6...We Wish You a Merry Christmas

“Attention.  Attencion, por favor!”  Gavin clapped his hands loudly from the center of the impeccably decorated Angel Orensanz Center. 

It looked just as stunning as it had yesterday when Mrs. Petey had taken the nose-dive that currently had her with one sparkling pink combat boot propped on a chair, sipping the alcohol-free witches’ brew that was the signature cocktail of tonight’s event.  The only change from yesterday’s initial unveiling of his superlative soiree swag was the addition of the brown paper bags over the top-hatted Day of the Dead skulls, reading “Maybe next time”, because today’s celebration was about the living princess still cosseted the in the secure fortress of her mommy’s love shack.

“Oh behalf of my Bongiovi besties, I would like to welcome you to the holiday haps that they’ve so graciously funded for the benefit of you, their friends and family.  I would also like to be the first to officially announce in a public venue that Baby Girl is having a baby girl!”

The appropriate applause and catcalls accompanied his proclamation, and Baby Daddy slid an arm around the bride whom he hadn’t let wander any further than arm’s reach so far this evening.  Tipping up the impish face that Gavin had bedecked with his now-signature sparkling cobwebs, Jon kissed his wife in a way that oozed more sweetness than the sugar skull dessert buffet that would be paraded out later.

“Because the disgustingly-in-love parents possess a combined net worth of ‘fuck you world’ and don’t need all the cliché blankies and pajamas that come with a typical baby bash, we’ve gathered tonight with the mission of bestowing something far more precious upon the little bambina.”  He fixed the demoness of honor with a prickly glare and pointed an accusing finger in her direction.  “Which I would’ve TOLD you, had you remained in an upright position for thirty seconds longer.”

He felt free to snark now that the crisis itself was over.  Never in his life had he been so relieved to see printouts of a golden-orange blob or the deeply grooved dimples of the little Tinkerhell that waved her baby pictures in his face from discomfort of a wheelchair.  It had almost been enough to bubble up a tear or two, because if something had happened to that baby, Petey would’ve been heartbroken and Gavin would’ve died a little inside himself. 

There wasn’t anyone in his life who meant more to him than that little dark soul.  She’d come along and changed his life with the three-ring circus of hers, and as a result, he’d found his missing soul-sister.  When she hurt, he was sarcastic, when she was happy… Well, he was sarcastic. 

Only Gavin knew that there were differing emotions behind his shades of sarcasm or that Petey had those emotions wrapped around her demonic pinky finger.  He liked it that way.  No one else need bother themselves with the fact that he was anything other than a stylish, cold-hearted bitch.

“Shut up and get on with my hijacked holiday party,” she sniped good-naturedly, blowing a kiss his way. 

There was nothing that could piss on her parade today, and it made Gavin just a bit misty-eyed.

“In due time, Mrs. Imp-Patience.”  One hand flew up to cover his mouth.  “Oh, snap!  I’ve just astounded myself with how clever I am!  Please feel free to applaud.”

The room erupted into laughter as he arrogantly waggled his eyebrows and beamed in acceptance of his well-deserved adoration.  No one could manage his level of wit and sarcasm on the fly, but this time his mouth even out-witted his brain, he thought, huffing on his fingernails and buffing them against the navy turtleneck from boyfriend’s new clothing line. 

Horribly drab and basic, but good quality, so he’d take the freebies and smile.

“Could we get on with it?” 

Gavin would know that dry sarcasm anywhere and flicked an admiring chin at his snark sister-in-law, Mr. JBJ’s ex.  “Cool your jets Mrs. Bongiovi Bongiovi.  You’re just anxious to resume the honeymoon we’ve so rudely interrupted with this soiree.  There is a coatroom near the back, if you’d like to take your new hubby on a quickie tour of it.  Just stay away from my cashmere outerwear, and we’ll be here to entertain you in the afterglow.”

Her middle finger was a couple’s event as the middle Bro Jo joined in on the traditional salute of their native state. 

“That’s not your ring finger, Kitty Snark, but you can show me the jewels later.  Now… where were we?”

“Neck deep in regret with my decision to let you preside over this.” 

His dapperly coiffed head snapped toward the daddy of the hour.  “Oh please.  You’ve toured with the likes of men called 'Ratt'.  I’m not even close to the biggest embarrassment in the limelight at a Bongiovi show.”

