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ptahrrific) wrote2010-09-22 02:22 am
ptahrrific) wrote2010-09-22 02:22 am
Entry tags:
Fake News: State of Grace, chapter 3
Title: State of Grace, Chapter 3: Good Boys
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
Clips referenced: Jon's ringtone; Ingmar Bergman tribute. Jon's mother was in the audience on the 26th, briefly shown in the opening; the clip doesn't seem to be on the website, but she does get a shoutout.
Good Boys
July 26, 2007
Thursday
As Jon's new significant-other-aside-from-his-wife, Stephen figured he had the prerogative to enter the man's office unannounced. Not that he had ever felt the need to announce himself before, of course. But now he had a reason that Jon couldn't argue with.
So around lunchtime he burst in without knocking...and nearly ran into the unfamiliar old woman on the chair in front of Jon's desk.
"Careful there!" exclaimed Jon, standing up as Stephen skidded to a halt. "Stephen, uh, this is my mother. She just dropped in for a visit. Mom, this is Stephen Colbert."
"My Jon's told me so much about you," added Jon's Mother.
Jon had one of those quasi-panicked looks on his face, all pursed lips and hangdog eyes. He needn't have worried: it only took a few seconds for Stephen to revert to his natural Southern charm. "It's a pleasure to meet you, madam," he said with a warm smile.
"You'll have to speak up, dear," said Jon's Mother. "I'm going a bit deaf."
"Really?" exclaimed Stephen, raising his voice excitedly. "I'm half deaf! Can't hear a thing out of this ear. And Jon always tells me I shouldn't shout so much. See, Jon? Your mother agrees with me!" He put his hands on his hips and glared his most impressive glare.
"Oh, you don't have to do that," protested Jon's Mother. "He's a good boy, my Jon is. Even when he doesn't call for weeks at a time. I understand. He's very busy."
Stephen dropped to his knees and looked soulfully up at her. "I feel your pain. It's hard, isn't it, when they don't appreciate you? And after all the work you did in carrying him for nine months—I understand. I've been there."
A gentle smile broke across the lined face. "Well, aren't you sweet!"
"Glad to see you two are getting along," remarked Jon dryly from behind his desk, then jumped as one of the piles on the desk began to chirp out Weather Girls chords. "Uh, hang on, let me take this."
He dug out the cell phone and made thoughtful noises into it for a few seconds, then covered the end with his hand. "Is it safe to leave you two alone together?"
"Jon!" exclaimed Stephen, all shock and wounded pride. "I will take excellent care of your mother." Then, without bothering to speak loudly enough that she would hear, he added "Trust me."
Jon nodded. "Be right there," he said into the phone, and flipped it closed. "They need my input down in writing," he explained. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Go ahead, dear," said Jon's Mother. "Your job is very important. Don't worry about me; I've been waiting to spend time with you ever since we planned this visit, so I can wait a little longer."
"I'll be quick, Mom, I promise," said Jon. Stephen watched him go, then turned to Jon's Mother.
"So," he said, "do you have embarrassing baby pictures with you?"
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Marian didn't have embarrassing pictures, but she did have a few stories that always made her boy blush, and she told these to the nice Colbert boy, who sat down on the couch and listened attentively. Once she pulled out Jon's kindergarten school picture, though, he didn't seem to have eyes for anything else.
"Have you ever looked at his ears?" he asked when she had gotten through the tale with the mop and the pumpkin. "I mean, really looked at his ears?"
"Of course I know what my son's ears look like," replied Marian.
"But—in this picture, they're exactly the same as his daughter's ears! Did you ever notice that?"
"My, dear, you must have very good eyes to pick that up right away."
Still absorbed in the photo, Colbert bit his lip, then said something too quietly for her to hear.
"What was that?" she pressed.
"My son," he repeated. "George William. He isn't ever going to look like this. I mean, nobody's ever going to pick up one of my baby pictures and say, 'Oh, look, he has his daddy's ears!' Not that I want anyone else to have my ears. But still. It's not fair."
Marian shook her head. "Oh, sweetheart, ears have nothing to do with it. You care for him? You suffer for him? You love him, no matter what? Then he's yours. Whether he looks like you or not."
