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ptahrrific) wrote2010-11-03 12:26 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2010-11-03 12:26 pm
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Fake News: State of Grace, chapter 24
Title: State of Grace, Chapter 24: Calls Each Of Them By Name
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
The title is from Psalm 147, verse 4 (NAB). The chapter quotes verses 3-4, as well as Job 5, verse 18.
Clips referenced: Stevie's outfit; the moon landing; honor-bound; again, taking Jon down a peg.
Calls Each Of Them By Name
September 7, 2007
(Concluded)
Around bedtime, Jon realized that Stephen had disappeared.
He checked the nursery first, but it was empty except for George, who was absorbed in the stars-and-planets mobile spinning slowly above his crib. (Stephen had wanted stars and stripes, and this had been the closest he could find.) He was just starting to get worried when he found Stephen in the basement: stretched out on the couch, legs hanging awkwardly over one end, the baby monitor dangling from his fingertips.
"Long day, huh?" he said gently.
Stephen didn't look up. "Mmm."
"Do you remember...?"
"Maybe half of it."
"Anything I can fill in for you?"
"Not unless you know how Tyrone knows Charlene."
"Got me there," admitted Jon. "Maybe you could ask him."
"He's asleep."
"Oh." Jon nodded to the stairs. "Hey, speaking of sleep...you want to come upstairs? Bed's probably more comfortable."
"Jon, I can't sleep next to you right now."
Jon winced. "Even if I promise I won't—"
"Doesn't matter!" snapped Stephen. "If you brush against me—if I roll over and bump into you—there's someone in here who—Jon, I can't."
"All right, all right," soothed Jon. "Would you rather have the bed alone, then? I can take the guest room."
"I like it down here. You got a problem with that?"
"No. Of course not."
"Good." Stephen turned his face to the cushion.
Jon thought about asking if he wanted a good-night kiss, but decided not to risk it. "Sleep tight, Stephen."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
September 8, 2007
Saturday
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession."
It had been half a year since Stephen had joined Father Ted's congregation, and although the priest had made several attempts to reach out to him on a more personal level, he hadn't made much progress. Any time he tried, Stephen just smiled warmly and asked if he was sure he didn't want anything autographed, really, it would be no trouble at all. And then a week later it was back to the confessional, where Stephen recited his sins with a rote detachment—as if they were a grocery list, or stops on a subway—and then breezed away like he had forgotten them completely.
Father Ted waited patiently for this week's list to begin. He wasn't sure Stephen's venial binging-and-purging was having the healing effect it was meant to, but all he could do was keep reaching out, and ask the Lord to work on Stephen in His own time.
When instead the small chamber hung heavy with silence, he prompted, "Is there something troubling you, my son?"
"Ye-es." Stephen hesitated. "Wait, aren't you going off-script?"
"We do that sometimes nowadays," said Father Ted with a smile. "This church even offers the modernized version of the sacrament, face-to-face in my office rather than in here, with the scripted recitation and penance replaced by a conversation about how to better do God's will. Some of our parishioners find the changed focus to be comforting."
"Don't remind me. It's a slippery slope, Father! One day you stop the weekly ritual declaration of how shameful and sinful you are, and the next thing you know you're experimenting with Lutheranism."
The priest almost laughed. "I promise you, child, you may unburden yourself here and continue to be a devout Catholic."
"I guess," allowed Stephen. "It's just...well, it's complicated."
This time, when he lapsed into silence, Father Ted gave him space.
"I've been lying," stammered Stephen at last. "To my cous— my wi— to Charlene. For a long time. Maybe for as long as I've known her, I'm not really sure. But I didn't know I was doing it. Is that still a sin, Father?"
"There's no shame in not sharing a truth you don't know," said the priest cautiously, trying not to jump to conclusions about what Stephen's particular hidden truth might be, and, accordingly, not to start mentally ordering two dozen copies of What The Church Teaches About Homosexuality. "But now that you've come to the knowledge, if this is something that affects both of you, she deserves to be aware of it."
Gulping, Stephen plunged ahead. "It affects her. In a big way, it affects her. But maybe she's better off not knowing, you know? You're happier when you don't know things. Besides, I don't want her to worry about me, or to start second-guessing how much I care about her...."
"Perhaps she will. But that in itself may become an opportunity for the two of you to reaffirm your love for each other. One of the reasons we marry, after all, is to have someone to share our burdens."
