Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2010-09-30 01:06 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2010-09-30 01:06 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: State of Grace, chapter 7
Title: State of Grace, Chapter 7: In Nomine Patris at Filii et Amicus Iudaici
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
Clips referenced: locked into Heaven; "I toss to you."
The title is Latin for "In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Jewish Friend." Father Ted is a sidelong reference to, well, Father Ted.
In Nomine Patris at Filii et Amicus Iudaici
"Mmm..."
"I—oh—ooh. Stephen—ohhhh—Stephen, hold up."
"What's wrong, Jon?"
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"What does it feel like?"
Jon gasped as Stephen's hips rolled against his. There had to be words to describe what this felt like, but it was suddenly impossible to think of any. One thing was certain: "Okay" didn't cut it.
"I've got this under control, Jon."
Somewhere between the door and the bed, during which his clothing seemed to have melted away, Jon realized that Stephen had him under control.
Not that he minded, really—and yet—and yet, he still wanted to ask—
—he wanted to—
—ohhhhh.
Next time, he resolved, and let Stephen lower him onto the sheets.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
August 5, 2007
Sunday
"Jon! What are you still doing in bed? Jon, wake up!"
Jon sleepily batted away the hands that were shaking him, rolled over, and looked for his clock. It wasn't there.
Oh, right. This wasn't his house.
"'timeizzit?" he mumbled.
"Jon, Mass starts in two hours. You need to start getting ready!"
Jon wasn't quite sure how many logical failings there were in this statement, but he had a feeling it was a lot. "Lemme sleep," he protested, turning his face to the pillow.
"Don't tell me you forgot!" cried Stephen, shaking him some more.
Sensing danger, Jon began to wake up. "Forgot what?"
"George's baptism! It's today!"
Was that all? "Stephen, you said so about eight times last night, remember? Tried to get us to go to bed right after dinner so we'd all be up in time. Relax. I'll be there."
"You won't just be there, Jon, you'll be standing up in front of the whole congregation. You have got to put some effort into your appearance for once, because it's going to reflect on me!"
"Standing up in...wait, why? I can't be a godparent. Or did your priest suddenly decide to overlook my lack of eternal salvation?"
"The godfather has to be Catholic, but if he can't be there, then anyone can stand in his place and say the vows for him, and that's you!"
Jon sat bolt upright. "When were you going to tell me about this?"
"I just told you!"
"Coulda given me a little more warning, couldn't you?"
"You have two hours! That's plenty of time. Up!"
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Tracey ended up driving. Charlene still hadn't renewed her U.S. license, and Stephen and Jon were way too nervous. Stephen was sitting up front to give Tracey directions, but he kept turning around to check on George, whose car seat was strapped into the bucket seat behind him, and talk to Jon.
"Don't parents usually go to classes before their kids get baptized?" asked Jon.
"For several weeks," confirmed Tracey, and in the rearview mirror she saw Jon's eyebrows twist themselves in knots. She wanted to be reassuring, but she was pretty frustrated about the lack of warning herself.
"It'll be fine, Jon," insisted Stephen. "The questions are really easy. Like this: Father Ted says 'do you renounce Satan?' and you say...?"
"...'yes'?" guessed Jon.
"Close. 'I do.' Okay, another one. Father Ted says 'do you reject sin?' and you say...?"
"'I do'?"
"Yes! Another. He says 'do you believe in Jesus Christ?' and you say...?"
"Um..."
"Remember, you're speaking for Jean-Claude du Fromage—"
"Pierre Garrigou-Lagrange," corrected Charlene.
"—that's what I said, Henri Je-Ne-Sais-Quoi, Charlene's buddy who is actually Catholic and conveniently overseas. So, Father Ted says 'do you believe in Jesus Christ?' and you say..."
"...I do."
"Exactly! See? Not so hard, is it?"
Tracey smiled in spite of herself: Jon looked like he was actually starting to relax.
"Left at the light," added Stephen. Tracey flipped on her blinker and switched lanes at the last minute. No sooner had she turned than she could see the spires.
"And the parking lot entrance is on your right, after those trees." Stephen leaned over the seat again. "Jon?"
"Yeah, Stephen?"
"You know that, technically, none of this applies to you. You can say all the words of a sacred vow, but for you it isn't binding. God won't hold you to it."
"I know."
"And obviously the bits about God and sin and Jesus don't mean anything to you."
"Not what they mean to you, no."
