Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2010-09-24 04:31 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2010-09-24 04:31 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: State of Grace, chapter 4
Title: State of Grace, Chapter 4: Dog Days
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
Clips referenced: Jon's opening pitch; Stephen's shirt.
Dog Days
August 3, 2007
Friday
Stephen had dragged himself from his bed twice during the night to feed George, so when he began to wake up of his own volition he was in no rush. Besides, the bed was warm, the sheets were soft, and he could feel the comforting weight of Jon beside him. He couldn't think of any good reason to leave.
As he let out a contented sigh, there was a stirring on the other half of the mattress, and then Jon...licked his cheek?
He opened his eyes.
The friendly face of a bull terrier was looking down at him.
Stephen yelped in surprise and started so violently that he nearly fell off the bed. A second bull terrier, curled up on the spot where Jon's legs had been, raised its head and regarded him curiously.
"Um," he said. "Down! Off! Get! Go on, Shamksy! Shoo, Monkey!"
He wasn't sure which dog was which, but it didn't seem to matter, as they both responded with equal nonchalance to every name, command, and hand gesture he could think of, up to and including his threat to put them On Notice.
Grumbling about disrespect from lesser beings in general and dogs in particular, he climbed out of bed and headed downstairs. Once he was in the hall, both Monkey and Shamsky jumped to the floor and came trotting after him.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Tracey was frying bacon in the kitchen when Stephen came in. "Where's Jon?"
"He and Charlene went on an emergency kibble run. We realized we didn't have breakfast for..." She spared a glance over her shoulder. "I see you found the dogs."
"They were on my bed," announced Stephen indignantly.
"Does that bother you? We could try to train them not to, but they're pretty used to being allowed on the bed, and at this point I think they're pretty much set in their ways."
"Why would you allow dogs on your bed in the first place? Unless...." He shuddered. "Okay, I don't want to know. Don't ask, don't tell."
Oh, brother. Tracey had been warned about Stephen—multiple times—but still. "Uh, Stephen? I know the religious right claims people who support same-sex marriage want to be able to marry their dogs, but they're talking through their hats."
"Oh, sure, go after my faith," huffed Stephen, bending to scratch Monkey behind the ears. "You're just jealous because you don't have a guiding moral compass that dictates everything you do."
Tracey flipped the bacon onto a plate and laid a paper towel over it to soak up the grease before turning to face him. "Didn't Jon ever tell you? I'm Catholic."
"Well, obviously—hey!" Looking for attention, Shamsky had headbutted him; Stephen doubled up on the scratching, then tried again. "Obviously not much of a Catholic, seeing as how you're cooking bacon on Friday."
"Mmhmm." In spite of everything, Tracey didn't seem to be getting upset. You just couldn't take him seriously enough for that. Or maybe it was the dogs. She had a weakness for people who got along with dogs. "I don't know if you've noticed, but you're in a gay adulterous relationship as part of a queer polyamorous ménage à quatre. How does a 'proper Catholic' pull that off?"
She was expecting more over-the-top belligerence, or some absurdly convoluted theology, or...well, pretty much anything except what she got. Stephen pulled the dogs closer until they flanked him like bodyguards, rested his chin on Shamsky's head, and muttered, almost wisfully, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
The dogs had about as much clue what was going on as Tracey did. Unlike her, though, they seemed to know how to respond: lean in close, thump their tails against the floor, and overwhelm Stephen with the healing fragrance of dog breath.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
When Jon came through the door with two jumbo bags of kibble, he was expecting two enthusiastic doggy greetings and at least one friendly human one. He was a little miffed when nobody seemed to notice his arrival.
"Smells like the bacon's ready," said Charlene brightly, and Jon followed her into the kitchen.
There was bacon, all right, but there wouldn't be much longer. What was left of it was sitting on a plate in Stephen's lap, and rapidly disappearing into the dogs' eager mouths.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" exclaimed Jon, setting the dog food down on the counter. "Shamsky! Monkey! Heel!"
They paid him absolutely no attention. Why would they? There was bacon.
"Stephen, cut it out!" continued Jon.
