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ptahrrific) wrote2010-10-16 04:14 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2010-10-16 04:14 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: State of Grace, chapter 15
Title: State of Grace, Chapter 15: Let The Cleansing Begin
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
Oh, you're swinging in and out of clearness so fast. Your eyes blur and they come clear and you smile appropriately and you sit up and you blur second by second. Right? Can you feel that?
—Splitting (Stoller, 1973)
Quotations are from Back From The Brink: A Family Guide to Overcoming Traumatic Stress (Catherall, 1992) (although they're not necessarily in order, or broken up into the correct chapters). The importance of towels is explained in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Clips referenced: Stephen on the Factor.
Let The Cleansing Begin
August 24, 2007
Friday
They had planned to come over at six, and it was 5:52 when Jon pulled into the Colbert driveway.
"Got everything, slugger?" asked Jon as his son climbed out of the car. The kids had ended up with clothing at both houses, and Maggie could share a lot of the toys that George wasn't interested in yet, but there were some things that Nate insisted he couldn't live without. He had been informed that he could bring as much as he could carry.
"Got it, Daddy!" insisted Nate, hauling a bulging Spongebob backpack over his shoulder and an oversized plastic dump truck under his arm.
Jon retrieved his duffel bag and the diaper bag, then turned to his wife. "How about you, honey?"
"I'm good," said Tracey, balancing Maggie on her hip and slinging her own bag over her arm.
The curtains were all drawn as they approached the front steps, and Jon was briefly worried; but before his finger had even reached the doorbell, the door flew open. "Come in, come in!" exclaimed Stephen.
He ushered them across the threshhold, where they set down their bags and kicked off their shoes. Stephen pushed the bags out of the way, shoved the door closed, and locked it.
Then he spun Jon around and embraced him tightly.
Jon returned the hug, rubbing Stephen's back while Stephen's fingers dug into his shirt. He heard Charlene come down the stairs behind him, kiss Tracey on the cheek, and say hello to the kids. Stephen didn't move.
Tracey touched Jon's arm, picked up his bag, and smiled. I've got this.
He returned the smile gratefully. Thanks, babe.
Within a few minutes the women, kids, and bags were all gone, leaving Jon with no other distractions.
Stephen was still wrapped around him, and clearly had no intention of letting go any time soon.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"So I was thinking...."
"Dangerous thing to do, Jon."
"I know, I know. But it's going to help you."
"Are you sure?"
"I think so."
Stephen arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow.
They had retreated to the living room when Jon had admitted that his feet were getting tired, ending up together in one of the armchairs. How Stephen could manage to look skeptical with a side of derision when he was curled up in Jon's lap, Jon had no idea. Must have been another of his hidden talents.
"Listen, have you gotten a chance to look at the books at all?"
"No," sulked Stephen. "I was waiting for you."
"Oh! Well, that's all right then. How would you feel about setting aside a bit of time, maybe every other day, to go through them? Say, however long it takes to read a chapter. Me reading, I mean. To you. And we can talk about things that sound familiar or helpful, or write down any questions and pass them on to the doctor. And if you start to feel worried or panicked, I can talk you through it."
"You want to read to me," said Stephen dubiously.
"Is that all right? I mean, you can read too if you want, obviously. I just don't want you to end up feeling alone, and I thought maybe my voice would help with that."
Stephen rested his head on Jon's shoulder. "Okay."
Okay? Just like that?
I must have said something right.
"We should pick a room where you haven't had any flashbacks," continued Jon. "And, uh, it should have bigger seats than this one. What about the couch in the den?"
"Nuh-uh. Had a nightmare there."
He said it in a flat, deadened tone of voice; Jon began carding gentle fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. "All right," he said soothingly. "Not the den, then. Where?"
Stephen considered it. "Down in the basement," he said at last. "There's a little two-seater couch down there. It was going to go in the living room, until it showed up and I realized it doesn't match my red-and-blue monogrammed afghans."
"Okay. The basement it is. And I think we should start after dinner. Tonight."
Stephen didn't answer.
"Hey," said Jon gently. "It's gonna be okay. We're going to get you through this, you hear me? I'm with you. Even when you're getting dragged off into flashbacks and nightmares, I'm with you." He put a hand over Stephen's heart and squeezed gently. "Anything I can do to make you feel safe, I'll do it."
Stephen flinched. "Then—don't do that."
Jon froze. "What? What?"
Wordlessly, Stephen pushed the hand away from his chest.
"Oh! Oh, of course. Did it—remind you—of something?"
A nod.
"All right. All right. I'll keep it in mind."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Jon had been more than a little nervous about how his idea would go.