Colbert frowned. Something about this was clearly making him think very hard.
At last, tracing circles on the rug with the toes of his shoes like a nervous little boy, he faltered, "Would you love Jon, no matter what?"
"Of course!"
"What if...he did something really, really bad?"
"Don't be silly, dear. My Jon wouldn't do that."
"But if he did," insisted Colbert. "What then?"
"Well, then I would stand by him and support him, of course. What else would a mother do?" The boy looked so conflicted by this that Marian started to worry. "Why do you ask? Is he in trouble?"
"He hasn't done anything wrong!" cried Colbert immediately. "Jon hasn't done anything wrong. I was just curious."
He looked back down at the photo, then up at Marian. "You wouldn't, by any chance," he said nonchalantly, "happen to have an extra copy of this, would you?"
"I have plenty, dear. Would you like to keep this one?"
"Yay!" exclaimed Colbert, then checked his enthusiasm. "I mean...yeah, sure, that would be nice, I guess."
He tried to look nonchalant, but he was working very hard to suppress a smile as he tucked the photo in his jacket, right before Jon reappeared at the door.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
August 2, 2007
Thursday
Of course they couldn't have a visit—at least, not a proper visit—when Jon's Mother was in town, so it wasn't until the next weekend that they planned another one. The only thing that kept Stephen from skipping the closing of his last show altogether was that he really, really liked Ingmar Bergman.
"Bergman's films were gut-wrenching treatises on suffering and longing," he told his audience from beside the fireplace. "I can relate, because I recently suffered through the pain of childbirth, or would have if I hadn't been drugged to the gills at the time, and every day I long for a night of uninterrupted sleep.
"Still, there will be never another like him; and so," he continued, as the world faded to black and white, "we say goodbye."
They had set this up carefully: shifting backgrounds, nature scenes, not a touch of chroma. Against this backdrop Stephen began to recite. His lines were, if he did say so himself, very clever. Very meaningful. Seemingly contradictory, and yet—if you listened between the lines—well, okay, they were still contradictory. But that was the point of prestigious filmmaking. That was depth.
And then a monotone voice interrupted him: "You have never loved."
"Meg?" he exclaimed, because it had sounded like the intern; but when he turned around there was nobody there.
Ignoring it, as he ignored anything that didn't fit with his preferred vision of reality, he pressed forward with his lines until he reached "Time is a thief."
"Yeah, ah, speaking of which," cut in his stage manager, "we really gotta wrap this up."
"Thanks, Bobby," said Stephen, and—after reminding the Cannes Film Festival that he was now due a suitable award—bid his audience good night.
The monotone voice did not linger in his mind as he changed out of his show suit. He was not stewing over it as he met Sam out front with the car. It did not haunt him on the long two-block drive to Jon's studio.
And it certainly wasn't a factor in the way, when he met Jon on the way out of his office, Stephen looked both ways to make sure the hall was empty and then pushed him back in, shut the door behind them, and pulled him into a hungry kiss.
The erudite host of The Daily Show said, with a level of eloquence that only a master wordsmith, accomplished interviewer, clever punster, and acclaimed crossword puzzle enthusiast could achieve: "Stephmmmph."
Then his arms went around Stephen, and for a time they stood like that, locked together in the center of the room.
One of Stephen's hands slid down the front of Jon's shirt, his mouth kissing a trail down Jon's neck, when Jon flinched, cupped his chin, and pulled him back upright. "Whoa, whoa, Stephen, slow down."
"But—!" protested Stephen, even as he fought to snap out of it.
"We're literally going home right now," pointed out Jon with a wry smile. "You can wait."
"I'm not so sure about that, Jon," said Stephen solemnly.
The man actually giggled at that. The gravitas of the situation was clearly lost on him. "I know I'm irresistible, but..."
"Yes," said Stephen, "you are."
Jon stopped, blinking. "I am?"
"You just said so, didn't you?"
"Well, yeah, but I was kidding."
"You mean you didn't know?" asked Stephen, brows furrowing. "But...what about all the things you do?"
"What 'things', Stephen?"