This command was at least noticed, if not followed: Stephen just looked up, puzzled. "But they love it...."
"Of course they do. But it's not healthy for them. They don't know when to stop. You've got to stop for them."
"But Jon, they give me these looks...."
Jon could imagine. Probably the same look Stephen was giving him now: wide-eyed, plaintive, innocent. "Yeah, I hear you. But you've got to be strong. Pretend they're employees asking for raises."
Stephen considered this, then held the plate up over his head. When Monkey and Shamsky sat back on their haunches and looked pitifully at him, he fixed them with his sternest eyebrows. "Uh-uh. You've had more than enough. Don't get greedy."
"We'll just have to take them on an extra-long walk today," sighed Jon, taking the plate and looking dolefully at its contents.
Tracey chose that moment to appear beside Charlene, a contentedly thumb-sucking Maggie on her hip. "Welcome back, honey. How was—hey, you didn't start eating already, did you?"
Jon shook his head. "On the plus side, the dogs are going to love Stephen forever."
Tracey didn't raise her voice, but her mouth was suddenly pressed into a spiderweb-thin line. "I told you not to let them—"
"They were hungry!" protested Stephen.
"We can always cook more," pointed out Jon, trying to be placating. "There's more bacon in the house, right?"
"Nope. That was all of it."
Stephen jumped. "You mean we won't be able to make BLTs for lunch?"
"Should've thought of that earlier," said Tracey stiffly.
"Come on, Trace," soothed Jon. "You know how the dogs get, and he's not used to them...."
"Enough!" exclaimed Charlene, striding between them and grabbing the plate as she passed. "Jon, Tracey, out of the kitchen. Take the dogs. Stephen, stay here. I'm making crêpes, and you're helping."
"Are those French?" asked Stephen suspiciously.
"They'll be bacon crêpes. If that's not American enough for you, consider it your penance for giving away our original breakfast. Now get out the milk and eggs." She waved at Tracey and Jon. "What are you three still doing here? Go!"
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
They ended up sitting on the steps of the back porch in awkward silence, throwing tennis balls for the dogs to retrieve. Maggie sat in the dirt at their feet, happily ripping up clods of grass.
"I'm sorry," said Jon presently.
"For...?" prompted Tracey.
Jon laughed dryly. "Okay, you got me. I'm not entirely sure. But you're frustrated, so I figured apologizing was a safe bet."
That earned him a smile. A good sign.
"You realize, of course," she said lightly, "that your boyfriend is completely insane."
Shamsky trotted up with one of the balls; Jon hurled it as far as he could off to the left. "No comment."
"What, really? You seemed perfectly ready to defend him in there."
"Hey now," protested Jon. "I told him off before you came in. If you had kept it up, it would've just made him angry and defensive."
Monkey appeared with a ball in front of Tracey, but didn't let it drop from his jaws. She took ahold of it and wriggled it gently for a moment; when he still didn't let go, she sat back and waited. It wasn't long before the dog got bored and dropped the ball, at which point she took it and lobbed it to the right.
"That one went farther than mine," remarked Jon. "Should've let you be the one to pitch for the Mets."
"Stephen's always defensive, no matter what you do," she pointed out, ignoring the change of subject. "He doesn't need your help to stand up for himself."
"That's just it, though," said Jon, as Shamsky bounded up again. "He does. Listen, when you stand up for something, it's because you're sure of it, right?" He took the tennis ball, hurled it, and wiped the dog slobber off on his pants. "He stands up for things because he's not sure about them. He gets defensive to cover his insecurities. The more insecure he is, the louder he gets."
"By that logic, he'd be insecure pretty much all the time," observed Tracey.
"Exactly."
He let that sink in for a beat, then added, "Don't be too hard on him, okay? He doesn't cope well with being yelled at. He doesn't know how to handle it gracefully. You do. You're self-sufficient. You don't need me backing you up."
Monkey reappeared. "Maybe not," said Tracey, taking the ball, "but sometimes," and she chucked it fiercely into the distance, "I'd like to have it anyway."