Tracey pulled up to a space near the building and eased the van in; then, on an impulse, she waited.
"But there are bits about taking care of George. About helping me bring him up right."
"Stephen," said Jon gently. "When I say those, I'll mean them."
"God won't hold you to those either."
At last Tracey switched off the engine. "But I will," she said over the sudden quiet.
Both men turned, as if just remembering that there was a person in the driver's seat.
"I'm saying the same vows as he is," she reminded Stephen with a smile. "I'll make sure he keeps up his end of the bargain. Believe me, if he bails on his duties as pseudo-godfather and I find out, he'll want to go to hell for a little relief."
"Don't joke about that!" snapped Stephen.
"Okay, okay, have it your way!" sighed Tracey, and shoved the door open harder than she meant to.
Stephen climbed out of his own side, slid open the door next to George, and began to unbuckle the baby from his seat. Jon opened the door on the far side; Charlene, from the back, handed him Maggie, then helped Nate down.
"Hey," said Jon in an undertone, putting a hand on Tracey's shoulder. "He doesn't mean—"
She shrugged the hand away. "It's fine. Forget about it."
And then she put the smile back on, just as the little group converged and set a course for the heavy double doors.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
From the moment they reached the doors, when the other three adults automatically dipped their fingers in the waiting bowl of water and crossed themselves, Jon felt like, well, a fish out of water.
Father Ted was a wiry man with a fluffy mop of grey hair, large ears, and a smile that looked as if he had just made a joke and was waiting for you to start smiling with him. He only got a few minutes to talk with them before the service started, but Jon liked him immediately.
Still, no amount of clerical affection could dispel the fish-out-of-water feeling, which returned in full force when the actual service started and everyone else seemed to know exactly what to do. Even Tracey fell automatically into form, facing straight ahead but moving her arms in perfect time with the multitude of old white Republicans around them. It was a good thing the kids were in the nursery, or they might have suspected their mother of turning into a robot.
Jon wasn't sure how much he was supposed to be imitating, but the question was pretty much academic: even taking his cues from Tracey on his left and Stephen on his right, it was all he could do to stand up and sit down at the times that everyone else seemed to know by heart.
If Tracey seemed almost robotic, Stephen was exactly the opposite.
Stephen seemed alive.
He was also quiet, respectful, and attentive, which was probably why it took Jon a long time to figure out how his bearing could be as familiar as it was.
It hit him during one of the hymns. Everyone else knew the lyrics by heart ("Lord God something something God and Father something something"), which left Jon awkwardly quiet and watching Stephen to keep his mind off of the fact. It was a pleasant distraction: Stephen had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the music, hitting every note but not oversinging them, blending beautifully with the chorus of voices around him.
All at once Jon recognized the Stephen who had sung with Manilow.
After that, the rest tumbled into place. Stephen in church had the same bearing as Stephen on set. Maybe this audience wasn't here to see him, but there was energy in it. Enthusiasm. Stubborn, bullheaded, unstoppable belief. On this wave of faith Stephen was riding high, standing tall as he drew power from the people around him—and then radiated it back, pouring it into the hymn the same way he poured it into Tips of the Hat and ThreatDowns and the occasional celebrity duet.
Like Stephen's audience, the people here represented a cross-section of the population that Jon rarely understood and often took issue with. And yet.
And yet, there was something going on in both places. Faith, or maybe love, was so thick in the air that you could practically lean on it. Maybe he couldn't have put it into words (or wørds), but Stephen certainly felt it. More than that: he thrived on it, like a man taking a drink after forty days in the desert.
Or like a junkie on a hit.
Wait, where did that come from?
Jon shook himself, then realized that the other congregants were lowering themselves back into the pews and took a hurried seat. No need to be morbid, Stewart. Let the people have their fun.
Next up was a prayer, and before it came a moment of silence, during which Jon knelt with the rest so as not to be too conspicuous. Then he realized that, since everyone else had heads bowed and eyes closed, they wouldn't see what he did anyway; he gladly took the opportunity to look openly at Stephen.
The radiant look had been replaced by one of solemn intensity, as Stephen's lips moved ever so slightly along with whatever he was praying for.
No, wait. He couldn't be voicing his prayer, not unless he was saying one thing over and over, because his mouth was definitely making the same motion again and again.