Stephen drummed his fingers in concentration, the tips tapping against Jon's back. "Everything! The way you walk, and the way you talk, and the way you dance in your chair. The way you get all giggly, and then bite your lip to try to stop giggling, and it doesn't work at all. The way you move and sway when you're supposed to be standing still. The way you look into people's eyes when you're really interested in them, and don't look away. And—and that!" he added, as a flush started to rise in Jon's cheeks. "The way you light up at stupid little things! You don't seriously mean you've been doing all that for all these years, and you never hand any idea what effect it had on...on...on certain people?"
Jon shook his head. "I didn't know. I really didn't," he insisted, smiling in that surprised sort of way he had when he belatedly realized that someone had been complimenting him. "You never acted like you were...affected...that way."
Stephen sulked. "Of course not, Jon. I wasn't going to give you the satisfaction of seeing that your devious gay-agenda tactics were working."
Jon started giggling at that, and Stephen's heart ached. I have too loved, he thought. I love you.
At last Jon said, "Well, are they working now?"
"Yes," breathed Stephen. "God, yes."
The giggling faded into a smile, more solemn but still brimming with genuine happiness.
And then he drew Stephen into a kiss, completely different from any of the ten (or was it eleven? or had that last been the eleventh? He'd finally lost count) that they had shared before.
He started slow, pressing feather-light touches to the corners of Stephen's mouth; then the gentle contact grew more intent, and to his own horror Stephen let out a strangled moan. With that Jon's lips parted, the tip of his tongue teasing Stephen's open; and Stephen yielded, falling forward into it, his control slipping away as he allowed Jon's mouth to lead his, until he was sucking helplessly on Jon's lower lip, all of his need and all of his desperation pouring into that act; and he could no more have pulled away from it than he could have sprouted wings and flown.
So he prayed that Jon would break it, and at last he was released, heart hammering against his ribs.
"We can't," insisted Jon, holding Stephen at arm's length with, mercifully, enough self-control for both of them. "Not in the office. Someone will catch us, and we promised Tracey, and we need to get back to the kids."
The thought of George was just what Stephen needed to get his strength back. "You're right," he said, taking a deep breath and willing himself under control. When his son was concerned, he had an iron will. Not that he didn't anyway. "You're right. What are we waiting for, then? Let's go!"
He broke away and strode towards the door, but Jon grabbed his arm. "Hang on," he said, and Stephen felt his resolve quiver; but Jon's hands only went to his tie. "You can't walk out of here with this crooked. People will talk."
"That's true," admitted Stephen, and clenched his fists at his sides while he allowed himself to be arranged.
"How about me? How do I look?" asked Jon when he had finished.
"You look like a slob," replied Stephen truthfully. "Nobody will suspect a thing."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Jon led Stephen out the studio's secret back door. Any other night, and Stephen would have been trying, for the umpteenth time, to figure out why Jon had a secret studio back door; he claimed it was for the purpose of avoiding overeager fans, and Stephen didn't understand why such an otherwise smart man couldn't think of a more plausible lie.
Right now he was so busy playing mental Formidable Opponent that he barely noticed the path they were taking.
How could you lose it like that?
You said it yourself. He's irresistible. Pudge and all.
Don't give me that! We have rules. You could follow them if you made the effort.
Oh, I wasn't the only one who wanted to break them. You were pressed flat up against him—don't pretend you didn't notice. If you'd let me, I could have had him right there on the floor....
"Shotgun?"
Stephen nearly jumped out of his skin. "What?"
"I'd let you drive," said Jon, keys jingling in his hand, "but you look kind of, uh, distracted. Not that I'm not, but if one of us is going to crash the car, it's probably better if it's me."
"Well, of course you're driving," snapped Stephen, drawing himself up and trying to focus. "I never drive myself anywhere."
Hiding a smile behind his fist, Jon pulled open the passenger door and waved him in with a mock bow.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
The rest of the family had gone to bed long before Jon pulled into Stephen's driveway; midnight dinners were not going to be a regular thing. Maggie was sleeping soundly, but Nate woke up when his door was opened and insisted on hearing a story.
Jon was bidding good night to the clocks and the socks when he noticed Stephen in the doorway. "You want to join us?"
Stephen, now wrapped in a flag-patterned robe, shook his head. "You can read in this house, Jon, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. I'll wait."