Jon put a hand (the one without traces of dog drool) on her shoulder. "I'll work on it. I promise."
She sighed heavily and looked up at him. "Thanks."
"Love you, babe."
"Love you too," she echoed, and let him draw her into a kiss.
When they broke apart, Shamsky was sitting impatiently in front of them, with a look that clearly said, "Will you stop slobbering all over each other already? These balls are in urgent need of throwing." Monkey, meanwhile, had given up on them altogether and was looking hopefully at Maggie, who used both hands to pick up the ball he had dropped in front of her and valiantly lob it as far as she could manage (which turned out to be about three feet).
Jon and Tracey both laughed, took their respective tennis balls, and threw them in unison. They fell silent again as the dogs raced off together, but this time it was a comfortable silence.
"So," remarked Jon presently, "how's Charlene rate on the 'completely insane' scale?"
His wife winked. "Now, honey. A lady never kisses and tells."
A second later, Jon was pink to the collar and trying to dismiss several dozen different mental images at once. "Oh. Uh. That wasn't exactly what—"
"Maggie, don't eat that!" yelped Tracey.
Jon snatched his daughter up from the grass, and the next few minutes were spent enticing their daughter to spit out as much of the clod of earth as possible.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
They ended up gathered around the dining room table: the adults devouring crêpes, George dozing on Stephen's arm after a bottle, Maggie in a high chair determinedly refusing to eat her creamed spinach.
Tracey, the only one of them who worked on Fridays, had gone, so this task fell to Jon. "Come on, honey, just try some, you're going to love it. Creamed spinach. Mmm-mm, delicious creamed spinach..."
Maggie shook her head, mouth firmly closed.
"Okay, who am I kidding? Nobody likes creamed spinach. But, come on, kid, we already know you'll eat dirt. This tastes about as good, and is much more nutritious, I promise."
A series of thumps indicated that Nate was using his new favorite method of descending a staircase: jumping with both feet down every step. A moment later he came unsteadily in the door; he had apparently decided to hop the whole way, and was wobbling on his left foot.
"Hey, slugger!" said Jon. "Ready for breakfast? Delicious creamed spinach!"
"Dad-dy!" the boy protested, laughing. This was too much for his already strained balance, and as he hopped forward he swayed, arms flailing, before falling flat with a thud.
Stephen gasped in horror, clutched George closer, and half rose. Jon put a hand firmly on his shoulder.
He turned to Jon, eyes wide with shock. "Jon—you're not going to just let—"
"Hold on," said Jon sternly.
They held frozen like that for a moment. Nate wriggled, then clambered to his feet, still grinning. "Daddy," he repeated, "want food! Not baby food!"
Jon grinned in return. "If you ask Aunt Charlene nicely, she might make something extra-special just for you."
Nate brightened. "Please, Aunt Cholly?"
"No problem, kiddo," said Charlene, and she grinned too. It was infectious. "Come on into the kitchen and let's see what we can find."
Once they were out of the room Jon turned to Stephen, relaxing his grip. "You all right?"
"How did you know," said Stephen shakily, "that he was okay?"
"I didn't. If it turned out something was wrong, I would have gone straight to him. But you can't run to them every time they trip." He looked curiously at Stephen. "I'm surprised to get this from you, frankly. Don't you always complain that we shouldn't coddle kids so much?"
"Well, yeah," replied Stephen, "but that doesn't apply to mine." He looked down at George, still contentedly asleep. "At least, not to this one. I tried not to coddle my kids, Jon, and it didn't work."
"You do need to give them attention. You just can't smother them. Find a middle ground."
"Middle grounds," declared Stephen, "are for weak people who can't make decisions."
"Do you think I'm weak?" asked Jon gently.
"Well, you are losing a battle of wills with a one-and-a-half-year-old."
"Hey, you think this is easy? Here, let's trade. I'll hold George, and you see how well you do with the spinach."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Stephen had no more success than Jon had. When Charlene offered to take a shot at it, both men eagerly relinquished the job; and when, five minutes later, Maggie was awkwardly maneuvering the spoon with her own hands and actually getting half of the spinach into her mouth, Jon threw up his hands, declared his quest to be a parent a lost cause, and urged Stephen to go get dressed so that they could take Monkey and Shamsky for a W-A-L-K.
