he was through wincing and biting back curses, Stuart unwound himself from the covers and hurried Alfred out so they wouldn't wake up Vince, who hadn't been getting enough sleep since he'd caught the flu.
Standing in the hall outside their room in his bare feet and pyjama bottoms, shushing his son, Stuart was already further from cool than he felt comfortable.
"Daaaaad," Alfred said, which didn't help matters at all. "Dad, there's no peanut butter."
"So?" Stuart asked.
"So I want a peanut butter and grape sandwich."
"Well, you'll have to have something else, won't you?"
"How come?"
Stuart rubbed his eyes. "Cos there's no peanut butter?"
"Can't we go buy some?"
"What's wrong with cereal?"
"I don't want cereal."
"There's probably some more peanut butter tucked away in the cupboards somewhere," Stuart decided optimistically. "We'll just have a look."
He stood Alfred up on the kitchen counter so the boy could reach the cupboards. After a thorough exploration it was clear there was no peanut butter in the house.
"Have a Pop Tart," Stuart suggested.
"There's not any grape ones."
"There's blueberry. That's the same colour."
Alfred stuck his lip out, but he took a Pop Tart and chomped a bite out of the side.
"Yuck," he said. "It doesn't taste good."
"What's wrong with it?"
"It's all dry and ugh." Alfred looked up at him with big needy liquid eyes.
Alfred hadn't been hit by the flu as badly as Vince had, but he had been ill, and he hadn't been able to keep much food down for a couple of days, so it seemed best to indulge him. Stuart sighed and lifted him down from the counter. "Peanut butter, eh?"
"Please?"
"Put your shoes on," Stuart capitulated, and went back to their room to dress.
Vince was still sleeping the sleep of the diseased, shadows under his eyes, his nose red and chapped. He was breathing through his mouth, which he only did when he was hideously congested, and wouldn't it have been nice to go an entire lifetime without ever knowing something like that about another person?
Nevertheless Stuart didn't want to wake him, so he quickly ransacked the bureau for socks, shirt and trousers, and quietly headed for the bath. No time to shave, but he was fairly certain he could pull off a reasonably sexy can't-be-bothered look with beard shadow and an untucked button-up, so long as his hair was stylishly askew.
"Dad! I'm ready to go!" Alfred yelled from the first floor.
Still buttoning the shirt, Stuart went to the top of the staircase and yelled back, "Quiet down! I'll be right there!" and then rolled his eyes at himself; he'd easily been louder than Alfred. He hopped about putting socks on, shoved his feet into a stray pair of loafers, and made his scruffy way down the stairs.
It was wet and windy outside. By habit, Stuart drove all the way to the Harlo's where Vince had once worked, rather than going to the nearer Sainsbury's. Once they were at the shop, he looked down and saw how drastically he'd miscalculated.
The trousers he'd grabbed were a rather sharp pair of cords; together with the loafers they completely undermined the loose ends, bed-headed look he'd been trying for. He didn't look casual, just untidy. The weather doubtless hadn't been kind to his hair either.
Alfred wanted to carry the basket, and after they found the peanut butter, he decided he wanted apples too. He picked out a pair with slow deliberation.
A look in the mirror behind the produce confirmed that Stuart's attempt at a sort of rumpled, offhand come-hither mien had come off more like a rumpled, offhand go-away. He didn't look hung-over, debauched, and beddable, as he'd intended. He looked like the overtaxed parent of a rambunctious young child.
Stuart waited for the inevitable crowning touch. Someone was going to see him in this state, someone whose gaze would be unspeakably humiliating. Might be an ex-shag that would assume he'd permanently fallen from his pinnacle of gorgeousness to this wretched nadir. Perhaps a wannabe rival, someone like Mark or Rob, who'd gloat, assuring themselves that they'd never leave the house looking so badly thrown-together. At the very least, he'd be looked over and dismissed by some nice young bloke with a basket full of skinless chicken breasts and yoghurt.
"Da-ad, can I have this?" Alfred asked, waving a magazine.