Jon listened more closely. He caught the slightest whisper of sound, like an imitation of raindrops, plip, plip, plip, but Stephen's lips were widening between each, showing his teeth, the vocalization of a long E, which would make it plee, plee, plee...
Jon's heart skipped a beat.
Please, please, please, please, please, please, please...
Stephen was begging. For what, Jon had no idea. But then, it hadn't been meant for his ears in the first place.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"Are you prepared to help the parents of this child in their duty as Christian parents?"
"We are," chorused Jon and Tracey.
The twinkle in Father Ted's eye from their first meeting was gone, replaced with that particular brand of gravitas that only a holy official can pull off. He turned it on George, who was looking curiously around from his place in Stephen's arms. "George William Colbert, the Christian community welcomes you with great joy...."
Jon hadn't realized that this was going to take just short of forever. There were scripture readings (during which, thankfully, they got to sit), and prayers, and invoking of saints, and more prayers, and then Father Ted took George and anointed him with some kind of oil, and then there was some blessing, and then more praying.
"This is the faith of the Church," said the priest at last, after a long description. "This is the faith in which the child is about to be baptized."
'About to'? He's been 'about to' for twenty minutes now!
Tracey's hand found his and squeezed it briefly. Hang in there.
"Do you reject Satan?"
"I do," said the four in unison: Charlene and Stephen at the font, George in Stephen's arms, Jon and Tracey just behind them on Stephen's side.
"And all his works?"
Isn't that sort of implied? "I do."
"Do you reject sin, so as to live in the freedom of God's children?"
"I do," they chorused, but this time Stephen's voice came half a step behind.
"Do you reject the glamor of evil, and refuse to be mastered by sin?"
"I do," said Charlene and Tracey. Jon waited a beat, then said "I do" in time with Stephen.
"Do you reject Satan, father of sin and prince of darkness?"
Didn't we already do that? "I do," said Charlene and Tracey. "I do," said Jon a beat later.
Stephen swayed.
Without even thinking, Jon stepped forward and put an arm around him.
To his credit, Father Ted didn't so much as raise an eyebrow in Jon's direction. "Are you all right, my son?" he asked gently.
"Hm?" Stephen's brows furrowed; his eyes flicked around the sanctuary for a second, like he was reorienting himself. "Oh—uh—yeah. I do."
Tracey and Charlene, meanwhile, were doing their best to cover for Jon's faux pas: Tracey stepping forward and putting a hand on Jon's shoulder, Charlene leaning against Stephen's side. God (or whatever) willing, they'd come off as a group that just happened to be especially close, and touchy-feely about it.
There was a tense pause. George, oblivious, sucked on his hand.
And then Father Ted said, "Do you believe in God the Father Almighty, creator of Heaven and Earth?"
"I do," they chorused, Stephen in time with the others.
He ought to have no problem with this bit. Stephen could recite this prayer in his sleep. (There was a time when Jon would have thought that an exaggeration. No more.)
Except. Except that Stephen no longer looked like a man come home. He looked...not unhappy, exactly, but fidgety. Like an aide sent to a gathering of some fringe interest group on behalf of a politician too important to be there in person: doing his best to appear concerned for the sake of their votes, but desperately wishing to be somewhere else.
He also looked—well, Jon would almost have said uncomfortable in a suit, if that weren't completely unthinkable.
George started to cry with surprise when the water was poured over his head, and Jon wanted to reassure him that it was almost over—but as it turned out, there was more anointing to be done, and then the baby had to be dressed in white and a candle had to be lit and another blessing had to be said and, yes, there was more prayer.
At last the priest took George from Jon's arms and, taking care to support his head, held the baby up in front of the congregation. "George William Colbert," he pronounced, "welcome to the family of God."
Several hundred people began to clap. George couldn't possibly know what the sound meant, but he stopped crying and stared out at the crowd in wonder.
Jon glanced at Stephen for the umpteenth time, and finally let himself relax. The easy grace was back in Stephen's stance. At the sight of his son's first round of applause, he was practically glowing.
When George was lowered, Stephen took him with a proud smile, and held him during the final blessing.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"That," declared Tracey, settling down on the living room couch and pouring herself a glass of red wine, "is an experience I could do without ever having again."
"Lapsed?" inquired Charlene, taking the bottle.
"No! I mean, I'm not the most active, but it's not the Church I have a problem with." Tracey shuddered. "It's that church. Or any congregation where I can't take two steps without someone asking me whether my h—whether Jon has been Saved yet."
