Fake News: Clover and Shadows, part 3

[ptahrrific]

Title: Clover and Shadows (3/5)
Rating: R
Warnings: Trans issues, angst, character death
Characters/pairings: MtF!"Stephen", FtM!Charlene, Jon, families
Marvelous betas: stellar_dust and balljointed
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

In which there is a lot of singing, and a lot of stress, and, for Jon, a surprise discovery.

Stephen's giant gold balloon is from the beginning of this segment.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Transverse


Clover and Shadows - Part 3


Jon had always found most Christmas carols incredibly schmaltzy, but something in his heart leapt when it was Stephen singing them. Or rather, a hefty cross-section of the Report staff, crowded outside the Daily Show studio, with Stephen at the front of the pack.

"So, ah, I don't know if this is your last stop," he called from the third-floor window, after the applause had died down, "but if you've got some time, we have some leftover cookies and eggnog lying around...."

"It's our last stop!" declared Stephen immediately. (One of the writers tried to protest; the others shushed her immediately. She was probably new.)

"I love your voice," remarked Jon, as he helped Stephen out of the bulky fire-engine-red coat. "...Voices. The whole group, I mean."

"No, no, it's okay," Stephen assured him, cheeks flushed from the sudden temperature change. "I know my voice makes even the straightest of men go weak at the knees. You don't have to hide it, Jon."

"All right, sir," laughed Jon, not bothering to hide his smile. "What would you like? Eggnog, hot choco—whoa! Uh, you know your hands are like ice, right?"

"Forgot my gloves," said Stephen with a forced shrug. "It's nothing. I'm handling it."

"Don't be ridiculous," ordered Jon, cupping Stephen's chilled appendages in his own and pulling his friend out of the common room. "I've got one of those nifty little heating pads you stick in the microwave. It'll take thirty seconds. Come on."

A minute later Stephen was sitting on Jon's office couch, hands wrapped in a sock-shaped beanbag that radiated a steady, even warmth, with Jon's hands in turn holding it in place. Stephen's eyes were closed, lips parted slightly to form a soft O, and Jon was trying not to think about how kissable that mouth was, or the way Stephen's breath was ghosting over his knuckles.

"'S nice," murmured Stephen at last.

Jon jumped. "Is it? Good! That's good."

"I don't always hate it, you know," Stephen added.

"Hm?"

"When you...take care of me."

All of a sudden the moment felt impossibly fragile, like one of the snowflakes the forecast was calling for around midnight.

What was Jon supposed to say that wouldn't have Stephen bolting again? You know I'm not exactly the straightest of men, right? If you've been thinking about planting another impromptu kiss on me, this would be a great time. Hey, what say we stop pussyfooting around, lock that door, and get it on right here on the couch....

And then Stephen sat bolt upright, and flashed Jon a broad grin, shrugging off his grip in the process. "Well, we'd better get back out there. Those cookies aren't going to eat themselves!"

"I really do like your voice," mumbled Jon; but Stephen was already halfway to the door, leaving Jon to tag along behind and wonder what piece of the puzzle he was missing.




"Every time I see you, I think of you!" croons Stephen, leaning against the railing of the boat and striking a pose. "Every time I'm near you, I think of you!"

"Is your hair on all right?" calls Charlene from the lower deck. He didn't spend all that time haggling up his employee discount — they have this thing for the whole day, to celebrate the band finally getting signed — just to have the wind steal Stephen's pricey new wig while they're out on the water.

Stephen blows him a kiss. "It's all under control, Char!"

"Your cousin's got a good voice," remarks Angel (drums, backup vocals), clapping Charlene on the back. "We should get her into the studio sometime."

On the upper deck, Stephen pulls out the camera Tommy (guitar, though he can handle a piano if you've got one) lent her and points it at the cityscape, at the horizon, then down at Charlene. "I think of you and I dream of you when I'm...taking pictures of you!" she improvises.

"Good voice," agrees Charlene with a grimace. "Terrible at lyrics, though."

"Aw, honey, I'm sure we can write her something better," soothes Angel.

"I think of you when I'm on a boat looking down from up above you!" warbles Stephen, then slings the camera down towards them. "Now get one of me!"




"What? No, she can't have the balloon! Okay, nobody move. I'm coming down. Stay!"

Stephen jabbed the iPhone to switch it off, slammed it down on the desk, then turned to Jon. "Gotta go avert a crisis. Stay here. I'll be back in two shakes."

Left alone in the office, Jon's eyes wandered across the various decorations. The portraits that hung along the walls were as visually rich as they were ridiculous; half of the trophies on top of the bookshelf were of Stephen's own invention, which meant they had extra wings and spears and vaguely ball-shaped attachments sticking out in unusual directions; and the shelf, while it contained few actual books, was stuffed with oddities like a lightsaber, a Statue of Liberty coin bank, and....