It wasn't quite the dog days of summer yet, but by late morning it was already more than pleasantly warm, so the two men set off in T-shirts and shorts. Jon wasn't sure he had ever seen Stephen in a T-shirt before, aside from the odd tuxedo-printed tee. This one was powder blue and had WELCOME JESUS printed on the front in large block letters. ("I just want to be prepared," he had explained of the design.)
The area was suburban, but with plenty of yard space between the huge houses, which meant long roads and lots of plants and almost no people around. The dogs loved it.
Stephen and Jon, each holding a leash, walked along in companionable silence—or so Jon thought, until Stephen tripped on the sidewalk and nearly fell over.
Jon stopped. "You all right?"
"Fine. Fine." Stephen came to a stop too, brushing himself off. "Just tired. Fine."
Jon studied him for a moment. He did look tired. But that made sense, didn't it? For all intents and purposes, he was a working mother with a newborn, and he had insisted on going full speed ahead with both. And when had he last slept through the night?
"Stephen," said Jon. "Go home. Lie down for a while."
"But the dogs...."
Jon took Monkey's leash from him. "I've been walking them on my own for years. I can handle it. You need some rest."
"I'm not weak, Jon."
"I know."
Looking briefly around to make sure the street was empty, Jon switched both leashes into his left hand (the dogs had found a fascinating bush a few meters ahead, so they were occupied for the moment) and reached for Stephen with his right. Despite the lack of witnesses, Stephen caught it, turning the gesture into an innocuous handshake.
"I'll see you when you get back, then," he said.
"See you," echoed Jon, and watched him go until tension on both leashes pulled him forward again.
Stephen. I don't want to coddle you any more than I do our kids, but everyone has weak moments, and when you do I'll pick you up if you need it. You know that.
Don't you?
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
Clips referenced: Jon's opening pitch; Stephen's shirt.
Dog Days
August 3, 2007
Friday
Stephen had dragged himself from his bed twice during the night to feed George, so when he began to wake up of his own volition he was in no rush. Besides, the bed was warm, the sheets were soft, and he could feel the comforting weight of Jon beside him. He couldn't think of any good reason to leave.
As he let out a contented sigh, there was a stirring on the other half of the mattress, and then Jon...licked his cheek?
He opened his eyes.
The friendly face of a bull terrier was looking down at him.
Stephen yelped in surprise and started so violently that he nearly fell off the bed. A second bull terrier, curled up on the spot where Jon's legs had been, raised its head and regarded him curiously.
"Um," he said. "Down! Off! Get! Go on, Shamksy! Shoo, Monkey!"
He wasn't sure which dog was which, but it didn't seem to matter, as they both responded with equal nonchalance to every name, command, and hand gesture he could think of, up to and including his threat to put them On Notice.
Grumbling about disrespect from lesser beings in general and dogs in particular, he climbed out of bed and headed downstairs. Once he was in the hall, both Monkey and Shamsky jumped to the floor and came trotting after him.
Tracey was frying bacon in the kitchen when Stephen came in. "Where's Jon?"
"He and Charlene went on an emergency kibble run. We realized we didn't have breakfast for..." She spared a glance over her shoulder. "I see you found the dogs."
"They were on my bed," announced Stephen indignantly.
"Does that bother you? We could try to train them not to, but they're pretty used to being allowed on the bed, and at this point I think they're pretty much set in their ways."
"Why would you allow dogs on your bed in the first place? Unless...." He shuddered. "Okay, I don't want to know. Don't ask, don't tell."
Oh, brother. Tracey had been warned about Stephen—multiple times—but still. "Uh, Stephen? I know the religious right claims people who support same-sex marriage want to be able to marry their dogs, but they're talking through their hats."
"Oh, sure, go after my faith," huffed Stephen, bending to scratch Monkey behind the ears. "You're just jealous because you don't have a guiding moral compass that dictates everything you do."