"You're allowed to say 'husband' around me," remarked Charlene lightly. "I'm not Stephen's kind of Catholic."
"Oh, good," breathed Tracey, and took a self-conscious sip of her wine.
It wasn't Charlene's judgment that she worried about, really; it was her comfort in general. Tracey was keenly aware that she didn't have that till-death-do-us-part feeling with anyone except Jon. But she was definitely in like with Charlene, and quite frequently in lust with Charlene, and the last thing she wanted was for the other woman to feel somehow inadequate.
When she looked up, though, Charlene was entirely intent on her own glass, which was so nearly empty that it could be tilted almost on its side for more thorough inspection.
"Well, great," laughed Tracey. "Now I feel uncultured."
Charlene blinked. "What, this? Oh, sorry, it's just a habit. Not that complex, I promise. Have you done any tastings before?"
"Once at a party. I don't think any of it stuck, though."
"I can walk you through it." She nodded at Tracey's glass. "You'll need to get that down to about two ounces first, though."
"Better give me a minute," laughed Tracey. She wasn't about to start gulping it down, even though the men had been put in charge of the kids for the evening, so it wasn't like she couldn't indulge a little.
"You know," remarked Charlene, while Tracey sipped as rapidly as she dared, "even Stephen wasn't always Stephen's kind of Catholic."
"Hard to imagine."
A mischievous smile crept across Charlene's face. "Back when we were freshmen in high school, he told me he wanted to run off to L.A. and be a godless actor."
Red wine sprayed all over the carpet.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"Stephen, Stephen, wait. I'm—ohhh—I'm serious—I don't think this is—ah!—such a good idea."
"You don't? Because it sure feels like you do."
"I like it, obviously, but I need to know—ngh! Don't you try the hip thing on me. I'm ready for the hip thing."
"You certainly are."
"That is not what I—mmm." Bracing himself against the edge of the bed, Jon managed to peel them apart. "Stephen, you are amazingly distracting, but we need to talk."
Sliding sinuously onto the edge of the mattress beside him, Stephen rested a hand on Jon's thigh and arched his eyebrows. "Do we, Jon? Do we?"
"Yes," insisted Jon, covering Stephen's wandering hand with his own and clamping it firmly in place. "Do you think you're going to hell for this?"
The other man snorted with finely tuned derision. "Don't be stupid, Jon. As if you could keep Stephen Colbert out of heaven."
"Then—are you enjoying it? I mean, is it something you want to be doing?"
"Did I feel unenthusiastic to you?"
"Uh, not most of the time," admitted Jon, feeling his dick perk up hopefully at the memory. "But then when I tried to go down on you...."
"So don't try to go down on me," snapped Stephen impatiently. "'Doctor, it hurts when I do this!' Then stop doing that!"
"It's not just that!" protested Jon. "Listen, if you really hate getting blowjobs, that's fine, we can take that off the table. Is that it? Or is there something else upsetting you?"
Stephen's head hung, fingers digging into Jon's leg. "Jon, please. You don't know what you're getting into."
"Well, I was kinda hoping you!"
The other man twitched, then took a deep breath. "I'm not...you'll have to give me a minute. There's lube in the bureau, bottom right drawer...."
"Aw, Stephen, you're missing the point," groaned Jon. "Not that I don't—I mean, I'd like to try it some time—but would you ever let us switch that up, or is it always going to be a one-way thing?"
"That's not how this works, Jon! You toss to me. I don't toss to you. Remember?"
Jon's heart sank like a rock. "Stephen. This isn't our shows. I'm not your boss here. Hell, I'm not even technically your boss at the shows anymore. I wouldn't be sleeping with you at all if I had you by the purse strings! Did you think—?"
"No! Nothing like that!"
"Then what—?"
"I can't tell you!" cried Stephen, head snapping up to glare at him, and were his eyes shining more than normal? "Why do you have to keep asking? Why can't you just back off?"
"Okay."
"You liberals with your questions and your—what?"
"I said, okay," repeated Jon. "No questions."
"Oh, thank God," breathed Stephen, and leaned forward, hand sliding towards the inside of Jon's thigh—until Jon shook him off entirely and stood up. "Jon? What are you—"
"I'm backing off," spat Jon, the phrase soaked in all the pent-up fear and anxiety and frustration of the past few days. "I'm not going to fuck you if I can't even talk to you."