Boyfriend rolled his eyes, but did a splendid job of biting his tongue instead of biting back.

Pity.  A good battle of wits with the dental diety could often be quite entertaining, but he was clearly riding the same cloud of bliss as his adoring wife.  Jon said nothing further, but merely scowled while playing with his loved one’s black bouffant. 

Repeatedly, Gavin had told her not to wear her hair like that.  She was not a society matron who could pull off the up-do – not without his help, anyway.  He didn’t care how lazy she was feeling, the twist she’d jammed a few pins into was more suited to her mother instead of a pint-sized purveyor of evil, who had a fetal skeleton on the front of her black t-shirt tonight.  Why could she not settle for a ponytail?  Boring as hell, but at least more age-appropriate.

In fact… 

He searched the crowd through narrowed eyes.  Yes, there was Mother Teresa now, with hair more youthfully designed than that of her daughter.  Then again, catching a glimpse of big brother Hillbilly Henry with his mountain man beard that belonged in somebody’s backwoods, Gavin supposed that Petey wasn’t the homeliest Heinz in the land.  Poor Mother Teresa missed the fashion fleet on refining those two.  At least her other boys and Senator Stepdaddy were looking trendy in their high-priced couture this evening.

“As I was saying…”  Gavin cleared his throat pointedly, casting defiant eyes around the room that dared anyone else to interrupt.  “We are each prepared to give the gift of ourselves – no returns allowed, so keep it zipped Shadow Siren and Sailor Smiley.  Friends and family, in the center of your tables, you will find some lovely skull-themed notecards along with devilish pitchfork pens.  I’m allotting two minutes of soul-searching and two minutes to spill your soul on the card.  The gifts will presented along with the next round of cocktails.”

“We can’t get drunk before we do this?”  Gavin’s favorite member of da boyz called out. 

“Jew boy, who the hell are you kidding?  You’ve been pickled since the late eighties.  It’s impossible for you to be any drunker.”

“He might be an ass, but he’s right,” Richie Slambora snorted, drawing the arched brow of judgment.  Gavin could diss his friends, but nobody else was permitted to do so.

“Uh, Detox Dude… people who live in shot glasses shouldn’t throw whiskey bottles, no matter how expensive they are.”

“Gavin!”

Whirling around to find the preggo of honor her using telepathy to transmit a hex in his direction, he lifted both hands.  “What?!  We’re all friends here.”

“It’s cool, Pretty Dark Angel,” Richie assured, using the pitchfork pen for his presentation of the Jersey salute.  “Nobody takes him seriously, anyway.”

Pious purple eyes rolled to a ceiling that shared a similarly evil glow.  “Even so…  Gavin, could you possibly be nice for one evening?”

“That sassy little shit couldn’t be nice if his life depended on it.” 

Flashing a grin at the only person in here that could keep up in the bitch department, he preened, “Why thank you Mama JBJ.  Why be nice when you can be honest, right?”

God knew the woman had been honest enough at the beginning of this demonic fairytale, when passing judgment on Petey as nothing more than one of Satan’s minions.  Little had she known that her new daughter-to-be was the very rich mastermind behind the Hades Horde, not simple one of the impy gang.  Gavin’s favorite bedtime story was how Old Mrs. B got her starched panties handed to her on a cobwebby platter after trying to cut Petey off at her petite knees.

As far as he knew, the mistake wasn't made a second time.

“Jesus, I have no idea how Jon puts up with him.”

Gavin directed his barracuda grin to the behemoth brother on the other side of the bridal aisle.  “He considers himself blessed, I’m sure.  As should you, because you don’t interest me enough to spar with.  You have the rapier sharp wit of a potato, Little Big Jovi, but let’s start with your gift to the newest Bongiovi heir.  What will you be supplying?  Tutoring?”

His mountainous body leaned to one side to look around Gavin.  “Can I kick his ass just once, Petey?  Please?”

“Where’s the fun in that big boy?  We all know you could snap my neck with one hand.  Impress us all and shove your very thoughtful and appropriate gift down my throat.  Hmm?”

“Shooting lessons.”

The dry, flat proclamation ripped a guffaw from deep within Gavin.  Honest to God, he’d no idea that the big dumb ox had the ability to be droll.  He was going to have to reassess his opinion of Matt Bongiovi, especially when he saw the look of horror on the Mini Mistress of the Dark’s face when silently asking her better half if that was a serious gift. 