He had figured it would help if Stephen had some kind of structure to frame his experiences, naming the things he was going through and putting them in context. Apparently some of these authors had the same idea: the books were organized to provide exactly that structure. But he knew how easily Stephen could rocket into either iron denial or raw, unshielded pain; and, truth be told, he was terrified of provoking either.
So it was both relieving and unnerving when Stephen sat beside him and listened to the first chapter with such perfect calm that Jon kept stopping to ask if he was paying attention.
"What did I just say, then?" he asked, after the third time.
"'If you have an impaired ability to feel self-esteem, you tend to find less and less lasting means of feeling all right,'" recited Stephen.
Jon studied him for a moment, then looked back down at the page. Sure enough.
"I'm listening, Jon. Continue."
"All right. 'You may fill your life with work or other accomplishments to feel good about yourself. As long as you're producing, you can feel okay.' Sounds like you. Or Charlene, for that matter."
"I guess."
"'Or you may surround yourself with people who make you feel better about yourself, whether they are admirers or people toward whom you feel superior.' Now that is you."
Stephen shrugged.
"No, really! That's the whole theory behind the Colbert Nation, isn't it?"
"If you say so, Jon."
They went on like that until the end of the chapter, when Jon closed the book and set it down on the arm of the couch. "Stephen, I'm not sure this is working."
Stephen brightened. "Then can we stop?"
"Oh, no," said Jon quickly. "You're not getting out of this that easily. But—well, I know you're listening, but I don't think it's reaching you."
"It's a book, Jon. What do you expect?"
"You can't dismiss it just because it's a book."
"There's a lot of bad stuff in books, Jon."
"I'm sure there is. But you can't ignore all of them because of that, or you'll be throwing the baby out with the bathwater."
Stephen stared at him, aghast.
"It's just an expression, Stephen!"
"It better be," said Stephen warily. "I was going to ask you to help me give George his first real bath this evening, but now I'm not so sure I should let you."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"You have been washing him, right?"
"Of course I have, Jon," replied Stephen, pacing in the hallway and rocking the baby while Jon gathered supplies from the bathroom: washcloth, baby brush, no-tears shampoo. "Sponge baths, once or twice a week."
He switched into a high-pitched, singsong voice. "Because George will get dirty, won't he, even when all he does is lie around, but Daddy won't let him stay dirty for long, oh no!" George cooed; Stephen apparently took this as a sign of agreement. "That's right! But little George needs to learn how to take big-boy baths now, because in a few years he'll be running around and getting into big messes all on his own until his daddy teaches him how not to, and even then sometimes he'll have accidents, but Daddy will believe him when he says they aren't his fault, and will get him all cleaned up right away, yes he will, he won't make Stevie sleep in his own filth just to teach him a lesson he already learned, oh no—"
"Stephen!"
Stephen glanced up. "Yes, Jon?"
Jon opened his mouth and closed it a couple of times. He had only been half-listening, and Stephen looked so nonchalant—he must have heard wrong. "Uh, where's the towel?" he asked at last.
"Tsk, Jon," chided Stephen. "You should always know where your towel is."
"Why?"
Stephen frowned disapprovingly at him. "I can see you're not going to be any help in giving him a proper geek education. And it's in the hall closet."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
The supplies were piled on the kitchen counter and the sink filling with two inches of warm water before George was undressed. "Babies lose body heat quickly," Jon explained, "so he shouldn't be sitting around naked waiting for us to get ready."
"I know, Jon."
"Oh, sorry."
"It's okay, though," Stephen added a minute later. "I didn't actually find it out until a few weeks ago."
"Really? How?"
"Well, ah...What To Expect The First Year."
Jon raised his eyebrows. "You know that's a book, right?"
"Just put the water on, Stewart."
At last the bath was ready, and Jon stood back to watch Stephen lower the baby into the water. He was gratified to find that Stephen didn't need to be told to carefully support George's head, or to move slowly, or to keep up a stream of soothing narration.
Only when George began to whimper did Stephen hesitate. "Jon—!"
"Keep going, Stephen. He's okay."
"But Jon, he's crying!"
"He's not hurt. He's just a little scared. Ease him all the way in."
With a nod, Stephen laid George carefully on his back while Jon took over the soothing talk. Once the baby was safely laid down, Stephen kept one hand under his head and brought the other around to touch his little fist. George gripped his father's index finger, and his cries began to slow down.
"That always helps," explained Stephen. "He calms down when he knows he's got me."
"Oh, good," said Jon with a smile. "You hang on tight to your daddy, George, you hear? He isn't going anywhere. And neither am I."
The baby looked at him with a kind of surprised stare. He had figured out that the unfamiliar sensation wasn't a threat, but apparently it was still weird.
"Hey, Stephen, what's he going to call me? 'Godfather' is awfully formal. Should we fudge the issue and go with 'Uncle Jon'?"