Turning on his heel, he shut himself in the bathroom and spent the next five minutes splashing cold water on his face.
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
Clips referenced: locked into Heaven; "I toss to you."
The title is Latin for "In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Jewish Friend." Father Ted is a sidelong reference to, well, Father Ted.
In Nomine Patris at Filii et Amicus Iudaici
"Mmm..."
"I—oh—ooh. Stephen—ohhhh—Stephen, hold up."
"What's wrong, Jon?"
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"What does it feel like?"
Jon gasped as Stephen's hips rolled against his. There had to be words to describe what this felt like, but it was suddenly impossible to think of any. One thing was certain: "Okay" didn't cut it.
"I've got this under control, Jon."
Somewhere between the door and the bed, during which his clothing seemed to have melted away, Jon realized that Stephen had him under control.
Not that he minded, really—and yet—and yet, he still wanted to ask—
—he wanted to—
—ohhhhh.
Next time, he resolved, and let Stephen lower him onto the sheets.
August 5, 2007
Sunday
"Jon! What are you still doing in bed? Jon, wake up!"
Jon sleepily batted away the hands that were shaking him, rolled over, and looked for his clock. It wasn't there.
Oh, right. This wasn't his house.
"'timeizzit?" he mumbled.
"Jon, Mass starts in two hours. You need to start getting ready!"
Jon wasn't quite sure how many logical failings there were in this statement, but he had a feeling it was a lot. "Lemme sleep," he protested, turning his face to the pillow.
"Don't tell me you forgot!" cried Stephen, shaking him some more.
Sensing danger, Jon began to wake up. "Forgot what?"
"George's baptism! It's today!"
Was that all? "Stephen, you said so about eight times last night, remember? Tried to get us to go to bed right after dinner so we'd all be up in time. Relax. I'll be there."
"You won't just be there, Jon, you'll be standing up in front of the whole congregation. You have got to put some effort into your appearance for once, because it's going to reflect on me!"
"Standing up in...wait, why? I can't be a godparent. Or did your priest suddenly decide to overlook my lack of eternal salvation?"
"The godfather has to be Catholic, but if he can't be there, then anyone can stand in his place and say the vows for him, and that's you!"
Jon sat bolt upright. "When were you going to tell me about this?"
"I just told you!"
"Coulda given me a little more warning, couldn't you?"
"You have two hours! That's plenty of time. Up!"
Tracey ended up driving. Charlene still hadn't renewed her U.S. license, and Stephen and Jon were way too nervous. Stephen was sitting up front to give Tracey directions, but he kept turning around to check on George, whose car seat was strapped into the bucket seat behind him, and talk to Jon.
"Don't parents usually go to classes before their kids get baptized?" asked Jon.
"For several weeks," confirmed Tracey, and in the rearview mirror she saw Jon's eyebrows twist themselves in knots. She wanted to be reassuring, but she was pretty frustrated about the lack of warning herself.
"It'll be fine, Jon," insisted Stephen. "The questions are really easy. Like this: Father Ted says 'do you renounce Satan?' and you say...?"
"...'yes'?" guessed Jon.
"Close. 'I do.' Okay, another one. Father Ted says 'do you reject sin?' and you say...?"
"'I do'?"
"Yes! Another. He says 'do you believe in Jesus Christ?' and you say...?"
"Um..."
"Remember, you're speaking for Jean-Claude du Fromage—"
"Pierre Garrigou-Lagrange," corrected Charlene.
"—that's what I said, Henri Je-Ne-Sais-Quoi, Charlene's buddy who is actually Catholic and conveniently overseas. So, Father Ted says 'do you believe in Jesus Christ?' and you say..."
"...I do."
"Exactly! See? Not so hard, is it?"
Tracey smiled in spite of herself: Jon looked like he was actually starting to relax.
"Left at the light," added Stephen. Tracey flipped on her blinker and switched lanes at the last minute. No sooner had she turned than she could see the spires.
"And the parking lot entrance is on your right, after those trees." Stephen leaned over the seat again. "Jon?"
"Yeah, Stephen?"
"You know that, technically, none of this applies to you. You can say all the words of a sacred vow, but for you it isn't binding. God won't hold you to it."
"I know."
"And obviously the bits about God and sin and Jesus don't mean anything to you."
"Not what they mean to you, no."
Tracey pulled up to a space near the building and eased the van in; then, on an impulse, she waited.
"But there are bits about taking care of George. About helping me bring him up right."