Tracey flipped the bacon onto a plate and laid a paper towel over it to soak up the grease before turning to face him. "Didn't Jon ever tell you? I'm Catholic."
"Well, obviously—hey!" Looking for attention, Shamsky had headbutted him; Stephen doubled up on the scratching, then tried again. "Obviously not much of a Catholic, seeing as how you're cooking bacon on Friday."
"Mmhmm." In spite of everything, Tracey didn't seem to be getting upset. You just couldn't take him seriously enough for that. Or maybe it was the dogs. She had a weakness for people who got along with dogs. "I don't know if you've noticed, but you're in a gay adulterous relationship as part of a queer polyamorous ménage à quatre. How does a 'proper Catholic' pull that off?"
She was expecting more over-the-top belligerence, or some absurdly convoluted theology, or...well, pretty much anything except what she got. Stephen pulled the dogs closer until they flanked him like bodyguards, rested his chin on Shamsky's head, and muttered, almost wisfully, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
The dogs had about as much clue what was going on as Tracey did. Unlike her, though, they seemed to know how to respond: lean in close, thump their tails against the floor, and overwhelm Stephen with the healing fragrance of dog breath.
When Jon came through the door with two jumbo bags of kibble, he was expecting two enthusiastic doggy greetings and at least one friendly human one. He was a little miffed when nobody seemed to notice his arrival.
"Smells like the bacon's ready," said Charlene brightly, and Jon followed her into the kitchen.
There was bacon, all right, but there wouldn't be much longer. What was left of it was sitting on a plate in Stephen's lap, and rapidly disappearing into the dogs' eager mouths.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" exclaimed Jon, setting the dog food down on the counter. "Shamsky! Monkey! Heel!"
They paid him absolutely no attention. Why would they? There was bacon.
"Stephen, cut it out!" continued Jon.
This command was at least noticed, if not followed: Stephen just looked up, puzzled. "But they love it...."
"Of course they do. But it's not healthy for them. They don't know when to stop. You've got to stop for them."
"But Jon, they give me these looks...."
Jon could imagine. Probably the same look Stephen was giving him now: wide-eyed, plaintive, innocent. "Yeah, I hear you. But you've got to be strong. Pretend they're employees asking for raises."
Stephen considered this, then held the plate up over his head. When Monkey and Shamsky sat back on their haunches and looked pitifully at him, he fixed them with his sternest eyebrows. "Uh-uh. You've had more than enough. Don't get greedy."
"We'll just have to take them on an extra-long walk today," sighed Jon, taking the plate and looking dolefully at its contents.
Tracey chose that moment to appear beside Charlene, a contentedly thumb-sucking Maggie on her hip. "Welcome back, honey. How was—hey, you didn't start eating already, did you?"
Jon shook his head. "On the plus side, the dogs are going to love Stephen forever."
Tracey didn't raise her voice, but her mouth was suddenly pressed into a spiderweb-thin line. "I told you not to let them—"
"They were hungry!" protested Stephen.
"We can always cook more," pointed out Jon, trying to be placating. "There's more bacon in the house, right?"
"Nope. That was all of it."
Stephen jumped. "You mean we won't be able to make BLTs for lunch?"
"Should've thought of that earlier," said Tracey stiffly.
"Come on, Trace," soothed Jon. "You know how the dogs get, and he's not used to them...."
"Enough!" exclaimed Charlene, striding between them and grabbing the plate as she passed. "Jon, Tracey, out of the kitchen. Take the dogs. Stephen, stay here. I'm making crêpes, and you're helping."
"Are those French?" asked Stephen suspiciously.
"They'll be bacon crêpes. If that's not American enough for you, consider it your penance for giving away our original breakfast. Now get out the milk and eggs." She waved at Tracey and Jon. "What are you three still doing here? Go!"
They ended up sitting on the steps of the back porch in awkward silence, throwing tennis balls for the dogs to retrieve. Maggie sat in the dirt at their feet, happily ripping up clods of grass.
"I'm sorry," said Jon presently.
"For...?" prompted Tracey.