Stephen shrugged. "Dunno." He frowned, then asked, with careful nonchalance, "Say, not that this is our situation or anything, but just offhand, do you happen to know what gay couples have their kids call them?"
"Depends on the couple," replied Jon. "I know some guys just use different forms of 'Dad'—like, one father is 'Daddy' and one is 'Papa'...."
"Not Papa," said Stephen promptly.
"All right." Jon paused. "But isn't that what you call—"
"Not Papa."
If there was any meaning behind that, this was not the time for Jon to push it. "All right. I'll ask around, get some ideas. We can figure it out later."
"Good idea." Stephen switched to the soothing baby-talk tone. "Got that, George? We'll figure out what you get to call Jon. Tracey can just be 'Aunt Tracey', don't you think? Sure you do. Now you're going to have to let go, because I can't clean you up if I don't have a free hand, okay? Nothing to be scared of. I'm just going to move my hand...."
He pulled his finger out of George's grip. Immediately George whimpered.
"All right, never mind that then." Restoring the hand to its former position, Stephen looked helplessly up at Jon. "Now what?"
Jon held up the washcloth. "I'm on it."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Eventually the baby had relaxed enough that he would allow Stephen's hand to be removed, but by that time he was all clean anyway.
Jon stepped aside while Stephen lifted George out of the water and set him down on the clean fluffy towel. "There you go. All done," he cooed, wrapping it around George and then using corners to dry him off bit by bit. "That wasn't so bad, was it? You got through that just fine. And next time it'll be easier, and easier, until it isn't scary at all. You'll see." Wrapping his arms around the bundled-up George, Stephen lifted him into the air. "What a good boy you are!"
The water was draining out of the sink and Jon was gathering up the supplies when Stephen gasped. "Jon, look," he breathed in wonder. "He's smiling at me, Jon!"
Fully prepared to say "It's just gas," Jon turned around.
There was no mistaking it. George's mouth was open in a wide toothless baby smile, one that dimpled his cheeks and put sparkles in his eyes.
And opposite him, Stephen's face had lit up as if a cloud had broken and the sun burst through.
"Yes, you are!" intoned Stephen in his singsong baby-talk voice. "You're smiling, George! Because you are the most perfect wonderful lovable baby in the whole wide world!" He laughed, pulling George close until they were nose to nose. "Yes, perfect and wonderful and lovable, that's what you are. George, oh George, you make me so happy."
Jon left them together and went upstairs to put away the bath things; when he came back down, Stephen had made it to a chair in the living room, still gushing at George and getting happy gurgles in return.
Leaning over the back of the chair, Jon murmured, "I'll be in the den if you want me."
Then he went off to track down clips in which Stephen had talked about O'Reilly.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
August 25, 2007
Saturday
"Stephen, are you sure you're listening?"
"Blah blah spontaneous emotional reaction blah blah personality shuts down blah blah emotionally numb," recited Stephen, beckoning Jon with the gesture he would have used on a slow teleprompter. "I'm not numb, Jon."
"Not most of the time," agreed Jon. Not on air, and certainly not with George. And yet. "But, uh, you do shut down on me sometimes."
"If you say so." Stephen beckoned again, not even looking in Jon's direction as he did so. "Movin' on...."
"Stephen, you're doing it right now. Treating me like I'm one of your cameras, or something."
"Don't be stupid, Jon." Whipping off his glasses one-handed, Stephen squinted at the page. "This is plenty...'close and comfortable'. And why would I 'feel particularly vulnerable' right now?"
Jon closed the book and put it aside.
Stephen visibly relaxed.
You're afraid, thought Jon. Everything you've told me, and you're still convinced that if you open yourself up to this conversation, something will come out that you don't want to face. Or something that you don't want me to hear.
For some reason the instructions for bathing a baby flashed through his mind. Hold on to him carefully. Ease him in. It's scary for him, so he'll cry, but it isn't hurting him, so don't worry. Just make sure you're supporting him. Talk soothingly until he calms down.
On a sudden impulse, he cupped Stephen's face in his hands, turning the other man to face him.
Stephen gasped and shut his eyes.
"You're scared," said Jon. "Scared of what you feel, and scared of what you've done, and scared of what might happen. But you're safe right now. You're safe."
Most importantly, never leave him alone, not even for a minute. He can drown in seconds in as little as an inch of water.
"Because if anything happens, I'm right here." He tucked a wisp of dark hair behind Stephen's ear. "You can lean on me. I'll listen, I'll help you, I won't let you go too far, and I won't abandon you. I know you're scared. Fight it! Let me help you fight it!"
Stephen's eyes slid open—but only halfway. Jon froze, transfixed, as one of his hands was pulled gently down until the fingertips brushed Stephen's lips.