"Stephen," said Jon gently. "When I say those, I'll mean them."
"God won't hold you to those either."
At last Tracey switched off the engine. "But I will," she said over the sudden quiet.
Both men turned, as if just remembering that there was a person in the driver's seat.
"I'm saying the same vows as he is," she reminded Stephen with a smile. "I'll make sure he keeps up his end of the bargain. Believe me, if he bails on his duties as pseudo-godfather and I find out, he'll want to go to hell for a little relief."
"Don't joke about that!" snapped Stephen.
"Okay, okay, have it your way!" sighed Tracey, and shoved the door open harder than she meant to.
Stephen climbed out of his own side, slid open the door next to George, and began to unbuckle the baby from his seat. Jon opened the door on the far side; Charlene, from the back, handed him Maggie, then helped Nate down.
"Hey," said Jon in an undertone, putting a hand on Tracey's shoulder. "He doesn't mean—"
She shrugged the hand away. "It's fine. Forget about it."
And then she put the smile back on, just as the little group converged and set a course for the heavy double doors.
From the moment they reached the doors, when the other three adults automatically dipped their fingers in the waiting bowl of water and crossed themselves, Jon felt like, well, a fish out of water.
Father Ted was a wiry man with a fluffy mop of grey hair, large ears, and a smile that looked as if he had just made a joke and was waiting for you to start smiling with him. He only got a few minutes to talk with them before the service started, but Jon liked him immediately.
Still, no amount of clerical affection could dispel the fish-out-of-water feeling, which returned in full force when the actual service started and everyone else seemed to know exactly what to do. Even Tracey fell automatically into form, facing straight ahead but moving her arms in perfect time with the multitude of old white Republicans around them. It was a good thing the kids were in the nursery, or they might have suspected their mother of turning into a robot.
Jon wasn't sure how much he was supposed to be imitating, but the question was pretty much academic: even taking his cues from Tracey on his left and Stephen on his right, it was all he could do to stand up and sit down at the times that everyone else seemed to know by heart.
If Tracey seemed almost robotic, Stephen was exactly the opposite.
Stephen seemed alive.
He was also quiet, respectful, and attentive, which was probably why it took Jon a long time to figure out how his bearing could be as familiar as it was.
It hit him during one of the hymns. Everyone else knew the lyrics by heart ("Lord God something something God and Father something something"), which left Jon awkwardly quiet and watching Stephen to keep his mind off of the fact. It was a pleasant distraction: Stephen had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the music, hitting every note but not oversinging them, blending beautifully with the chorus of voices around him.
All at once Jon recognized the Stephen who had sung with Manilow.
After that, the rest tumbled into place. Stephen in church had the same bearing as Stephen on set. Maybe this audience wasn't here to see him, but there was energy in it. Enthusiasm. Stubborn, bullheaded, unstoppable belief. On this wave of faith Stephen was riding high, standing tall as he drew power from the people around him—and then radiated it back, pouring it into the hymn the same way he poured it into Tips of the Hat and ThreatDowns and the occasional celebrity duet.
Like Stephen's audience, the people here represented a cross-section of the population that Jon rarely understood and often took issue with. And yet.
And yet, there was something going on in both places. Faith, or maybe love, was so thick in the air that you could practically lean on it. Maybe he couldn't have put it into words (or wørds), but Stephen certainly felt it. More than that: he thrived on it, like a man taking a drink after forty days in the desert.
Or like a junkie on a hit.
Wait, where did that come from?
Jon shook himself, then realized that the other congregants were lowering themselves back into the pews and took a hurried seat. No need to be morbid, Stewart. Let the people have their fun.
Next up was a prayer, and before it came a moment of silence, during which Jon knelt with the rest so as not to be too conspicuous. Then he realized that, since everyone else had heads bowed and eyes closed, they wouldn't see what he did anyway; he gladly took the opportunity to look openly at Stephen.
The radiant look had been replaced by one of solemn intensity, as Stephen's lips moved ever so slightly along with whatever he was praying for.
No, wait. He couldn't be voicing his prayer, not unless he was saying one thing over and over, because his mouth was definitely making the same motion again and again.
Jon listened more closely. He caught the slightest whisper of sound, like an imitation of raindrops, plip, plip, plip, but Stephen's lips were widening between each, showing his teeth, the vocalization of a long E, which would make it plee, plee, plee...
Jon's heart skipped a beat.
