Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2011-03-08 11:05 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2011-03-08 11:05 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: Fugue in C Minor
Title: Fugue in C Minor
Rating: PG
Warnings: See the prompt.
Pairings/Characters: "Stephen", Jon, OCs
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Report. Names of real people are used in a fictitious context, and all dialogue, actions, and content are products of the author's imagination only.
...So of course I set out to post a bunch of fics on the week when everyone's on vacation. Clever plan of mine, that.
This next one was written for a prompt frompaperscribe, the content of which is spoilery in itself: (skip) Jon experiences a dissociative fugue. (The triggering trauma is unspecified.)
Takes place relatively early in Jon's TDS days, where he has devoted fans but isn't a household name. Pretend that's enough to make it make sense.
When Colbert traces a morose path through the tables and flops down at the bar, Daniel figures it's his duty to check things out. The staff usually takes turns with the worst customers, but over the month and a half since Daniel started working here Colbert has more or less adopted him, and been a lot more harmless than anecdotal evidence suggested. Mostly just a lousy tipper.
"Can I get you anything?" asks Daniel, leaning in close enough to foster the illusion of privacy in the middle of the clatter.
Colbert has pulled off his glasses and let them clatter onto the countertop, the better to massage his furrowed brow. Under his breath, he mutters, "Got anything that will spackle the ruins of a shattered heart and paste it back into a man's ribcage?"
It's the first time he's talked about his personal life, or even alluded to having one. He mostly just brags about his professional accomplishments, and offers to sign people's napkins. Daniel feels the weird urge to pet him. "Sorry, man, the drinks aren't that good. I'll mix you one on the house, though, if you want."
"I wasn't talking about my heart!" yelps Colbert, sticking his hands under the counter. Like if Daniel can't see the bare spot on his ring finger, he'll forget it's there. "Can I still have that drink, though?"
"Can do, my friend." Daniel reaches for a glass. "How would you feel about a Rusty Nail?"
Colbert considers this. "I like nailing."
***
By the time he's worked through the Rusty Nail, downed an Irish Flag, and complained about the name of the Irish Car Bomb before getting one anyway, Colbert still hasn't said anything concrete about what's going on. Daniel has other customers to attend to, but after mixing every three or four drinks he always checks back, and makes sure the man has some pretzels and water to balance things out.
"Sometimes," mumbles Colbert, now sulking into an appletini, "I just wanna get away from it all. Ditch my job, change my name...start over."
Daniel can't suppress a dry laugh. "It isn't as fun as it sounds."
Colbert's hand wobbles around the neck of the cocktail glass; appletini sloshes out onto his hand. "Hasn't stopped you, has it?"
Time seems to skip a beat. The hubbub in Daniel's ears cuts out for a second, the world flickering before his eyes.
"I never told you about that," he stammers. "How did you—?"
Colbert freezes.
Daniel stares at him, really looking at him for once. He doesn't look familiar, but then nobody does—that's the whole problem. "Do you know who I am?"
"Sure I do," says Colbert. "You're—" His tongue trips on the verge of something else, eyes flicking to the namecard printed above Daniel's shirt pocket. "—Daniel. Right? Is this a trick question?"
Daniel slams both hands on the countertop in front of him. Everything rattles; Colbert yelps; the appletini crashes to the floor. "I'm not talking about the damn name tag! Do you know who I am?"
His nearest co-worker—Sharon, half Daniel's age and with twice as much muscle, currently taking a semester off from NYU to wait tables full-time—is at their side in an instant, wielding a broom. "Everything okay over here, gentlemen?"
It's several loud noises too late to avoid broadcasting Daniel's mental issues to everyone in earshot, but he lowers his voice anyway, locks eyes with Sharon, and croaks, "I think Colbert used to know me."
***
Sharon is the first person to visit him at the shiny expensive psych ward. Or at least, the first one he recognizes.
"Hassan thinks you were just screwing with us this whole time," she reports, as they stroll across the exquisitely manicured grounds. "Marty's just kicking himself for never getting your autograph. Like he should have guessed that the guy with no memory was secretly a big star. Hey, do you want me to start calling you Jon now?"
"Dunno," he confesses. "I guess you probably should. It still doesn't feel like my name, but neither did Daniel, so it's as good as any."
"Right. And maybe it'll jog your memory," says Sharon hopefully. "Any luck with that? Or shouldn't I ask?"