When the other man spoke, it was low, sultry. "Oh, I'll let you do more than that."
With one last smouldering look in Jon's direction, he lowered his lashes and drew two long fingers into his mouth.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
He ran his tongue along the skin with the easy skill that comes of long practice.
Jon's hand twitched against his mouth, and he smiled.
He wasn't good, not in the least; but he was good at this.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
For a moment Jon was struck dumb.
"S-Stephen?" he squeaked at last, partly because he had no idea how the hell you were supposed to address a man putting on that kind of amazingly erotic display, and partly because, well, crazy as it sounded, he suddenly wasn't sure....
With calculated gentleness his fingers were released, the air cool on his damp skin as it left a shining trail down Stephen's chin.
"Jon," said the other man solemnly, "I'm whoever you want me to be."
Jon's heart clenched. "That's what you said when you visited the Factor."
Stephen (or was it Tyrone) raised his eyebrows. "So?"
"'So'? So—I'm not him!" Jon shook off the other man's grasp with sudden vehemence. "Forget about what I want! What do you want?"
In an instant all the easy confidence in Stephen's face scattered, leaving a look of utter confusion. "What?"
"What do you want?"
"What do I want?"
"Th-that's right."
Stephen's face twisted with agitation as Tyrone thought about it.
Then he said, "I want you, Jon."
In a sudden blur of motion he shoved Jon's headrest back with his hands while pushing the footrest out with his heel, so that all at once Jon was flat on his back with Stephen leaning over him.
"I want you," he repeated. "I want you. I want to lick you and suck you and touch you and taste you. I want to stroke every inch of you and I want to tease you until you beg and then I want to make you gasp and whimper and moan—"
Without warning he changed, shoulders slumping, eyes widening, voice going from low and sultry to high and almost childish—
"—and I want to fall asleep next to you and I want you to hold me when I wake up and I want you to pet my hair and tell me it's going to be okay and I want you to make my nightmares go away—"
He switched back without missing a beat; Jon had never been in the studio for a round of Formidable Opponent, but in person it must look something like this—
"—and I want you to do it all to me and then I want you to hold me down and invade me and I want you to leave me bruised and raw and spent and I want to follow you around and I want you to buy me presents and I want you to watch me and clap for me every night and I want you to bend me over my desk and pound me like a cheap side of meat and I want you to praise me when I'm good and I want you to forgive me when I'm bad and I want to make you scream without this voice in my head telling me that I'm dirty and I want to be near you without being told that I'm a nuisance and I want to stop feeling guilty and I want to stop feeling scared!"
He broke off, out of breath, chest heaving.
And then his expression changed once more as he stared down at Jon, a look of horror spreading across his face.
"Stephen?" whispered Jon again.
"Did he hurt you?" breathed Stephen, a flash of wildness in his eyes. "Because if he hurt you, I will kill him."
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
Oh, you're swinging in and out of clearness so fast. Your eyes blur and they come clear and you smile appropriately and you sit up and you blur second by second. Right? Can you feel that?
—Splitting (Stoller, 1973)
Quotations are from Back From The Brink: A Family Guide to Overcoming Traumatic Stress (Catherall, 1992) (although they're not necessarily in order, or broken up into the correct chapters). The importance of towels is explained in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Clips referenced: Stephen on the Factor.
Let The Cleansing Begin
August 24, 2007
Friday
They had planned to come over at six, and it was 5:52 when Jon pulled into the Colbert driveway.
"Got everything, slugger?" asked Jon as his son climbed out of the car. The kids had ended up with clothing at both houses, and Maggie could share a lot of the toys that George wasn't interested in yet, but there were some things that Nate insisted he couldn't live without. He had been informed that he could bring as much as he could carry.
"Got it, Daddy!" insisted Nate, hauling a bulging Spongebob backpack over his shoulder and an oversized plastic dump truck under his arm.
Jon retrieved his duffel bag and the diaper bag, then turned to his wife. "How about you, honey?"
"I'm good," said Tracey, balancing Maggie on her hip and slinging her own bag over her arm.
The curtains were all drawn as they approached the front steps, and Jon was briefly worried; but before his finger had even reached the doorbell, the door flew open. "Come in, come in!" exclaimed Stephen.
He ushered them across the threshhold, where they set down their bags and kicked off their shoes. Stephen pushed the bags out of the way, shoved the door closed, and locked it.
Then he spun Jon around and embraced him tightly.
Jon returned the hug, rubbing Stephen's back while Stephen's fingers dug into his shirt. He heard Charlene come down the stairs behind him, kiss Tracey on the cheek, and say hello to the kids. Stephen didn't move.