"It's not her burden to bear!"
"Have you considered, my son, that your deception may be a burden of its own? 'And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.'"
"But I don't know the truth!" cried Stephen. "There's something going on in my head, Father—I can't explain it, you wouldn't understand, even if I knew how to start—and I can't control it, and I can't ignore it—I'm scared, I—I—!"
Language failed him then, the words collapsing into a piercing squeak.
"My heart goes out to you, child," murmured Father Ted. "Will you sit with me in prayer?"
Stephen choked out an incoherent noise of affirmation.
In his most calming voice, the priest asked God for peace and healing for Stephen; strength and acceptance for Stephen's loved ones; and understanding for himself, that by His help he might be able to guide Stephen aright. By the Amen his charge was quietly sobbing, so he followed the prayer with a few soothing verses. For He wounds, but He binds up; He smites, but His hands give healing. Heals the brokenhearted, binds up their wounds; numbers all the stars, calls each of them by name.
At last Stephen wiped his eyes, sat up straight, and made a valiant attempt to stammer out the Act of Contrition. "O m-my God, I am heartily s-sorry f-for...."
"Your sins are forgiven," interrupted Father Ted. "Go in peace."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"Are you sure this is all necessary?" asked Jon, eyeing the knitted gloves. They were the crowning touch on an ensemble that included long pants, two layers of socks, and a hooded sweatshirt large enough that its sleeves went over his hands anyway. "It's gonna get pretty hot under here."
"I'm sure the guest room is quite cool," sniffed Stephen. "But it is your last night here for a while, and I thought you would want to do whatever you could to spend it with me...."
"Aw, Stephen, don't be like that," protested Jon. "Listen, I'll stay for as long as I can, all right? But if you wake up alone except for a Jon-shaped puddle of sweat on the sheets, it won't be because I don't love you."
"Oh, you'll be fine." Stephen pulled the sheet over his own thin-pajama-clad body. "Small bodies lose heat faster. The baby book said so, remember?"
Unconvinced, Jon stretched out on the other side of the mattress, limbs splayed, trying to free up as much surface area as possible.
Stephen made that slightly harder by clasping his gloved hand, but that, at least, Jon wasn't going to complain about.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
September 9, 2007
Sunday
When it was time to pray in church the next day, Stevie, as always, sent up a prayer of his own: Please let this be okay, please don't hold me against Stephen, please let him take communion even though I'm here, please, please, please, please, please....
Stephen blocked him out during communion anyway, and Tyrone didn't come out in church at all unless Stephen was triggered, so it probably didn't matter. But Stevie had never taken confession, so he thought it was probably better to add the prayer, just in case.
He would have had a lot to confess. The blasphemous doubts alone could have filled a book—not a picture book, either, but one of the big thick heavy ones. He had been thinking about one of them only the day before (while Stephen was in confession, no less), because the priest had quoted the Book of Job, which was, as far as Stevie could tell, about God completely ruining poor Job's life just to win a bet. And Job got shouted at for thinking it was unjust that God had made a house collapse and kill all his sons and daughters; and then in the end God was supposed to have made up for it by giving Job new sons and daughters, as if that fixed it, as if you could just replace children the way you did cows....
Oh, but Stevie knew better than to ever breathe a whisper of that thought to Stephen. He might be needy and bothersome about a lot of things, but there were some that it was his job to carry alone. He could do that, at least.
Besides, it got a little easier when Jon was around.
Since Tyrone had gotten all quiet and relaxed after the afternoon Stephen let him out, Jon had suggested that maybe Stevie would feel better if he had the same thing: a whole afternoon where he got to do whatever he wanted. He would have been happy to just sit with Jon, maybe having Jon read to him (he could read himself, quite well, but it still felt nice) or look at his drawings; but he had asked for something else, and Jon—
After church, Jon rented a theater.
Stevie knew Jon was rich. So was Stephen, for that matter. They could rent all the theaters they wanted. And Stevie knew the whole reason was that nobody would see him, and mistake him for Stephen, and go out and tell the newspapers that Stephen had been weak or silly or tripped over his own feet.
But still, he was amazed that Jon had spent so much money just to give him a whole theater-sized safe space to come out.