Please, please, please, please, please, please, please...
Stephen was begging. For what, Jon had no idea. But then, it hadn't been meant for his ears in the first place.
"Are you prepared to help the parents of this child in their duty as Christian parents?"
"We are," chorused Jon and Tracey.
The twinkle in Father Ted's eye from their first meeting was gone, replaced with that particular brand of gravitas that only a holy official can pull off. He turned it on George, who was looking curiously around from his place in Stephen's arms. "George William Colbert, the Christian community welcomes you with great joy...."
Jon hadn't realized that this was going to take just short of forever. There were scripture readings (during which, thankfully, they got to sit), and prayers, and invoking of saints, and more prayers, and then Father Ted took George and anointed him with some kind of oil, and then there was some blessing, and then more praying.
"This is the faith of the Church," said the priest at last, after a long description. "This is the faith in which the child is about to be baptized."
'About to'? He's been 'about to' for twenty minutes now!
Tracey's hand found his and squeezed it briefly. Hang in there.
"Do you reject Satan?"
"I do," said the four in unison: Charlene and Stephen at the font, George in Stephen's arms, Jon and Tracey just behind them on Stephen's side.
"And all his works?"
Isn't that sort of implied? "I do."
"Do you reject sin, so as to live in the freedom of God's children?"
"I do," they chorused, but this time Stephen's voice came half a step behind.
"Do you reject the glamor of evil, and refuse to be mastered by sin?"
"I do," said Charlene and Tracey. Jon waited a beat, then said "I do" in time with Stephen.
"Do you reject Satan, father of sin and prince of darkness?"
Didn't we already do that? "I do," said Charlene and Tracey. "I do," said Jon a beat later.
Stephen swayed.
Without even thinking, Jon stepped forward and put an arm around him.
To his credit, Father Ted didn't so much as raise an eyebrow in Jon's direction. "Are you all right, my son?" he asked gently.
"Hm?" Stephen's brows furrowed; his eyes flicked around the sanctuary for a second, like he was reorienting himself. "Oh—uh—yeah. I do."
Tracey and Charlene, meanwhile, were doing their best to cover for Jon's faux pas: Tracey stepping forward and putting a hand on Jon's shoulder, Charlene leaning against Stephen's side. God (or whatever) willing, they'd come off as a group that just happened to be especially close, and touchy-feely about it.
There was a tense pause. George, oblivious, sucked on his hand.
And then Father Ted said, "Do you believe in God the Father Almighty, creator of Heaven and Earth?"
"I do," they chorused, Stephen in time with the others.
He ought to have no problem with this bit. Stephen could recite this prayer in his sleep. (There was a time when Jon would have thought that an exaggeration. No more.)
Except. Except that Stephen no longer looked like a man come home. He looked...not unhappy, exactly, but fidgety. Like an aide sent to a gathering of some fringe interest group on behalf of a politician too important to be there in person: doing his best to appear concerned for the sake of their votes, but desperately wishing to be somewhere else.
He also looked—well, Jon would almost have said uncomfortable in a suit, if that weren't completely unthinkable.
George started to cry with surprise when the water was poured over his head, and Jon wanted to reassure him that it was almost over—but as it turned out, there was more anointing to be done, and then the baby had to be dressed in white and a candle had to be lit and another blessing had to be said and, yes, there was more prayer.
At last the priest took George from Jon's arms and, taking care to support his head, held the baby up in front of the congregation. "George William Colbert," he pronounced, "welcome to the family of God."
Several hundred people began to clap. George couldn't possibly know what the sound meant, but he stopped crying and stared out at the crowd in wonder.
Jon glanced at Stephen for the umpteenth time, and finally let himself relax. The easy grace was back in Stephen's stance. At the sight of his son's first round of applause, he was practically glowing.
When George was lowered, Stephen took him with a proud smile, and held him during the final blessing.
"That," declared Tracey, settling down on the living room couch and pouring herself a glass of red wine, "is an experience I could do without ever having again."
"Lapsed?" inquired Charlene, taking the bottle.
"No! I mean, I'm not the most active, but it's not the Church I have a problem with." Tracey shuddered. "It's that church. Or any congregation where I can't take two steps without someone asking me whether my h—whether Jon has been Saved yet."
"You're allowed to say 'husband' around me," remarked Charlene lightly. "I'm not Stephen's kind of Catholic."