Tracey touched Jon's arm, picked up his bag, and smiled. I've got this.
He returned the smile gratefully. Thanks, babe.
Within a few minutes the women, kids, and bags were all gone, leaving Jon with no other distractions.
Stephen was still wrapped around him, and clearly had no intention of letting go any time soon.
"So I was thinking...."
"Dangerous thing to do, Jon."
"I know, I know. But it's going to help you."
"Are you sure?"
"I think so."
Stephen arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow.
They had retreated to the living room when Jon had admitted that his feet were getting tired, ending up together in one of the armchairs. How Stephen could manage to look skeptical with a side of derision when he was curled up in Jon's lap, Jon had no idea. Must have been another of his hidden talents.
"Listen, have you gotten a chance to look at the books at all?"
"No," sulked Stephen. "I was waiting for you."
"Oh! Well, that's all right then. How would you feel about setting aside a bit of time, maybe every other day, to go through them? Say, however long it takes to read a chapter. Me reading, I mean. To you. And we can talk about things that sound familiar or helpful, or write down any questions and pass them on to the doctor. And if you start to feel worried or panicked, I can talk you through it."
"You want to read to me," said Stephen dubiously.
"Is that all right? I mean, you can read too if you want, obviously. I just don't want you to end up feeling alone, and I thought maybe my voice would help with that."
Stephen rested his head on Jon's shoulder. "Okay."
Okay? Just like that?
I must have said something right.
"We should pick a room where you haven't had any flashbacks," continued Jon. "And, uh, it should have bigger seats than this one. What about the couch in the den?"
"Nuh-uh. Had a nightmare there."
He said it in a flat, deadened tone of voice; Jon began carding gentle fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. "All right," he said soothingly. "Not the den, then. Where?"
Stephen considered it. "Down in the basement," he said at last. "There's a little two-seater couch down there. It was going to go in the living room, until it showed up and I realized it doesn't match my red-and-blue monogrammed afghans."
"Okay. The basement it is. And I think we should start after dinner. Tonight."
Stephen didn't answer.
"Hey," said Jon gently. "It's gonna be okay. We're going to get you through this, you hear me? I'm with you. Even when you're getting dragged off into flashbacks and nightmares, I'm with you." He put a hand over Stephen's heart and squeezed gently. "Anything I can do to make you feel safe, I'll do it."
Stephen flinched. "Then—don't do that."
Jon froze. "What? What?"
Wordlessly, Stephen pushed the hand away from his chest.
"Oh! Oh, of course. Did it—remind you—of something?"
A nod.
"All right. All right. I'll keep it in mind."
Jon had been more than a little nervous about how his idea would go.
He had figured it would help if Stephen had some kind of structure to frame his experiences, naming the things he was going through and putting them in context. Apparently some of these authors had the same idea: the books were organized to provide exactly that structure. But he knew how easily Stephen could rocket into either iron denial or raw, unshielded pain; and, truth be told, he was terrified of provoking either.
So it was both relieving and unnerving when Stephen sat beside him and listened to the first chapter with such perfect calm that Jon kept stopping to ask if he was paying attention.
"What did I just say, then?" he asked, after the third time.
"'If you have an impaired ability to feel self-esteem, you tend to find less and less lasting means of feeling all right,'" recited Stephen.
Jon studied him for a moment, then looked back down at the page. Sure enough.
"I'm listening, Jon. Continue."
"All right. 'You may fill your life with work or other accomplishments to feel good about yourself. As long as you're producing, you can feel okay.' Sounds like you. Or Charlene, for that matter."
"I guess."
"'Or you may surround yourself with people who make you feel better about yourself, whether they are admirers or people toward whom you feel superior.' Now that is you."
Stephen shrugged.
"No, really! That's the whole theory behind the Colbert Nation, isn't it?"
"If you say so, Jon."
They went on like that until the end of the chapter, when Jon closed the book and set it down on the arm of the couch. "Stephen, I'm not sure this is working."
Stephen brightened. "Then can we stop?"
"Oh, no," said Jon quickly. "You're not getting out of this that easily. But—well, I know you're listening, but I don't think it's reaching you."
"It's a book, Jon. What do you expect?"
"You can't dismiss it just because it's a book."
"There's a lot of bad stuff in books, Jon."
"I'm sure there is. But you can't ignore all of them because of that, or you'll be throwing the baby out with the bathwater."
Stephen stared at him, aghast.
"It's just an expression, Stephen!"
"It better be," said Stephen warily. "I was going to ask you to help me give George his first real bath this evening, but now I'm not so sure I should let you."
"You have been washing him, right?"
"Of course I have, Jon," replied Stephen, pacing in the hallway and rocking the baby while Jon gathered supplies from the bathroom: washcloth, baby brush, no-tears shampoo. "Sponge baths, once or twice a week."