"All right, give it here," Stuart took it, still contemplating the odds of getting out of the shop with his tattered cool intact.
He didn't. It was door number three; the bloke was young, hot, and bleached-blond. His basket contained shrimp, spirits and mixers, but otherwise he was exactly as lovely and exactly as disinterested as Stuart had pictured, with the added sting of an indulgent little smile as the bloke took in the whole picture of Alfred tugging at Stuart's one hand and-- Stuart glanced down and for one moment genuinely longed for sudden death-- not a magazine after all, but a Winnie the Pooh colouring book in Stuart's other hand.
So that was it. At the age of thirty-five, RIP, Stuart's cool was irrevocably a thing of the past.
If Stuart couldn't be assured of cool any longer, he might as well be considerate and responsible; he had nothing to lose for it now. "Come on," he led Alfred to the medicine aisle. "We're going to pick up some stuff for Vince."
"Dad, let's get doughnuts," Alfred said as Stuart studied the back of a box of TheraFlu.
"The whole reason we came out here was because you said you absolutely had to have a peanut butter and jam sandwich for breakfast," Stuart reminded him. He reversed a box of Advil Cold & Flu Remedy and compared it to the TheraFlu. The Advil didn't seem to cure as many symptoms, but it had better copywriting.
"Can I... we could, um, I can have peanut butter for lunch and then we can have doughnuts for breakfast. Vince likes doughnuts," Alfred said, twisting his hand in Stuart's, drifting down the aisle to try to see the bakery. "It can be like a surprise."
"Vince doesn't like anything solid right now," Stuart said, tossing the TheraFlu into the basket. "Quit squirming, Alfred, don't go wandering off."
"Hiya," Alfred said to a bloke ambling down the aisle.
"Hi," the man said, with weird, sarky amusement in his voice. "Didn't your dad ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"
Australian accent. Stuart glanced up from a package of sinus decongestant.
Stuart hadn't thought to include Vince's ex-boyfriend among the people he dreaded seeing him just now. But now that it was happening, he found that being spotted at this low ebb by Cameron dealt a special, exciting new blow to his battered vanity.
Cameron certainly seemed to be savouring the moment, scrutinising Stuart at his leisure, his eyes crinkling with undisguised pleasure. No doubt this was partly because Cameron himself was looking not too bad, considering. He looked every bit of forty-two or so, but he wore it well enough.
"Well, who have we here? Long time," he said, his tone just a little biting. He must have gathered from Vince how much Stuart hated thinking about his age.
It should've sent Stuart right into his bitchiest, most defensive mood, but instead, bizarrely, he found himself cheering up.
"Ages," he said. "How've you been?"
"Good," Cameron said, thrown.
Stuart gave Cameron his professional smile. "Glad to hear it," he said, scouring any trace of nastiness out of his voice. "This is Alfred. You remember, mine and Romey's son."
"I remember," said Cameron, now out and out bewildered.
"Alfred, this is Cameron."
"Hiya!" Alfred said, and to Stuart's absolute glee, he set down the shopping basket and stuck out his free hand.
"Hi." Cameron shook Alfred's small hand, looking more and more uncertain and misplaced, like a man shoved abruptly into an episode of the Twilight Zone-- or even, Stuart thought, Doctor Who.
"I'm five and a half," Alfred went on, picking up the basket again.
Cameron mustered up a smile. "Imagine that," he said. "Last time I saw you, you weren't even a half."
"I remember you," Alfred said with perfect aplomb, "you're the bloke that got all ate up by the dinosaur."
Cameron raised his eyebrows at Stuart.
"Five and a half," Stuart shrugged.
The older man hesitated, a short searching pause, and regarded Stuart with fading suspicion. Then he said, as though he just couldn't help himself, "How's Vince?"
It must've really killed him to ask, and he never would've done it if Stuart hadn't disarmed him with a smile. Stuart congratulated himself on this subtle, brilliantly evil tactic. Sometimes he planned these things so well, he even got ahead of himself.