"Oh, good," breathed Tracey, and took a self-conscious sip of her wine.
It wasn't Charlene's judgment that she worried about, really; it was her comfort in general. Tracey was keenly aware that she didn't have that till-death-do-us-part feeling with anyone except Jon. But she was definitely in like with Charlene, and quite frequently in lust with Charlene, and the last thing she wanted was for the other woman to feel somehow inadequate.
When she looked up, though, Charlene was entirely intent on her own glass, which was so nearly empty that it could be tilted almost on its side for more thorough inspection.
"Well, great," laughed Tracey. "Now I feel uncultured."
Charlene blinked. "What, this? Oh, sorry, it's just a habit. Not that complex, I promise. Have you done any tastings before?"
"Once at a party. I don't think any of it stuck, though."
"I can walk you through it." She nodded at Tracey's glass. "You'll need to get that down to about two ounces first, though."
"Better give me a minute," laughed Tracey. She wasn't about to start gulping it down, even though the men had been put in charge of the kids for the evening, so it wasn't like she couldn't indulge a little.
"You know," remarked Charlene, while Tracey sipped as rapidly as she dared, "even Stephen wasn't always Stephen's kind of Catholic."
"Hard to imagine."
A mischievous smile crept across Charlene's face. "Back when we were freshmen in high school, he told me he wanted to run off to L.A. and be a godless actor."
Red wine sprayed all over the carpet.
"Stephen, Stephen, wait. I'm—ohhh—I'm serious—I don't think this is—ah!—such a good idea."
"You don't? Because it sure feels like you do."
"I like it, obviously, but I need to know—ngh! Don't you try the hip thing on me. I'm ready for the hip thing."
"You certainly are."
"That is not what I—mmm." Bracing himself against the edge of the bed, Jon managed to peel them apart. "Stephen, you are amazingly distracting, but we need to talk."
Sliding sinuously onto the edge of the mattress beside him, Stephen rested a hand on Jon's thigh and arched his eyebrows. "Do we, Jon? Do we?"
"Yes," insisted Jon, covering Stephen's wandering hand with his own and clamping it firmly in place. "Do you think you're going to hell for this?"
The other man snorted with finely tuned derision. "Don't be stupid, Jon. As if you could keep Stephen Colbert out of heaven."
"Then—are you enjoying it? I mean, is it something you want to be doing?"
"Did I feel unenthusiastic to you?"
"Uh, not most of the time," admitted Jon, feeling his dick perk up hopefully at the memory. "But then when I tried to go down on you...."
"So don't try to go down on me," snapped Stephen impatiently. "'Doctor, it hurts when I do this!' Then stop doing that!"
"It's not just that!" protested Jon. "Listen, if you really hate getting blowjobs, that's fine, we can take that off the table. Is that it? Or is there something else upsetting you?"
Stephen's head hung, fingers digging into Jon's leg. "Jon, please. You don't know what you're getting into."
"Well, I was kinda hoping you!"
The other man twitched, then took a deep breath. "I'm not...you'll have to give me a minute. There's lube in the bureau, bottom right drawer...."
"Aw, Stephen, you're missing the point," groaned Jon. "Not that I don't—I mean, I'd like to try it some time—but would you ever let us switch that up, or is it always going to be a one-way thing?"
"That's not how this works, Jon! You toss to me. I don't toss to you. Remember?"
Jon's heart sank like a rock. "Stephen. This isn't our shows. I'm not your boss here. Hell, I'm not even technically your boss at the shows anymore. I wouldn't be sleeping with you at all if I had you by the purse strings! Did you think—?"
"No! Nothing like that!"
"Then what—?"
"I can't tell you!" cried Stephen, head snapping up to glare at him, and were his eyes shining more than normal? "Why do you have to keep asking? Why can't you just back off?"
"Okay."
"You liberals with your questions and your—what?"
"I said, okay," repeated Jon. "No questions."
"Oh, thank God," breathed Stephen, and leaned forward, hand sliding towards the inside of Jon's thigh—until Jon shook him off entirely and stood up. "Jon? What are you—"
"I'm backing off," spat Jon, the phrase soaked in all the pent-up fear and anxiety and frustration of the past few days. "I'm not going to fuck you if I can't even talk to you."
Turning on his heel, he shut himself in the bathroom and spent the next five minutes splashing cold water on his face.
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And Stephen begging God made my heart ache just as much this time around.
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Now that is a Stevie-appearance :D