He—Jon—winces. "I wish. I sort of figured when I saw something important from my old life, it would bring it all back, you know? But—listen, my mom came in yesterday. My mother. Baby pictures in tow and everything. And I still couldn't think of her as anything more than some random sweet old Jewish woman."
Sharon lets out a low whistle. "That's gotta be a trip."
"Yeah."
"At least you've got a nice place to do it in," remarks Sharon, as they turn the corner around the volleyball court. "This building is in better shape than my last three apartments put together. You staying here for a while?"
"My, uh, my brother wants me to come stay with him," says Jon, still stumbling over the notion that he has a brother. With a fraternal connection in place, they would probably get along famously; as-is, the guy is just a slightly pedantic stranger with bad breath, who has evidently been taking care of the dogs Jon also didn't know about. "I feel like that's not such a good idea. Turns out I still have an apartment, too, if I want that." He rubs the back of his neck with a self-conscious laugh. "My personal assistant's been keeping an eye on it for me. Can you believe it? Two months I've been living paycheck to paycheck, and all this time I've had a secret personal assistant."
Sharon laughs along with him, giving Jon a flurry of hope that his real self might be the kind of guy you can laugh with. Before the visit ends he promises to invite the whole crew to visit wherever he ends up, and put his autograph on anything they bring just as soon as his handwriting returns to normal.
***
His other co-workers, the ones from the TV show, trickle in one by one, bringing video and photos and anecdotes and a flood of tears. Jon does his best to absorb all the details they offer, and tries not to think too hard about the presence he can't help wielding in their heads. After moving back to the apartment, he starts scheduling their visits before his appointments; he needs a good hour with Dr. Richards just to recover from each one.
When Colbert—Stephen, as Jon's past self evidently called him — finally gets in touch, Jon is almost relieved. At least this time he isn't completely out of the loop about their shared history, even if only by a handful of weeks.
"Since you probably don't remember this, I should let you know that I don't apologize for anything," announces Stephen as soon as he strides into the front hall, dodging the latest pile of fan-sent bouquets. "And even if I did, I wouldn't be saying I'm sorry. It's not like I had any way of knowing you weren't pretending to be somebody else because you felt like it, and if you didn't want me to play along, it's your own fault for not saying so."
Jon isn't sure this makes sense, but he's already scrambling to catch up on the rest of it. "Is that who I am?"
Stephen's eyes go wide. "Did you forget again?" he exclaims, waving a hand in Jon's face before grabbing his shoulders. "You're Jon. J-O-N, spelled wrong because you have a deep-seated grudge against the letter H! How do you expect to remember the rest of it if you can't even hold on to that much?"
"I do—let go! I do know that part!" yells Jon. Stephen releases him, reluctantly; he stumbles backward, feeling like a cupboard full of china that someone just tipped on its side. "What I don't know is whether I'm the kind of person who would willingly disappear on the people who care about him!"
"Oh, great, here we go with the self-pity," snaps Stephen, eyebrows whipping into place. "As if you don't have legions of people waltzing in here to tell you how nice you are!"
"Yeah, I do!" Jon forces himself to a halt before he can trip over the stack of unopened get-well-soon chocolate samplers. "And how smart, and how witty, and how generous, and how I'm a snappy dresser and great with animals and have perfect pitch and never leave dirty coffee cups in the sink! They act like I'm some kind of mythical saint, complete with a miraculous return from the dead, and maybe if I knew who I was I would have some sense of which parts are BS and which aren't, but I don't, so I have no idea!"
There's a gnawing twisting in his stomach and a ringing in his ears, and he has to lean against the wall before a wave of dizziness bowls him over.
In a small voice that sounds almost as lost as Jon feels, Stephen says, "Somebody said you had pitch?"
Jon shrugs. It's all blurring together right now.
"Because you couldn't hit a note if the life of an adorable kitten depended on it," continues Stephen, gathering strength. "And you've been wearing the same grey T-shirts since 1989. But animals like you. Well, dogs, at least. I don't know about, say, rhesus monkeys."
"I imagine most people don't know how well they get along with rhesus monkeys," says Jon weakly.
"You're—you were—always nagging the rest of us to clean up after ourselves in the break room. When someone at the office had a personal crisis going on, you always gave them some time off, then checked in later to make sure they were okay." Stephen swallows. "And any time I got angry at you or called you names, you never let it get to you."
Jon tries to laugh. "Guess I'm not really myself right now after all."
"The old Jon liked hugs," hazards Stephen, inching closer. "Always offering them to people in trouble, even when I told him it was kinda gay. Do they make the new Jon feel better?"