He switched into a high-pitched, singsong voice. "Because George will get dirty, won't he, even when all he does is lie around, but Daddy won't let him stay dirty for long, oh no!" George cooed; Stephen apparently took this as a sign of agreement. "That's right! But little George needs to learn how to take big-boy baths now, because in a few years he'll be running around and getting into big messes all on his own until his daddy teaches him how not to, and even then sometimes he'll have accidents, but Daddy will believe him when he says they aren't his fault, and will get him all cleaned up right away, yes he will, he won't make Stevie sleep in his own filth just to teach him a lesson he already learned, oh no—"
"Stephen!"
Stephen glanced up. "Yes, Jon?"
Jon opened his mouth and closed it a couple of times. He had only been half-listening, and Stephen looked so nonchalant—he must have heard wrong. "Uh, where's the towel?" he asked at last.
"Tsk, Jon," chided Stephen. "You should always know where your towel is."
"Why?"
Stephen frowned disapprovingly at him. "I can see you're not going to be any help in giving him a proper geek education. And it's in the hall closet."
The supplies were piled on the kitchen counter and the sink filling with two inches of warm water before George was undressed. "Babies lose body heat quickly," Jon explained, "so he shouldn't be sitting around naked waiting for us to get ready."
"I know, Jon."
"Oh, sorry."
"It's okay, though," Stephen added a minute later. "I didn't actually find it out until a few weeks ago."
"Really? How?"
"Well, ah...What To Expect The First Year."
Jon raised his eyebrows. "You know that's a book, right?"
"Just put the water on, Stewart."
At last the bath was ready, and Jon stood back to watch Stephen lower the baby into the water. He was gratified to find that Stephen didn't need to be told to carefully support George's head, or to move slowly, or to keep up a stream of soothing narration.
Only when George began to whimper did Stephen hesitate. "Jon—!"
"Keep going, Stephen. He's okay."
"But Jon, he's crying!"
"He's not hurt. He's just a little scared. Ease him all the way in."
With a nod, Stephen laid George carefully on his back while Jon took over the soothing talk. Once the baby was safely laid down, Stephen kept one hand under his head and brought the other around to touch his little fist. George gripped his father's index finger, and his cries began to slow down.
"That always helps," explained Stephen. "He calms down when he knows he's got me."
"Oh, good," said Jon with a smile. "You hang on tight to your daddy, George, you hear? He isn't going anywhere. And neither am I."
The baby looked at him with a kind of surprised stare. He had figured out that the unfamiliar sensation wasn't a threat, but apparently it was still weird.
"Hey, Stephen, what's he going to call me? 'Godfather' is awfully formal. Should we fudge the issue and go with 'Uncle Jon'?"
Stephen shrugged. "Dunno." He frowned, then asked, with careful nonchalance, "Say, not that this is our situation or anything, but just offhand, do you happen to know what gay couples have their kids call them?"
"Depends on the couple," replied Jon. "I know some guys just use different forms of 'Dad'—like, one father is 'Daddy' and one is 'Papa'...."
"Not Papa," said Stephen promptly.
"All right." Jon paused. "But isn't that what you call—"
"Not Papa."
If there was any meaning behind that, this was not the time for Jon to push it. "All right. I'll ask around, get some ideas. We can figure it out later."
"Good idea." Stephen switched to the soothing baby-talk tone. "Got that, George? We'll figure out what you get to call Jon. Tracey can just be 'Aunt Tracey', don't you think? Sure you do. Now you're going to have to let go, because I can't clean you up if I don't have a free hand, okay? Nothing to be scared of. I'm just going to move my hand...."
He pulled his finger out of George's grip. Immediately George whimpered.
"All right, never mind that then." Restoring the hand to its former position, Stephen looked helplessly up at Jon. "Now what?"
Jon held up the washcloth. "I'm on it."
Eventually the baby had relaxed enough that he would allow Stephen's hand to be removed, but by that time he was all clean anyway.
Jon stepped aside while Stephen lifted George out of the water and set him down on the clean fluffy towel. "There you go. All done," he cooed, wrapping it around George and then using corners to dry him off bit by bit. "That wasn't so bad, was it? You got through that just fine. And next time it'll be easier, and easier, until it isn't scary at all. You'll see." Wrapping his arms around the bundled-up George, Stephen lifted him into the air. "What a good boy you are!"
The water was draining out of the sink and Jon was gathering up the supplies when Stephen gasped. "Jon, look," he breathed in wonder. "He's smiling at me, Jon!"
Fully prepared to say "It's just gas," Jon turned around.
There was no mistaking it. George's mouth was open in a wide toothless baby smile, one that dimpled his cheeks and put sparkles in his eyes.