While Jon carried the popcorn and sodas, Stevie skipped down the empty hall to the screen, until, sure enough, he tripped and skidded across the rug. (He didn't mean to, but Stephen's feet were so huge, his legs so long....) And Jon didn't point and laugh, or yell at him for ruining his nice clothes, or anything but stop and ask if he was okay. (Jon was so nice.)
He tried to sit quietly through the film, especially because he didn't want to miss anything. (He had only seen bits of it before, when Stephen had gone to see it with Charlene and switched all over the place.) But about halfway through he couldn't resist, and started whispering facts and figures and cool quotations into Jon's ear. (None of the snarky, witty, piercing things he could have come up with, although he let himself make a few puns, and Jon smiled a lot anyway.) Jon didn't even complain, except the one time Stevie tried to whisper with popcorn in his mouth. (And even then, he didn't shout, or glare, or cuff Stevie for being so sloppy.)
He bounced in his seat through the whole credits. (Jon could have told him it was time to go, but he got to stay, and Jon stayed with him.)
"Can we see it again, Jon?" he piped anxiously, when the screen had gone dark. "Can we, can we?"
"Are you sure?" asked Jon. "I mean, it was completely amazing, but if we watch it again, it won't leave you much time to do anything else with your afternoon...."
Stevie bounced his heels against the back of the seat in front of him. "Jon? D'you remember when the 'riginal moon landing happened?"
"Sure do. I was, uh, I guess about your age then. And Stephen would have been a little younger—do you know if he remembers?"
"'Course he remembers," said Stevie. "He was in middle school then."
"What?"
"I would stand in front of the TV an' pretend I was a reporter," continued Stevie. "Telling people all about the moon landing. An' Stephen told me I shouldn't, because it was all faked anyway. I just didn't understand, because I was the baby, but he was practically almost a teenager and he knew better."
"That's not possible," interrupted Jon. "You were five. How could Stephen have been—?"
Stevie froze, shrinking down in his seat. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to be impossible!"
Jon's face (now lit with bright purple from a widescreen ad for the concession stand) fell. "It's okay, honey. I'm not mad. Just surprised, is all." He held out a cautious hand, which Stevie grabbed and pulled close like a small stuffed toy. "Do you want to finish your story?"
"Stephen says if the movie makes enough money then the free market will have spoken and it'll mean we really did land on the moon so that's why I wanted to watch it again," blurted Stevie all in one breath. "That's all I wanted to say."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
September 10, 2007
Monday
The instant he stepped into his studio again, Stephen felt his heart soar.
Colbert, said the title above the desk. Colbert, said the shadow it cast on the wall. Colbert, said the graphic on all the plasma screens. Colbert, said the chaser lights at his feet. And not a hard T among them—not even in the "Report" that followed each one, not the way he pronounced it.
This was his place.
"Huckabee said something that felt right in my gut," he announced from behind his C-shaped desk, and Jimmy rolled the montage of the Republican candidates talking about honor—to which Stephen knew exactly how he was supposed to respond. "Which brings us to tonight's Wørd: Honor-bound."
The clean blue lines of the Wørd graphic rolled onto the screen.
"Now, I don't exactly know what they mean when they say 'honor', but it does feel right when they say it."
Things made sense here. He supported the troops, obeyed the President, and followed his gut; right was right, good was good, and up was up. All of the doubt and fear and chaos of the past two weeks had no place here.
"Let's just set aside if we should have gone into Iraq in the first place," he continued. "That's debatable."
Just Not In A Fox News Debate, the bullet chimed in.
As usual, Stephen ignored it. He could even block out the dim awareness that the text was coming from somewhere inside of him, surrounded as he was by so much glimmering reinforcement of his own identity. He could, he felt, put up with anything, so long as he was seen and named.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"God, I love you."
"Who let God into this?" teased Jon. "That was all me."
Tracey gave his bare shoulder a mock-stern shove. "Nothing's slowing that mouth down tonight, I see."
"Well, something had to pick up the slack."
"Fair enough." Tracey sobered. "Hon, I know it's just one of those things, happens to every man at some point, but...if there's anything I can do, or anything you want to talk about...."
What could Jon say to that? Well, babe, my dick is probably still a little gun-shy because I sent Stephen into a complete meltdown when I couldn't tell which of his alters I was about to slam it into. Oh, didn't I mention he has alternate personalities? And what's more, I'm starting to think maybe Stephen himself isn't real, or at least no more real than any of the other people running around in his head....