He didn't sound unhappy, though. A little wistful, maybe, but surprisingly mellow.
Jon nodded and went back to the book. "Goodnight kittens. Goodnight mittens...."
Before he reached the last page, Nate's eyes had slid closed. Jon finished the rest of the story anyway, then set the book on its shelf, tucked the covers up around the boy's shoulders, and switched off the light.
"He's such a good kid," he said fondly, pausing at the door to look back. He thought he saw Stephen nod.
When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Jon saw George's baby monitor cupped in Stephen's hands. He settled down patiently on the bed (their bed, he realized with a start) while Stephen placed it on the bureau and began the laborious process of adjusting it to his satisfaction.
"Right after Nate was born, Tracey and I both developed a ton of superstitious tics," remarked Jon, smiling fondly at the memory. "I had to check the temperature of everything we gave him at least three times, and she had this thing about not using wipes that were more than a week old."
"Well, that's just silly, Jon," snorted Stephen. "Me, if I don't use wipes the day I buy them, I throw them out and get new ones."
Though he was slightly horrified at the waste, Jon couldn't help but giggle. "I was about to say—we got less neurotic by the time Maggie came around. How much more did you worry with your older kids?"
Silence, except for the soft click as Stephen rested his glasses next to the monitor.
Then he fairly bounced onto the bed, robe falling open. "Here's an idea," he said briskly, undoing Jon's fly one-handed. "Let's not talk about kids for a while."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Jon spent a few minutes just lying in a blissful daze before he recovered the ability to put two words together.
Well-exercised though he had been, sleep didn't seem to be in a hurry to settle over him. Stephen had no such problem: he had dropped off within minutes, head tucked against Jon's side, one arm draped over his stomach. But that only made sense. He had done most of the work, after all.
"Could've at least given me a chance to pay you back," murmured Jon dryly. For one thing, it was only fair. But more than that, given the way Stephen had melted in his arms with a single kiss, Jon couldn't wait to feel his reaction to a blowjob.
Stephen stirred in his sleep and groaned faintly. It wasn't a happy groan.
Wondering what he could be dreaming about, Jon stroked his hair, and waited until Stephen was at peace again before allowing his own eyes to close.
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
Clips referenced: Jon's ringtone; Ingmar Bergman tribute. Jon's mother was in the audience on the 26th, briefly shown in the opening; the clip doesn't seem to be on the website, but she does get a shoutout.
Good Boys
July 26, 2007
Thursday
As Jon's new significant-other-aside-from-his-wife, Stephen figured he had the prerogative to enter the man's office unannounced. Not that he had ever felt the need to announce himself before, of course. But now he had a reason that Jon couldn't argue with.
So around lunchtime he burst in without knocking...and nearly ran into the unfamiliar old woman on the chair in front of Jon's desk.
"Careful there!" exclaimed Jon, standing up as Stephen skidded to a halt. "Stephen, uh, this is my mother. She just dropped in for a visit. Mom, this is Stephen Colbert."
"My Jon's told me so much about you," added Jon's Mother.
Jon had one of those quasi-panicked looks on his face, all pursed lips and hangdog eyes. He needn't have worried: it only took a few seconds for Stephen to revert to his natural Southern charm. "It's a pleasure to meet you, madam," he said with a warm smile.
"You'll have to speak up, dear," said Jon's Mother. "I'm going a bit deaf."
"Really?" exclaimed Stephen, raising his voice excitedly. "I'm half deaf! Can't hear a thing out of this ear. And Jon always tells me I shouldn't shout so much. See, Jon? Your mother agrees with me!" He put his hands on his hips and glared his most impressive glare.
"Oh, you don't have to do that," protested Jon's Mother. "He's a good boy, my Jon is. Even when he doesn't call for weeks at a time. I understand. He's very busy."
Stephen dropped to his knees and looked soulfully up at her. "I feel your pain. It's hard, isn't it, when they don't appreciate you? And after all the work you did in carrying him for nine months—I understand. I've been there."
A gentle smile broke across the lined face. "Well, aren't you sweet!"
"Glad to see you two are getting along," remarked Jon dryly from behind his desk, then jumped as one of the piles on the desk began to chirp out Weather Girls chords. "Uh, hang on, let me take this."