Jon laughed dryly. "Okay, you got me. I'm not entirely sure. But you're frustrated, so I figured apologizing was a safe bet."
That earned him a smile. A good sign.
"You realize, of course," she said lightly, "that your boyfriend is completely insane."
Shamsky trotted up with one of the balls; Jon hurled it as far as he could off to the left. "No comment."
"What, really? You seemed perfectly ready to defend him in there."
"Hey now," protested Jon. "I told him off before you came in. If you had kept it up, it would've just made him angry and defensive."
Monkey appeared with a ball in front of Tracey, but didn't let it drop from his jaws. She took ahold of it and wriggled it gently for a moment; when he still didn't let go, she sat back and waited. It wasn't long before the dog got bored and dropped the ball, at which point she took it and lobbed it to the right.
"That one went farther than mine," remarked Jon. "Should've let you be the one to pitch for the Mets."
"Stephen's always defensive, no matter what you do," she pointed out, ignoring the change of subject. "He doesn't need your help to stand up for himself."
"That's just it, though," said Jon, as Shamsky bounded up again. "He does. Listen, when you stand up for something, it's because you're sure of it, right?" He took the tennis ball, hurled it, and wiped the dog slobber off on his pants. "He stands up for things because he's not sure about them. He gets defensive to cover his insecurities. The more insecure he is, the louder he gets."
"By that logic, he'd be insecure pretty much all the time," observed Tracey.
"Exactly."
He let that sink in for a beat, then added, "Don't be too hard on him, okay? He doesn't cope well with being yelled at. He doesn't know how to handle it gracefully. You do. You're self-sufficient. You don't need me backing you up."
Monkey reappeared. "Maybe not," said Tracey, taking the ball, "but sometimes," and she chucked it fiercely into the distance, "I'd like to have it anyway."
Jon put a hand (the one without traces of dog drool) on her shoulder. "I'll work on it. I promise."
She sighed heavily and looked up at him. "Thanks."
"Love you, babe."
"Love you too," she echoed, and let him draw her into a kiss.
When they broke apart, Shamsky was sitting impatiently in front of them, with a look that clearly said, "Will you stop slobbering all over each other already? These balls are in urgent need of throwing." Monkey, meanwhile, had given up on them altogether and was looking hopefully at Maggie, who used both hands to pick up the ball he had dropped in front of her and valiantly lob it as far as she could manage (which turned out to be about three feet).
Jon and Tracey both laughed, took their respective tennis balls, and threw them in unison. They fell silent again as the dogs raced off together, but this time it was a comfortable silence.
"So," remarked Jon presently, "how's Charlene rate on the 'completely insane' scale?"
His wife winked. "Now, honey. A lady never kisses and tells."
A second later, Jon was pink to the collar and trying to dismiss several dozen different mental images at once. "Oh. Uh. That wasn't exactly what—"
"Maggie, don't eat that!" yelped Tracey.
Jon snatched his daughter up from the grass, and the next few minutes were spent enticing their daughter to spit out as much of the clod of earth as possible.
They ended up gathered around the dining room table: the adults devouring crêpes, George dozing on Stephen's arm after a bottle, Maggie in a high chair determinedly refusing to eat her creamed spinach.
Tracey, the only one of them who worked on Fridays, had gone, so this task fell to Jon. "Come on, honey, just try some, you're going to love it. Creamed spinach. Mmm-mm, delicious creamed spinach..."
Maggie shook her head, mouth firmly closed.
"Okay, who am I kidding? Nobody likes creamed spinach. But, come on, kid, we already know you'll eat dirt. This tastes about as good, and is much more nutritious, I promise."
A series of thumps indicated that Nate was using his new favorite method of descending a staircase: jumping with both feet down every step. A moment later he came unsteadily in the door; he had apparently decided to hop the whole way, and was wobbling on his left foot.
"Hey, slugger!" said Jon. "Ready for breakfast? Delicious creamed spinach!"
"Dad-dy!" the boy protested, laughing. This was too much for his already strained balance, and as he hopped forward he swayed, arms flailing, before falling flat with a thud.