"Don't worry about it," he said instead, nuzzling his wife's neck. "Can I tell you something? This was about the least emotionally draining thing I've done all week."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
He's standing in his studio—not as it looks today, but as it looked eight years ago, when it wasn't his yet. It's definitely a familiar hall, but without any of the pictures of himself on the walls, he isn't at all sure which hall it is.
He's dressed in what had once been his favorite pair of leather short shorts, and nothing else.
He has to get out of here—but which way? If he can just get to wardrobe, he can put a show suit on. Or if he can get to his and Steve Carell's office, he can at least barricade himself in. But he doesn't recognize these doors, and any one of them could dump him onto a crowded set.
Well, he can't stay here. That much is certain.
He begins to walk down the hall.
After taking several turns, he hasn't seen any familiar doors; but he hasn't run into any people, either, so that's good. Maybe his luck will hold. Maybe—
He turns a corner and comes face to face with Jon.
"There's a perfectly good explanation for this," he tries to say, but he can't get the words out, and it isn't as though he could have said anything to explain this anyhow. He stops short, panicking...
...and Jon walks right by without giving him a second glance. Or a first one.
He whirls around just as Jon turns a corner, and tries to follow; but it feels like he's wading through molasses, every step coming sluggishly after a long struggle, and by the time he reaches the corner Jon is far off in the distance.
"Jon!" he calls, voice working again.
No response.
"How can you not notice this?" he shouts. "What's the matter? This not shocking enough? What if I took it off? You'd have to notice that!"
The other man's stride doesn't even break.
A wave of shame and regret rolls over him. What was he thinking? "Jon, wait! I didn't mean it! I know I'm not supposed to be like this! I'll get dressed, I promise! Which way are the suits, Jon?"
Maybe Jon is leading him to the suits. Maybe that's it. Jon isn't abandoning him; Jon's just showing him the way. All he has to do is catch up.
But no sooner has the thought come into his mind than his feet grow even slower; and the hallway seems to stretch as Jon walks down it, so that the harder he runs, the farther and farther he gets left behind.
"Jon—wait—please, Jon—please—!"
He trips, and falls, and no amount of effort seems able to wrest his head from the ground.
"You don't care!" he screams, knowing it's wrong but unable to stop himself, as if someone else is shouting with his voice. Besides, if it'll make Jon turn around, it's worth it. "You don't care at all! You're just too high-and-mighty to have to say 'hi' to me in the halls! Just you wait! I'm going to have you taken down a peg! Permanently!"
Someone switches off the lights. The linoleum under his feet is hard and cold.
"I didn't mean it! I'm wrong! I'm sorry! I don't want you hurt! I'll be what you want! I promise! Just come back! Don't leave me! JON!"
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
The title is from Psalm 147, verse 4 (NAB). The chapter quotes verses 3-4, as well as Job 5, verse 18.
Clips referenced: Stevie's outfit; the moon landing; honor-bound; again, taking Jon down a peg.
Calls Each Of Them By Name
September 7, 2007
(Concluded)
Around bedtime, Jon realized that Stephen had disappeared.
He checked the nursery first, but it was empty except for George, who was absorbed in the stars-and-planets mobile spinning slowly above his crib. (Stephen had wanted stars and stripes, and this had been the closest he could find.) He was just starting to get worried when he found Stephen in the basement: stretched out on the couch, legs hanging awkwardly over one end, the baby monitor dangling from his fingertips.
"Long day, huh?" he said gently.
Stephen didn't look up. "Mmm."
"Do you remember...?"
"Maybe half of it."
"Anything I can fill in for you?"
"Not unless you know how Tyrone knows Charlene."
"Got me there," admitted Jon. "Maybe you could ask him."
"He's asleep."
"Oh." Jon nodded to the stairs. "Hey, speaking of sleep...you want to come upstairs? Bed's probably more comfortable."
"Jon, I can't sleep next to you right now."
Jon winced. "Even if I promise I won't—"
"Doesn't matter!" snapped Stephen. "If you brush against me—if I roll over and bump into you—there's someone in here who—Jon, I can't."
"All right, all right," soothed Jon. "Would you rather have the bed alone, then? I can take the guest room."
"I like it down here. You got a problem with that?"
"No. Of course not."
"Good." Stephen turned his face to the cushion.
Jon thought about asking if he wanted a good-night kiss, but decided not to risk it. "Sleep tight, Stephen."