And opposite him, Stephen's face had lit up as if a cloud had broken and the sun burst through.
"Yes, you are!" intoned Stephen in his singsong baby-talk voice. "You're smiling, George! Because you are the most perfect wonderful lovable baby in the whole wide world!" He laughed, pulling George close until they were nose to nose. "Yes, perfect and wonderful and lovable, that's what you are. George, oh George, you make me so happy."
Jon left them together and went upstairs to put away the bath things; when he came back down, Stephen had made it to a chair in the living room, still gushing at George and getting happy gurgles in return.
Leaning over the back of the chair, Jon murmured, "I'll be in the den if you want me."
Then he went off to track down clips in which Stephen had talked about O'Reilly.
August 25, 2007
Saturday
"Stephen, are you sure you're listening?"
"Blah blah spontaneous emotional reaction blah blah personality shuts down blah blah emotionally numb," recited Stephen, beckoning Jon with the gesture he would have used on a slow teleprompter. "I'm not numb, Jon."
"Not most of the time," agreed Jon. Not on air, and certainly not with George. And yet. "But, uh, you do shut down on me sometimes."
"If you say so." Stephen beckoned again, not even looking in Jon's direction as he did so. "Movin' on...."
"Stephen, you're doing it right now. Treating me like I'm one of your cameras, or something."
"Don't be stupid, Jon." Whipping off his glasses one-handed, Stephen squinted at the page. "This is plenty...'close and comfortable'. And why would I 'feel particularly vulnerable' right now?"
Jon closed the book and put it aside.
Stephen visibly relaxed.
You're afraid, thought Jon. Everything you've told me, and you're still convinced that if you open yourself up to this conversation, something will come out that you don't want to face. Or something that you don't want me to hear.
For some reason the instructions for bathing a baby flashed through his mind. Hold on to him carefully. Ease him in. It's scary for him, so he'll cry, but it isn't hurting him, so don't worry. Just make sure you're supporting him. Talk soothingly until he calms down.
On a sudden impulse, he cupped Stephen's face in his hands, turning the other man to face him.
Stephen gasped and shut his eyes.
"You're scared," said Jon. "Scared of what you feel, and scared of what you've done, and scared of what might happen. But you're safe right now. You're safe."
Most importantly, never leave him alone, not even for a minute. He can drown in seconds in as little as an inch of water.
"Because if anything happens, I'm right here." He tucked a wisp of dark hair behind Stephen's ear. "You can lean on me. I'll listen, I'll help you, I won't let you go too far, and I won't abandon you. I know you're scared. Fight it! Let me help you fight it!"
Stephen's eyes slid open—but only halfway. Jon froze, transfixed, as one of his hands was pulled gently down until the fingertips brushed Stephen's lips.
When the other man spoke, it was low, sultry. "Oh, I'll let you do more than that."
With one last smouldering look in Jon's direction, he lowered his lashes and drew two long fingers into his mouth.
He ran his tongue along the skin with the easy skill that comes of long practice.
Jon's hand twitched against his mouth, and he smiled.
He wasn't good, not in the least; but he was good at this.
For a moment Jon was struck dumb.
"S-Stephen?" he squeaked at last, partly because he had no idea how the hell you were supposed to address a man putting on that kind of amazingly erotic display, and partly because, well, crazy as it sounded, he suddenly wasn't sure....
With calculated gentleness his fingers were released, the air cool on his damp skin as it left a shining trail down Stephen's chin.
"Jon," said the other man solemnly, "I'm whoever you want me to be."
Jon's heart clenched. "That's what you said when you visited the Factor."
Stephen (or was it Tyrone) raised his eyebrows. "So?"
"'So'? So—I'm not him!" Jon shook off the other man's grasp with sudden vehemence. "Forget about what I want! What do you want?"
In an instant all the easy confidence in Stephen's face scattered, leaving a look of utter confusion. "What?"
"What do you want?"
"What do I want?"
"Th-that's right."
Stephen's face twisted with agitation as Tyrone thought about it.
Then he said, "I want you, Jon."
In a sudden blur of motion he shoved Jon's headrest back with his hands while pushing the footrest out with his heel, so that all at once Jon was flat on his back with Stephen leaning over him.