"Dunno," admits Jon. "I don't suppose you could help me find out?"
Rating: PG
Warnings: See the prompt.
Pairings/Characters: "Stephen", Jon, OCs
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Report. Names of real people are used in a fictitious context, and all dialogue, actions, and content are products of the author's imagination only.
...So of course I set out to post a bunch of fics on the week when everyone's on vacation. Clever plan of mine, that.
This next one was written for a prompt from
paperscribe, the content of which is spoilery in itself: (skip) Jon experiences a dissociative fugue. (The triggering trauma is unspecified.)Takes place relatively early in Jon's TDS days, where he has devoted fans but isn't a household name. Pretend that's enough to make it make sense.
When Colbert traces a morose path through the tables and flops down at the bar, Daniel figures it's his duty to check things out. The staff usually takes turns with the worst customers, but over the month and a half since Daniel started working here Colbert has more or less adopted him, and been a lot more harmless than anecdotal evidence suggested. Mostly just a lousy tipper.
"Can I get you anything?" asks Daniel, leaning in close enough to foster the illusion of privacy in the middle of the clatter.
Colbert has pulled off his glasses and let them clatter onto the countertop, the better to massage his furrowed brow. Under his breath, he mutters, "Got anything that will spackle the ruins of a shattered heart and paste it back into a man's ribcage?"
It's the first time he's talked about his personal life, or even alluded to having one. He mostly just brags about his professional accomplishments, and offers to sign people's napkins. Daniel feels the weird urge to pet him. "Sorry, man, the drinks aren't that good. I'll mix you one on the house, though, if you want."
"I wasn't talking about my heart!" yelps Colbert, sticking his hands under the counter. Like if Daniel can't see the bare spot on his ring finger, he'll forget it's there. "Can I still have that drink, though?"
"Can do, my friend." Daniel reaches for a glass. "How would you feel about a Rusty Nail?"
Colbert considers this. "I like nailing."
***
By the time he's worked through the Rusty Nail, downed an Irish Flag, and complained about the name of the Irish Car Bomb before getting one anyway, Colbert still hasn't said anything concrete about what's going on. Daniel has other customers to attend to, but after mixing every three or four drinks he always checks back, and makes sure the man has some pretzels and water to balance things out.
"Sometimes," mumbles Colbert, now sulking into an appletini, "I just wanna get away from it all. Ditch my job, change my name...start over."
Daniel can't suppress a dry laugh. "It isn't as fun as it sounds."
Colbert's hand wobbles around the neck of the cocktail glass; appletini sloshes out onto his hand. "Hasn't stopped you, has it?"
Time seems to skip a beat. The hubbub in Daniel's ears cuts out for a second, the world flickering before his eyes.
"I never told you about that," he stammers. "How did you—?"
Colbert freezes.
Daniel stares at him, really looking at him for once. He doesn't look familiar, but then nobody does—that's the whole problem. "Do you know who I am?"
"Sure I do," says Colbert. "You're—" His tongue trips on the verge of something else, eyes flicking to the namecard printed above Daniel's shirt pocket. "—Daniel. Right? Is this a trick question?"
Daniel slams both hands on the countertop in front of him. Everything rattles; Colbert yelps; the appletini crashes to the floor. "I'm not talking about the damn name tag! Do you know who I am?"
His nearest co-worker—Sharon, half Daniel's age and with twice as much muscle, currently taking a semester off from NYU to wait tables full-time—is at their side in an instant, wielding a broom. "Everything okay over here, gentlemen?"
It's several loud noises too late to avoid broadcasting Daniel's mental issues to everyone in earshot, but he lowers his voice anyway, locks eyes with Sharon, and croaks, "I think Colbert used to know me."
***
Sharon is the first person to visit him at the shiny expensive psych ward. Or at least, the first one he recognizes.
"Hassan thinks you were just screwing with us this whole time," she reports, as they stroll across the exquisitely manicured grounds. "Marty's just kicking himself for never getting your autograph. Like he should have guessed that the guy with no memory was secretly a big star. Hey, do you want me to start calling you Jon now?"
"Dunno," he confesses. "I guess you probably should. It still doesn't feel like my name, but neither did Daniel, so it's as good as any."
"Right. And maybe it'll jog your memory," says Sharon hopefully. "Any luck with that? Or shouldn't I ask?"
He—Jon—winces. "I wish. I sort of figured when I saw something important from my old life, it would bring it all back, you know? But—listen, my mom came in yesterday. My mother. Baby pictures in tow and everything. And I still couldn't think of her as anything more than some random sweet old Jewish woman."
