Gob looked at his brother with round eyes, his face swollen from hot tears. For the first time, Michael looked at his brother and realized how much Gob counted on him to keep things together, despite everything that had happened. Michael sat beside his brother on the model home couch.

"Hey," he said softly. He reached out and took a glass from Gob's weak grasp. A quick whiff told him it was straight vodka. Putting it off to the side, Michael put his arm around Gob's shoulders. "How you doing?"

"Fine," Gob muttered, subtly wiping at his eyes.

"You really liked her, huh?" Michael asked. Gob choked and spluttered. Slightly alarmed, Michael let Gob turn into his shoulder. The material of his shirt soon became warm and wet. He put a steady hand on the back of Gob's neck and held him tightly.

"Gob," Michael patted his neck, "I'm sorry about everything. If I had known you liked Marta that much, I wouldn't have gone for her..."

The magician sniffled and pushed away from his brother. "It's not your fault, Michael," he made a brief gesture with his hands; "I made a huge mistake."

"Me too," Michael admitted. "But look, we're still good, right?"

Gob made an indistinct noise. Michael nudged him in the ribs. His brother offered a weak smile; it barely pulled the corners of his mouth up. "I have an idea," Michael said, "I bet it'd cheer you up."

Interest piqued, Gob followed Michael to the back door. They went outside and around to the Bluth Stair Car (BSC it had been dubbed by Maeby). Using his foot to keep Gob at length, preventing him from peering into the vehicle, Michael leaned in and grabbed a small duffle bag. He unzipped it and pulled out a pair of baseball gloves. One of them had a maroon stain on the side which Gob eyed with a twisted expression on his face.

"I thought we could play a little bit of ball," Michael offered lamely. He tossed the stained glove to his brother. Gob caught it reflexively.

"Is this?"

Michael's cheeks flushed with colour. "Yeah. It's the same one."

Gob slipped the glove on, wiggling his fingers, feeling the familiarity of it. In fact, Michael had gone to the prison to pick up that specific glove. He knew that Gob considered being admitted to the hospital a successful escape, and he also knew that it had been the first time his brother and father had ever played a game of catch together.

"Michael," Gob started in a raspy voice. Michael waved his words away.

"Let's just play."

They played late into the night, tossing a beat up baseball between the two of them and talked. Once during the night, their raucous laughter woke up George Michael, who went sleepily to the window. He pulled the blinds away and looked down across the model home's property.

He spotted his father and his uncle laughing and wrestling good naturedly beneath the light of a half moon. Their baseball gloves lay on the ground, forgotten. George Michael smiled quietly to himself before crawling back into bed. Things were good.