September 8, 2007
Saturday
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession."
It had been half a year since Stephen had joined Father Ted's congregation, and although the priest had made several attempts to reach out to him on a more personal level, he hadn't made much progress. Any time he tried, Stephen just smiled warmly and asked if he was sure he didn't want anything autographed, really, it would be no trouble at all. And then a week later it was back to the confessional, where Stephen recited his sins with a rote detachment—as if they were a grocery list, or stops on a subway—and then breezed away like he had forgotten them completely.
Father Ted waited patiently for this week's list to begin. He wasn't sure Stephen's venial binging-and-purging was having the healing effect it was meant to, but all he could do was keep reaching out, and ask the Lord to work on Stephen in His own time.
When instead the small chamber hung heavy with silence, he prompted, "Is there something troubling you, my son?"
"Ye-es." Stephen hesitated. "Wait, aren't you going off-script?"
"We do that sometimes nowadays," said Father Ted with a smile. "This church even offers the modernized version of the sacrament, face-to-face in my office rather than in here, with the scripted recitation and penance replaced by a conversation about how to better do God's will. Some of our parishioners find the changed focus to be comforting."
"Don't remind me. It's a slippery slope, Father! One day you stop the weekly ritual declaration of how shameful and sinful you are, and the next thing you know you're experimenting with Lutheranism."
The priest almost laughed. "I promise you, child, you may unburden yourself here and continue to be a devout Catholic."
"I guess," allowed Stephen. "It's just...well, it's complicated."
This time, when he lapsed into silence, Father Ted gave him space.
"I've been lying," stammered Stephen at last. "To my cous— my wi— to Charlene. For a long time. Maybe for as long as I've known her, I'm not really sure. But I didn't know I was doing it. Is that still a sin, Father?"
"There's no shame in not sharing a truth you don't know," said the priest cautiously, trying not to jump to conclusions about what Stephen's particular hidden truth might be, and, accordingly, not to start mentally ordering two dozen copies of What The Church Teaches About Homosexuality. "But now that you've come to the knowledge, if this is something that affects both of you, she deserves to be aware of it."
Gulping, Stephen plunged ahead. "It affects her. In a big way, it affects her. But maybe she's better off not knowing, you know? You're happier when you don't know things. Besides, I don't want her to worry about me, or to start second-guessing how much I care about her...."
"Perhaps she will. But that in itself may become an opportunity for the two of you to reaffirm your love for each other. One of the reasons we marry, after all, is to have someone to share our burdens."
"It's not her burden to bear!"
"Have you considered, my son, that your deception may be a burden of its own? 'And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.'"
"But I don't know the truth!" cried Stephen. "There's something going on in my head, Father—I can't explain it, you wouldn't understand, even if I knew how to start—and I can't control it, and I can't ignore it—I'm scared, I—I—!"
Language failed him then, the words collapsing into a piercing squeak.
"My heart goes out to you, child," murmured Father Ted. "Will you sit with me in prayer?"
Stephen choked out an incoherent noise of affirmation.
In his most calming voice, the priest asked God for peace and healing for Stephen; strength and acceptance for Stephen's loved ones; and understanding for himself, that by His help he might be able to guide Stephen aright. By the Amen his charge was quietly sobbing, so he followed the prayer with a few soothing verses. For He wounds, but He binds up; He smites, but His hands give healing. Heals the brokenhearted, binds up their wounds; numbers all the stars, calls each of them by name.
At last Stephen wiped his eyes, sat up straight, and made a valiant attempt to stammer out the Act of Contrition. "O m-my God, I am heartily s-sorry f-for...."
"Your sins are forgiven," interrupted Father Ted. "Go in peace."
"Are you sure this is all necessary?" asked Jon, eyeing the knitted gloves. They were the crowning touch on an ensemble that included long pants, two layers of socks, and a hooded sweatshirt large enough that its sleeves went over his hands anyway. "It's gonna get pretty hot under here."
"I'm sure the guest room is quite cool," sniffed Stephen. "But it is your last night here for a while, and I thought you would want to do whatever you could to spend it with me...."
"Aw, Stephen, don't be like that," protested Jon. "Listen, I'll stay for as long as I can, all right? But if you wake up alone except for a Jon-shaped puddle of sweat on the sheets, it won't be because I don't love you."