He dug out the cell phone and made thoughtful noises into it for a few seconds, then covered the end with his hand. "Is it safe to leave you two alone together?"
"Jon!" exclaimed Stephen, all shock and wounded pride. "I will take excellent care of your mother." Then, without bothering to speak loudly enough that she would hear, he added "Trust me."
Jon nodded. "Be right there," he said into the phone, and flipped it closed. "They need my input down in writing," he explained. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Go ahead, dear," said Jon's Mother. "Your job is very important. Don't worry about me; I've been waiting to spend time with you ever since we planned this visit, so I can wait a little longer."
"I'll be quick, Mom, I promise," said Jon. Stephen watched him go, then turned to Jon's Mother.
"So," he said, "do you have embarrassing baby pictures with you?"
Marian didn't have embarrassing pictures, but she did have a few stories that always made her boy blush, and she told these to the nice Colbert boy, who sat down on the couch and listened attentively. Once she pulled out Jon's kindergarten school picture, though, he didn't seem to have eyes for anything else.
"Have you ever looked at his ears?" he asked when she had gotten through the tale with the mop and the pumpkin. "I mean, really looked at his ears?"
"Of course I know what my son's ears look like," replied Marian.
"But—in this picture, they're exactly the same as his daughter's ears! Did you ever notice that?"
"My, dear, you must have very good eyes to pick that up right away."
Still absorbed in the photo, Colbert bit his lip, then said something too quietly for her to hear.
"What was that?" she pressed.
"My son," he repeated. "George William. He isn't ever going to look like this. I mean, nobody's ever going to pick up one of my baby pictures and say, 'Oh, look, he has his daddy's ears!' Not that I want anyone else to have my ears. But still. It's not fair."
Marian shook her head. "Oh, sweetheart, ears have nothing to do with it. You care for him? You suffer for him? You love him, no matter what? Then he's yours. Whether he looks like you or not."
Colbert frowned. Something about this was clearly making him think very hard.
At last, tracing circles on the rug with the toes of his shoes like a nervous little boy, he faltered, "Would you love Jon, no matter what?"
"Of course!"
"What if...he did something really, really bad?"
"Don't be silly, dear. My Jon wouldn't do that."
"But if he did," insisted Colbert. "What then?"
"Well, then I would stand by him and support him, of course. What else would a mother do?" The boy looked so conflicted by this that Marian started to worry. "Why do you ask? Is he in trouble?"
"He hasn't done anything wrong!" cried Colbert immediately. "Jon hasn't done anything wrong. I was just curious."
He looked back down at the photo, then up at Marian. "You wouldn't, by any chance," he said nonchalantly, "happen to have an extra copy of this, would you?"
"I have plenty, dear. Would you like to keep this one?"
"Yay!" exclaimed Colbert, then checked his enthusiasm. "I mean...yeah, sure, that would be nice, I guess."
He tried to look nonchalant, but he was working very hard to suppress a smile as he tucked the photo in his jacket, right before Jon reappeared at the door.
August 2, 2007
Thursday
Of course they couldn't have a visit—at least, not a proper visit—when Jon's Mother was in town, so it wasn't until the next weekend that they planned another one. The only thing that kept Stephen from skipping the closing of his last show altogether was that he really, really liked Ingmar Bergman.
"Bergman's films were gut-wrenching treatises on suffering and longing," he told his audience from beside the fireplace. "I can relate, because I recently suffered through the pain of childbirth, or would have if I hadn't been drugged to the gills at the time, and every day I long for a night of uninterrupted sleep.
"Still, there will be never another like him; and so," he continued, as the world faded to black and white, "we say goodbye."
They had set this up carefully: shifting backgrounds, nature scenes, not a touch of chroma. Against this backdrop Stephen began to recite. His lines were, if he did say so himself, very clever. Very meaningful. Seemingly contradictory, and yet—if you listened between the lines—well, okay, they were still contradictory. But that was the point of prestigious filmmaking. That was depth.
And then a monotone voice interrupted him: "You have never loved."
"Meg?" he exclaimed, because it had sounded like the intern; but when he turned around there was nobody there.