Was that a carton of Americone Dream? That couldn't be good. Didn't want the building to go through another ant invasion.

When he picked up the carton, though, Jon relaxed. Not only was it empty, the whole thing was coated with some kind of glaze. Just another improvised memorial to Stephen's greatness. You had to give it points for creativity, at least.

Jon put the makeshift trophy back in place, then did another double-take. In amongst the hardback copy of I Am America, the paperback copy of I Am America, and the audiobook copy of I Am America, an almost-hidden slim black spine had caught his eye.

"Well, hello there," he murmured, easing out a record labeled "Songs for Charlene".




Stephen throws down the headphones and stalks from the studio, on the verge of tears.

The producer mutters something containing the words "prima donna" and a slur that would have earned a sock from Charlene if he hadn't been busy following his cousin. He doesn't really get worried, though, until Stephen ducks into a clearly-marked men's room.

"I can't do this, Char!" she sobs onto his shoulder, long nails digging into his back so ferociously that he can feel them through the binding. "The sound — it's all wrong—"

"You sound exactly like you always do," insists Charlene. "Why is it a problem now?"

"I couldn't hear it before!" cries Stephen. "And now it's on a tape, where everyone can hear — hear that I don't sound right, I'm never going to sound right, I'm never going to be right, why am I even trying—"

"Don't talk like that!" hisses Charlene. He's never been able to imagine going back — the idea makes his palms sweat and his vision blur — but Stephen has always been better at that kind of pretending. "You're not a quitter, sweetness. Say it! Are you a quitter?"

"N-no," sniffles Stephen.

Charlene grabs a paper towel and thrusts it into her hands. "Good. And are you going to let me be alone?"

Stephen blows her nose on the coarse paper and dabs at her running mascara with a spare corner. "Never," she says glumly. "But — my voice — what'm I supposed to do?"

"Pretend it's mine," offers Charlene. Goodness knows he's done that enough.

"I'll try," whispers Stephen. "If — if you'll do one for me. In the girl voice."

Charlene swallows. "O-of course."

(All that, and they have to end the session early anyway; Tommy thought he could work through his fever, but it won't stop climbing.)




The back cover of the record featured a portrait of a young Stephen: overly-fluffed hair framing an impossibly smooth face, slim fingers holding a long-stemmed red rose, eyes gazing over the petals to stare down the viewer with startling intensity. If I could only have you, that stare promised, I would lock you in a tower and kill anyone who tried to touch you.

Jon shook off the uncomfortable feeling that he was intruding on something private. That face had been sold in stores, after all. Hoping for liner notes, he flipped the case over and slid the disc out.

Two scraps of paper fluttered to the floor.

When he bent to pick them up, Jon gasped. The first was a pair of side-by-side black-and-white photos, evidently clipped from a yearbook: a boy with neatly-combed hair and a familiar sweet smile, and a girl with eyes that took Jon's breath away.

Even without the names printed under the photos, the girl would have been recognizable as a product of the Brillo-pad Colbert family tree. Her smile was small but determined, her gaze the mirror image of the one on the cover, equal parts challenge and plea: You want me? Are you sure you can handle it?

No wonder Stephen had loved her. Jon's heart was pounding just looking at her ghost.

He tucked the clipping quickly back into the case and turned over the other, then almost laughed at the massive eighties hair, silhouetted against a shining backdrop of water and sky. There was none of the intensity of the other portraits here, just a young woman with an oversized sweatshirt and even more oversized jewelry, glowing at the camera like the star of a wholesome period sitcom.

The pile of frizzy light-brown hair, not to mention the wide grin and laughing eyes, were so different from the enigmatic beauty in the yearbook that Jon had to pull out the first set of photos again.

Even when he took into account the bleach and hairspray, though, he couldn't quite make the faces line up. The chin was too strong, maybe. Or the eyebrows, they didn't have that arch....

"Back!" exclaimed a chipper voice, and Jon whirled guiltily around to see Stephen bumping an awkward path into the room, arms wrapped halfway around an oversized gold balloon. "Can you believe one of the writers wanted to take this home to her kid? As if an eight-year-old could truly appreciate—"

Jon's expression must have said it all, because Stephen broke off mid-sentence, eyes flickering to the case in his hands.

"Jon." The balloon slipped from Stephen's palms to land, whisper-soft, on the floor. "Jon, what have you got there?"

The faces did line up. You just had to look at the right ones.

The short-haired face in the yearbook was framed with perfectly even ears; it wore a sweet smile matched by the girl on the boat with the Adam's apple. The other black-and-white portrait had ears covered by thick dark locks, but the same eyes as the androgynous rocker with the smooth face and too-slender fingers: the eyes that could always make Jon's heart skip a beat.

He looked up to meet those same eyes, this time in living color.

"You were Charlene."