Sharon lets out a low whistle. "That's gotta be a trip."
"Yeah."
"At least you've got a nice place to do it in," remarks Sharon, as they turn the corner around the volleyball court. "This building is in better shape than my last three apartments put together. You staying here for a while?"
"My, uh, my brother wants me to come stay with him," says Jon, still stumbling over the notion that he has a brother. With a fraternal connection in place, they would probably get along famously; as-is, the guy is just a slightly pedantic stranger with bad breath, who has evidently been taking care of the dogs Jon also didn't know about. "I feel like that's not such a good idea. Turns out I still have an apartment, too, if I want that." He rubs the back of his neck with a self-conscious laugh. "My personal assistant's been keeping an eye on it for me. Can you believe it? Two months I've been living paycheck to paycheck, and all this time I've had a secret personal assistant."
Sharon laughs along with him, giving Jon a flurry of hope that his real self might be the kind of guy you can laugh with. Before the visit ends he promises to invite the whole crew to visit wherever he ends up, and put his autograph on anything they bring just as soon as his handwriting returns to normal.
***
His other co-workers, the ones from the TV show, trickle in one by one, bringing video and photos and anecdotes and a flood of tears. Jon does his best to absorb all the details they offer, and tries not to think too hard about the presence he can't help wielding in their heads. After moving back to the apartment, he starts scheduling their visits before his appointments; he needs a good hour with Dr. Richards just to recover from each one.
When Colbert—Stephen, as Jon's past self evidently called him — finally gets in touch, Jon is almost relieved. At least this time he isn't completely out of the loop about their shared history, even if only by a handful of weeks.
"Since you probably don't remember this, I should let you know that I don't apologize for anything," announces Stephen as soon as he strides into the front hall, dodging the latest pile of fan-sent bouquets. "And even if I did, I wouldn't be saying I'm sorry. It's not like I had any way of knowing you weren't pretending to be somebody else because you felt like it, and if you didn't want me to play along, it's your own fault for not saying so."
Jon isn't sure this makes sense, but he's already scrambling to catch up on the rest of it. "Is that who I am?"
Stephen's eyes go wide. "Did you forget again?" he exclaims, waving a hand in Jon's face before grabbing his shoulders. "You're Jon. J-O-N, spelled wrong because you have a deep-seated grudge against the letter H! How do you expect to remember the rest of it if you can't even hold on to that much?"
"I do—let go! I do know that part!" yells Jon. Stephen releases him, reluctantly; he stumbles backward, feeling like a cupboard full of china that someone just tipped on its side. "What I don't know is whether I'm the kind of person who would willingly disappear on the people who care about him!"
"Oh, great, here we go with the self-pity," snaps Stephen, eyebrows whipping into place. "As if you don't have legions of people waltzing in here to tell you how nice you are!"
"Yeah, I do!" Jon forces himself to a halt before he can trip over the stack of unopened get-well-soon chocolate samplers. "And how smart, and how witty, and how generous, and how I'm a snappy dresser and great with animals and have perfect pitch and never leave dirty coffee cups in the sink! They act like I'm some kind of mythical saint, complete with a miraculous return from the dead, and maybe if I knew who I was I would have some sense of which parts are BS and which aren't, but I don't, so I have no idea!"
There's a gnawing twisting in his stomach and a ringing in his ears, and he has to lean against the wall before a wave of dizziness bowls him over.
In a small voice that sounds almost as lost as Jon feels, Stephen says, "Somebody said you had pitch?"
Jon shrugs. It's all blurring together right now.
"Because you couldn't hit a note if the life of an adorable kitten depended on it," continues Stephen, gathering strength. "And you've been wearing the same grey T-shirts since 1989. But animals like you. Well, dogs, at least. I don't know about, say, rhesus monkeys."
"I imagine most people don't know how well they get along with rhesus monkeys," says Jon weakly.
"You're—you were—always nagging the rest of us to clean up after ourselves in the break room. When someone at the office had a personal crisis going on, you always gave them some time off, then checked in later to make sure they were okay." Stephen swallows. "And any time I got angry at you or called you names, you never let it get to you."
Jon tries to laugh. "Guess I'm not really myself right now after all."
"The old Jon liked hugs," hazards Stephen, inching closer. "Always offering them to people in trouble, even when I told him it was kinda gay. Do they make the new Jon feel better?"
"Dunno," admits Jon. "I don't suppose you could help me find out?"
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