Ignoring it, as he ignored anything that didn't fit with his preferred vision of reality, he pressed forward with his lines until he reached "Time is a thief."
"Yeah, ah, speaking of which," cut in his stage manager, "we really gotta wrap this up."
"Thanks, Bobby," said Stephen, and—after reminding the Cannes Film Festival that he was now due a suitable award—bid his audience good night.
The monotone voice did not linger in his mind as he changed out of his show suit. He was not stewing over it as he met Sam out front with the car. It did not haunt him on the long two-block drive to Jon's studio.
And it certainly wasn't a factor in the way, when he met Jon on the way out of his office, Stephen looked both ways to make sure the hall was empty and then pushed him back in, shut the door behind them, and pulled him into a hungry kiss.
The erudite host of The Daily Show said, with a level of eloquence that only a master wordsmith, accomplished interviewer, clever punster, and acclaimed crossword puzzle enthusiast could achieve: "Stephmmmph."
Then his arms went around Stephen, and for a time they stood like that, locked together in the center of the room.
One of Stephen's hands slid down the front of Jon's shirt, his mouth kissing a trail down Jon's neck, when Jon flinched, cupped his chin, and pulled him back upright. "Whoa, whoa, Stephen, slow down."
"But—!" protested Stephen, even as he fought to snap out of it.
"We're literally going home right now," pointed out Jon with a wry smile. "You can wait."
"I'm not so sure about that, Jon," said Stephen solemnly.
The man actually giggled at that. The gravitas of the situation was clearly lost on him. "I know I'm irresistible, but..."
"Yes," said Stephen, "you are."
Jon stopped, blinking. "I am?"
"You just said so, didn't you?"
"Well, yeah, but I was kidding."
"You mean you didn't know?" asked Stephen, brows furrowing. "But...what about all the things you do?"
"What 'things', Stephen?"
Stephen drummed his fingers in concentration, the tips tapping against Jon's back. "Everything! The way you walk, and the way you talk, and the way you dance in your chair. The way you get all giggly, and then bite your lip to try to stop giggling, and it doesn't work at all. The way you move and sway when you're supposed to be standing still. The way you look into people's eyes when you're really interested in them, and don't look away. And—and that!" he added, as a flush started to rise in Jon's cheeks. "The way you light up at stupid little things! You don't seriously mean you've been doing all that for all these years, and you never hand any idea what effect it had on...on...on certain people?"
Jon shook his head. "I didn't know. I really didn't," he insisted, smiling in that surprised sort of way he had when he belatedly realized that someone had been complimenting him. "You never acted like you were...affected...that way."
Stephen sulked. "Of course not, Jon. I wasn't going to give you the satisfaction of seeing that your devious gay-agenda tactics were working."
Jon started giggling at that, and Stephen's heart ached. I have too loved, he thought. I love you.
At last Jon said, "Well, are they working now?"
"Yes," breathed Stephen. "God, yes."
The giggling faded into a smile, more solemn but still brimming with genuine happiness.
And then he drew Stephen into a kiss, completely different from any of the ten (or was it eleven? or had that last been the eleventh? He'd finally lost count) that they had shared before.
He started slow, pressing feather-light touches to the corners of Stephen's mouth; then the gentle contact grew more intent, and to his own horror Stephen let out a strangled moan. With that Jon's lips parted, the tip of his tongue teasing Stephen's open; and Stephen yielded, falling forward into it, his control slipping away as he allowed Jon's mouth to lead his, until he was sucking helplessly on Jon's lower lip, all of his need and all of his desperation pouring into that act; and he could no more have pulled away from it than he could have sprouted wings and flown.
So he prayed that Jon would break it, and at last he was released, heart hammering against his ribs.
"We can't," insisted Jon, holding Stephen at arm's length with, mercifully, enough self-control for both of them. "Not in the office. Someone will catch us, and we promised Tracey, and we need to get back to the kids."
The thought of George was just what Stephen needed to get his strength back. "You're right," he said, taking a deep breath and willing himself under control. When his son was concerned, he had an iron will. Not that he didn't anyway. "You're right. What are we waiting for, then? Let's go!"