Priceless.

“Might wanna wait until the first birthday for that, Bodyguard Brother, but that’s excellent.  Baby Blue, are you jotting all these down for us?”  The eldest of Jon’s progeny was rolling her eyes at the entire clan, but she dutifully nodded and held up the black journal with purple pages that she’d been assigned upon entry to the gathering.  “Thank you, dearest.  Okay, who’s next?”

“I’ll go,” came the offer from the newlywed Bongiovi, also known as He Who Shooteth Tweedy Birds.  Gavin personally thought TBJ should be the one ponying up shooting lessons, but maybe little brother’s scope was more limited than anyone suspected.  “This is probably not a surprise, but I’m going to give her a video history of the Bongiovis that I’m working on.  I’ll also document all the rest of her important moments like birthdays, Christmas and all that.”

“Oh, Tony!  How perfect!  Thank you so much!” 

Good.  Tinkerhell was pleased so Gavin was pleased.  Snark Kitty’s man had set the bar for the rest of the offerings, and the round robin of elite one-upmanship began, just as the Fairy Gaymother had planned. 

Baby sitting from the grandmommies, trips to the zoo from Senator Stepdaddy, cooking lessons from Grandpa B, bouncer service from the little one’s three older brothers, blacksmithery from Hillbilly Henry, love of football from the Heinz uncles, an eye for art from the Cuban drummer, the understanding of how to only see the best in people from Rehab Richie, underage drinking venue from Liquored Lema. 

All were fairly predictable, and perhaps Gavin’s gift to the celebrated offspring would be just as predictable to the remaining partygoers, but he had no choice.

“Last, but not least, I shall be providing my impeccable fashion sense to the beautiful babe, as well as her name.  I’ve decided upon Bronwen Gavinia.”

Peteykins spit purple witches’ brew all over the table.  “Excuse me?”

“Honey, someone has to bestow fashion sense on this child.  She will be the most beautiful creature roaming the earth, and we can’t have her looking like white vampire trash.”

“Okay, first of all, I know you didn’t just call me trashy.  Because if you do, we're going to start transitioning you to a woman right here and now.”  Kohl cobwebs shimmered as she narrowed her vicious violet vision his way.  “Secondly, I was talking about her name.  You’re not naming her.”

Rising from his seat and cocking one hip, Gavin crossed his arms and obstinately jutted out his chin.  “Bronwen means ‘dark and beautiful’.  I fail to see how there could be a more appropriate name for this child, but you can call her whatever you wish.  Auntie Gavin will be addressing her as Bronwen.”

“We will have this argument later.  In private,” the pixie hellion decreed through teeth that were being ground to dust at this very moment.  “But, for the record, her name is Gianna.  The Italian feminine version of 'John'.”

Gianna. 

He blinked absently at his dark friend as he let that sink in. 

Gianna.  G Jovi.  Gia.  Gigi.  Giggles.

Giggles. 

Oh, that was toooooo ridiculously cute.  He was going to have a little Giggles to dress up and play dollies with.  Yes, yes, yes please!

“Very well,” he deigned after deciding it would be wisest to keep those adorable nicknames to himself until the birth certificate was printed, lest they choose something that was hideous beyond repair.  “I concede Gianna.  What about her other name?”

“Milsèan,” came the firm assertion from Papa Bear.  “It's Irish for 'sweet', and with the Italian Gianna for my side of the family, both sides of her heritage are represented."

Fixing both of them with a peevish pucker that was only for looks, Gavin realized that it didn’t matter what they named the little Valentine’s Day Darling.  He would still call her whatever he liked.  That was his prerogative as the godparent they would surely name him to be.

“Perfection, Daddy Dearest,” Gavin conceded, letting his pucker puss slide into a more congenial smile as he reached for his cocktail.  “Let’s all lift our glasses in a toast to baby, shall we?  Health, happiness and love – from her first day to her last, a hundred years later.  To Gianna!”

For once, there was no quibbling, snarking, back biting, or arguing among the vocally diverse group.   The room abounded with nothing but fond smiles and well wishes as fine crystal was raised to reflect not only a prism of purple, but the love of family and friends.

Miss Gianna Milsèan Bongiovi was going to be very blessed, indeed.