"I want you," he repeated. "I want you. I want to lick you and suck you and touch you and taste you. I want to stroke every inch of you and I want to tease you until you beg and then I want to make you gasp and whimper and moan—"
Without warning he changed, shoulders slumping, eyes widening, voice going from low and sultry to high and almost childish—
"—and I want to fall asleep next to you and I want you to hold me when I wake up and I want you to pet my hair and tell me it's going to be okay and I want you to make my nightmares go away—"
He switched back without missing a beat; Jon had never been in the studio for a round of Formidable Opponent, but in person it must look something like this—
"—and I want you to do it all to me and then I want you to hold me down and invade me and I want you to leave me bruised and raw and spent and I want to follow you around and I want you to buy me presents and I want you to watch me and clap for me every night and I want you to bend me over my desk and pound me like a cheap side of meat and I want you to praise me when I'm good and I want you to forgive me when I'm bad and I want to make you scream without this voice in my head telling me that I'm dirty and I want to be near you without being told that I'm a nuisance and I want to stop feeling guilty and I want to stop feeling scared!"
He broke off, out of breath, chest heaving.
And then his expression changed once more as he stared down at Jon, a look of horror spreading across his face.
"Stephen?" whispered Jon again.
"Did he hurt you?" breathed Stephen, a flash of wildness in his eyes. "Because if he hurt you, I will kill him."
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Oh, boy. I was expecting some sort of backstory like this, but it's still shocking when you get right to it. Poor little Stephen.
Jon opened his mouth and closed it a couple of times. He had only been half-listening, and Stephen looked so nonchalant—he must have heard wrong. "Uh, where's the towel?" he asked at last.
I'm guessing that, before too long, Jon's going to figure out that he can't reliably use Stephen's reaction (or lack thereof) to something he said as a reference point. (The thing you mentioned about Stephen not listening to what he's saying is definitely in full play here...)
There was no mistaking it. George's mouth was open in a wide toothless baby smile, one that dimpled his cheeks and put sparkles in his eyes.
And opposite him, Stephen's face had lit up as if a cloud had broken and the sun burst through.
This is absolutely adorable. It's nice that Stephen gets a little moment of joy in the middle of his struggles.
When the other man spoke, it was low, sultry. "Oh, I'll let you do more than that."
With one last smouldering look in Jon's direction, he lowered his lashes and drew two long fingers into his mouth.
Oh, dear.
"—and I want you to do it all to me and then I want you to hold me down and invade me and I want you to leave me bruised and raw and spent and I want to follow you around and I want you to buy me presents and I want you to watch me and clap for me every night and I want you to bend me over my desk and pound me like a cheap side of meat and I want you to praise me when I'm good and I want you to forgive me when I'm bad and I want to make you scream without this voice in my head telling me that I'm dirty and I want to be near you without being told that I'm a nuisance and I want to stop feeling guilty and I want to stop feeling scared!"
Tyrone and the little boy alternating at once? Wow. Guess this is going to make it pretty well impossible for Stephen to hide the extent of his DID from Jon.
"Did he hurt you?" breathed Stephen, a flash of wildness in his eyes. "Because if he hurt you, I will kill him."
Oh, BOY. What a place to leave it! It'll be interesting to see how Jon responds to what's just happened, because by any method of reckoning, this is a Big Deal. Great chapter, as always!
(Oh, and you've likely seen this, but I've put up the fic you requested--http://community.livejournal.com/fakenews_fanfic/1091020.html)
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Ohhhh yes. By this point, Stephen isn't even saying what he's saying. And if Jon hadn't figured that out before, this last scene kind of smacks him over the head with it.
I think Stephen would have snapped long ago if he weren't so deft at snatching moments of joy out of the air when he can get them.
Tyrone and the little boy alternating at once?
Right in one :D (...in a manner of speaking.)
(I saw! I will get to it. I have about thirty tabs open D:)
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*nods* Sure, absolutely.
I think Stephen would have snapped long ago if he weren't so deft at snatching moments of joy out of the air when he can get them.
It's a good skill to have.
Right in one :D (...in a manner of speaking.)
Heh heh. :)
(I saw! I will get to it. I have about thirty tabs open D:)
Oh good! Yikes--that's a lot of tabs and a lot of stuff to look at. No worries. I just wanted to let you know it was there.
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DDDD:
Pretty throughly riveted
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Stephen takes the Man Versus Self trope to a whole new level.
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Things seem to be worked out between Tracey and Jon for the moment. :)
Damn right, that's the Colbert Nation. They're both admirers and people for Stephen to feel superior to. Sorta like "the folks".
I love how Stephen says and does things he doesn't quite believe, and then contradicts himself with stuff like the baby book. So cute. But he might go through with something like the dirty protest idea. Or someone else will. Not entirely sure about that one.
AW, George smiling is such an important thing for Stephen.
So pleased that Jon now knows what Stephen is locking away. Although there's a danger Stephen might do something silly out of sheer panic.
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Ah, the Colbert Nation. Minions and proud of it.
In theory, Stephen is a tyrannical autocrat. In practice, not so much XD
Jon knows the first layer! And the more accepting he is, the more Stephen's system will build up the safety to reveal the next, and the next...