He broke away and strode towards the door, but Jon grabbed his arm. "Hang on," he said, and Stephen felt his resolve quiver; but Jon's hands only went to his tie. "You can't walk out of here with this crooked. People will talk."
"That's true," admitted Stephen, and clenched his fists at his sides while he allowed himself to be arranged.
"How about me? How do I look?" asked Jon when he had finished.
"You look like a slob," replied Stephen truthfully. "Nobody will suspect a thing."
Jon led Stephen out the studio's secret back door. Any other night, and Stephen would have been trying, for the umpteenth time, to figure out why Jon had a secret studio back door; he claimed it was for the purpose of avoiding overeager fans, and Stephen didn't understand why such an otherwise smart man couldn't think of a more plausible lie.
Right now he was so busy playing mental Formidable Opponent that he barely noticed the path they were taking.
How could you lose it like that?
You said it yourself. He's irresistible. Pudge and all.
Don't give me that! We have rules. You could follow them if you made the effort.
Oh, I wasn't the only one who wanted to break them. You were pressed flat up against him—don't pretend you didn't notice. If you'd let me, I could have had him right there on the floor....
"Shotgun?"
Stephen nearly jumped out of his skin. "What?"
"I'd let you drive," said Jon, keys jingling in his hand, "but you look kind of, uh, distracted. Not that I'm not, but if one of us is going to crash the car, it's probably better if it's me."
"Well, of course you're driving," snapped Stephen, drawing himself up and trying to focus. "I never drive myself anywhere."
Hiding a smile behind his fist, Jon pulled open the passenger door and waved him in with a mock bow.
The rest of the family had gone to bed long before Jon pulled into Stephen's driveway; midnight dinners were not going to be a regular thing. Maggie was sleeping soundly, but Nate woke up when his door was opened and insisted on hearing a story.
Jon was bidding good night to the clocks and the socks when he noticed Stephen in the doorway. "You want to join us?"
Stephen, now wrapped in a flag-patterned robe, shook his head. "You can read in this house, Jon, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. I'll wait."
He didn't sound unhappy, though. A little wistful, maybe, but surprisingly mellow.
Jon nodded and went back to the book. "Goodnight kittens. Goodnight mittens...."
Before he reached the last page, Nate's eyes had slid closed. Jon finished the rest of the story anyway, then set the book on its shelf, tucked the covers up around the boy's shoulders, and switched off the light.
"He's such a good kid," he said fondly, pausing at the door to look back. He thought he saw Stephen nod.
When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Jon saw George's baby monitor cupped in Stephen's hands. He settled down patiently on the bed (their bed, he realized with a start) while Stephen placed it on the bureau and began the laborious process of adjusting it to his satisfaction.
"Right after Nate was born, Tracey and I both developed a ton of superstitious tics," remarked Jon, smiling fondly at the memory. "I had to check the temperature of everything we gave him at least three times, and she had this thing about not using wipes that were more than a week old."
"Well, that's just silly, Jon," snorted Stephen. "Me, if I don't use wipes the day I buy them, I throw them out and get new ones."
Though he was slightly horrified at the waste, Jon couldn't help but giggle. "I was about to say—we got less neurotic by the time Maggie came around. How much more did you worry with your older kids?"
Silence, except for the soft click as Stephen rested his glasses next to the monitor.
Then he fairly bounced onto the bed, robe falling open. "Here's an idea," he said briskly, undoing Jon's fly one-handed. "Let's not talk about kids for a while."
Jon spent a few minutes just lying in a blissful daze before he recovered the ability to put two words together.
Well-exercised though he had been, sleep didn't seem to be in a hurry to settle over him. Stephen had no such problem: he had dropped off within minutes, head tucked against Jon's side, one arm draped over his stomach. But that only made sense. He had done most of the work, after all.
"Could've at least given me a chance to pay you back," murmured Jon dryly. For one thing, it was only fair. But more than that, given the way Stephen had melted in his arms with a single kiss, Jon couldn't wait to feel his reaction to a blowjob.
Stephen stirred in his sleep and groaned faintly. It wasn't a happy groan.
Wondering what he could be dreaming about, Jon stroked his hair, and waited until Stephen was at peace again before allowing his own eyes to close.
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