As guilelessly as he could, Stuart said, "He's fantastic." Half a beat and then he gestured to the medicine box. "He has a touch of flu just now actually. But he's doing well." Stuart dropped the sinus medicine into the shopping basket and said jovially, "We live in Swinton now, but we keep coming back here to do the shopping. Force of habit."
If he wanted to rub it in, Stuart could easily mention some of the trappings of their success together, the house, the travel, the adventures. But he didn't feel the need, any more than he felt the need to insult Cameron. He wasn't sure why, but it didn't matter, or he couldn't be bothered. Something.
This was turning out to be much more fun anyway. He could see how confused Cameron looked, like he was wondering if he'd had Stuart all wrong, five years back.
He hadn't, but let him wonder.
"Vince said you showed my mum and Lisa ‘round the outback," Alfred piped up. "Where's the outback?"
"Sorry?" Cameron asked.
"That wasn't real, Alfred," Stuart told him, twigging to what he meant. "Remember? That was just a bedtime story."
"He said a dinosaur bit your head off," Alfred went on.
Stuart wanted to hug him; he'd never been more proud. He only held off because he didn't want to risk interrupting in case there was more.
There was more. "He said it chewed and chewed," Alfred finished. "Like a gobstopper!"
Nothing Stuart could add to that could possibly make it any better. Taking a moment to compose himself, Stuart just schooled his expression to mild concern and reiterated, "It's this bedtime story Vince tells him. Vince makes it up as he goes along."
Cameron looked entirely lost. To him this must have seemed like some strange parallel universe, where Stuart, rather than being a malicious bastard, was friendly, while Vince, rather than being a hapless good-natured pushover, was fantasising about Cameron's bloody demise.
Vince's ex had sussed out Stuart rather well five years before, Stuart would admit to that. But though he'd seen through Stuart to some degree, Cameron had never really understood Vince. Otherwise this wouldn't be coming as such a surprise.
"If it's any consolation," Stuart couldn't resist adding, "I think most of his other ex-boyfriends tipped up as villains. At least you got to play tour guide."
Cameron narrowed his eyes with that look Stuart remembered, that hard, unimpressed look. "What about you?" he asked. "Where are you, in this story of his?"
"I don't have to be in the story," Stuart said. "I'm right there."
At that Cameron gave a hint of a laugh, short and private. "Well," he said.
"Well," Stuart replied. "I'll tell Vince you said hi, shall I?" and there was no pretending he'd meant that as anything but a dig.
Cameron gave him a withering look. "Of course. You'll tell him everything," he said. "Nice," he raised an eyebrow and let his gaze rake over Stuart in all his dishabille, "seeing you again."
"Oh, you too," said Stuart insincerely. "Take care."
"There's Scooby-Doo Band-Aids," Alfred reported once Cameron had gone.
"D'you want them?"
"No. I don't like Scooby-Doo. Was he mad when he died? Mum tried telling him to duck," Alfred said, "but he was too busy bossing them about."
"I bet," Stuart grinned.
"Can I have some gum?"
"You can have whatever you like."
They went through the line. The bleached-blond was at the next checkstand. He glanced over and gave Stuart a once over; he smiled again, and this time, a little more in the manner to which Stuart was accustomed.
Just about then, Alfred started singing the Winnie the Pooh song, off key and with no lyrics other than "Winnie the Pooh, Winnie the Pooh, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie the Pooh," with a boundless enthusiasm that promised he'd be singing it the whole way home, and possibly for the rest of the day.
Stuart took his hand and couldn't stop smiling. "Come on, Pavarotti, let's go home."
As they left, he saw Cameron again, and gave him a jaunty wave while Alfred jumped up and down, yelling, "Bye! Bye!"
After all, no matter how old Stuart was, Cameron was just that much older, and no matter how grotty Stuart looked at the moment, he was only a change of clothes and a shave away from looking his usual magnificent self.
And even those consolations didn't matter all that much, because ultimately, even if Stuart was thirty-five and scruffy and quite bereft of cool, he was here with his devastatingly cute and intelligent son, and he was the one going home to Vince.
He should be nice to people more often. Living well really was the best revenge.