Stephen gasped in horror, clutched George closer, and half rose. Jon put a hand firmly on his shoulder.
He turned to Jon, eyes wide with shock. "Jon—you're not going to just let—"
"Hold on," said Jon sternly.
They held frozen like that for a moment. Nate wriggled, then clambered to his feet, still grinning. "Daddy," he repeated, "want food! Not baby food!"
Jon grinned in return. "If you ask Aunt Charlene nicely, she might make something extra-special just for you."
Nate brightened. "Please, Aunt Cholly?"
"No problem, kiddo," said Charlene, and she grinned too. It was infectious. "Come on into the kitchen and let's see what we can find."
Once they were out of the room Jon turned to Stephen, relaxing his grip. "You all right?"
"How did you know," said Stephen shakily, "that he was okay?"
"I didn't. If it turned out something was wrong, I would have gone straight to him. But you can't run to them every time they trip." He looked curiously at Stephen. "I'm surprised to get this from you, frankly. Don't you always complain that we shouldn't coddle kids so much?"
"Well, yeah," replied Stephen, "but that doesn't apply to mine." He looked down at George, still contentedly asleep. "At least, not to this one. I tried not to coddle my kids, Jon, and it didn't work."
"You do need to give them attention. You just can't smother them. Find a middle ground."
"Middle grounds," declared Stephen, "are for weak people who can't make decisions."
"Do you think I'm weak?" asked Jon gently.
"Well, you are losing a battle of wills with a one-and-a-half-year-old."
"Hey, you think this is easy? Here, let's trade. I'll hold George, and you see how well you do with the spinach."
Stephen had no more success than Jon had. When Charlene offered to take a shot at it, both men eagerly relinquished the job; and when, five minutes later, Maggie was awkwardly maneuvering the spoon with her own hands and actually getting half of the spinach into her mouth, Jon threw up his hands, declared his quest to be a parent a lost cause, and urged Stephen to go get dressed so that they could take Monkey and Shamsky for a W-A-L-K.
It wasn't quite the dog days of summer yet, but by late morning it was already more than pleasantly warm, so the two men set off in T-shirts and shorts. Jon wasn't sure he had ever seen Stephen in a T-shirt before, aside from the odd tuxedo-printed tee. This one was powder blue and had WELCOME JESUS printed on the front in large block letters. ("I just want to be prepared," he had explained of the design.)
The area was suburban, but with plenty of yard space between the huge houses, which meant long roads and lots of plants and almost no people around. The dogs loved it.
Stephen and Jon, each holding a leash, walked along in companionable silence—or so Jon thought, until Stephen tripped on the sidewalk and nearly fell over.
Jon stopped. "You all right?"
"Fine. Fine." Stephen came to a stop too, brushing himself off. "Just tired. Fine."
Jon studied him for a moment. He did look tired. But that made sense, didn't it? For all intents and purposes, he was a working mother with a newborn, and he had insisted on going full speed ahead with both. And when had he last slept through the night?
"Stephen," said Jon. "Go home. Lie down for a while."
"But the dogs...."
Jon took Monkey's leash from him. "I've been walking them on my own for years. I can handle it. You need some rest."
"I'm not weak, Jon."
"I know."
Looking briefly around to make sure the street was empty, Jon switched both leashes into his left hand (the dogs had found a fascinating bush a few meters ahead, so they were occupied for the moment) and reached for Stephen with his right. Despite the lack of witnesses, Stephen caught it, turning the gesture into an innocuous handshake.
"I'll see you when you get back, then," he said.
"See you," echoed Jon, and watched him go until tension on both leashes pulled him forward again.
Stephen. I don't want to coddle you any more than I do our kids, but everyone has weak moments, and when you do I'll pick you up if you need it. You know that.
Don't you?
no subject
Ooh. So he's pretty aware of what's going on?
no subject
To be fair, he had some awareness in the first version; it just tended to get muddled because *I* hadn't yet figured out everything that was going on. Here, it's much more streamlined. He knows he's losing time, and he knows it's connected to the voices in his head - some of which he's more in tune with than others.
no subject
no subject