"Oh, you'll be fine." Stephen pulled the sheet over his own thin-pajama-clad body. "Small bodies lose heat faster. The baby book said so, remember?"
Unconvinced, Jon stretched out on the other side of the mattress, limbs splayed, trying to free up as much surface area as possible.
Stephen made that slightly harder by clasping his gloved hand, but that, at least, Jon wasn't going to complain about.
September 9, 2007
Sunday
When it was time to pray in church the next day, Stevie, as always, sent up a prayer of his own: Please let this be okay, please don't hold me against Stephen, please let him take communion even though I'm here, please, please, please, please, please....
Stephen blocked him out during communion anyway, and Tyrone didn't come out in church at all unless Stephen was triggered, so it probably didn't matter. But Stevie had never taken confession, so he thought it was probably better to add the prayer, just in case.
He would have had a lot to confess. The blasphemous doubts alone could have filled a book—not a picture book, either, but one of the big thick heavy ones. He had been thinking about one of them only the day before (while Stephen was in confession, no less), because the priest had quoted the Book of Job, which was, as far as Stevie could tell, about God completely ruining poor Job's life just to win a bet. And Job got shouted at for thinking it was unjust that God had made a house collapse and kill all his sons and daughters; and then in the end God was supposed to have made up for it by giving Job new sons and daughters, as if that fixed it, as if you could just replace children the way you did cows....
Oh, but Stevie knew better than to ever breathe a whisper of that thought to Stephen. He might be needy and bothersome about a lot of things, but there were some that it was his job to carry alone. He could do that, at least.
Besides, it got a little easier when Jon was around.
Since Tyrone had gotten all quiet and relaxed after the afternoon Stephen let him out, Jon had suggested that maybe Stevie would feel better if he had the same thing: a whole afternoon where he got to do whatever he wanted. He would have been happy to just sit with Jon, maybe having Jon read to him (he could read himself, quite well, but it still felt nice) or look at his drawings; but he had asked for something else, and Jon—
After church, Jon rented a theater.
Stevie knew Jon was rich. So was Stephen, for that matter. They could rent all the theaters they wanted. And Stevie knew the whole reason was that nobody would see him, and mistake him for Stephen, and go out and tell the newspapers that Stephen had been weak or silly or tripped over his own feet.
But still, he was amazed that Jon had spent so much money just to give him a whole theater-sized safe space to come out.
While Jon carried the popcorn and sodas, Stevie skipped down the empty hall to the screen, until, sure enough, he tripped and skidded across the rug. (He didn't mean to, but Stephen's feet were so huge, his legs so long....) And Jon didn't point and laugh, or yell at him for ruining his nice clothes, or anything but stop and ask if he was okay. (Jon was so nice.)
He tried to sit quietly through the film, especially because he didn't want to miss anything. (He had only seen bits of it before, when Stephen had gone to see it with Charlene and switched all over the place.) But about halfway through he couldn't resist, and started whispering facts and figures and cool quotations into Jon's ear. (None of the snarky, witty, piercing things he could have come up with, although he let himself make a few puns, and Jon smiled a lot anyway.) Jon didn't even complain, except the one time Stevie tried to whisper with popcorn in his mouth. (And even then, he didn't shout, or glare, or cuff Stevie for being so sloppy.)
He bounced in his seat through the whole credits. (Jon could have told him it was time to go, but he got to stay, and Jon stayed with him.)
"Can we see it again, Jon?" he piped anxiously, when the screen had gone dark. "Can we, can we?"
"Are you sure?" asked Jon. "I mean, it was completely amazing, but if we watch it again, it won't leave you much time to do anything else with your afternoon...."
Stevie bounced his heels against the back of the seat in front of him. "Jon? D'you remember when the 'riginal moon landing happened?"
"Sure do. I was, uh, I guess about your age then. And Stephen would have been a little younger—do you know if he remembers?"
"'Course he remembers," said Stevie. "He was in middle school then."
"What?"
"I would stand in front of the TV an' pretend I was a reporter," continued Stevie. "Telling people all about the moon landing. An' Stephen told me I shouldn't, because it was all faked anyway. I just didn't understand, because I was the baby, but he was practically almost a teenager and he knew better."
"That's not possible," interrupted Jon. "You were five. How could Stephen have been—?"
Stevie froze, shrinking down in his seat. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to be impossible!"
Jon's face (now lit with bright purple from a widescreen ad for the concession stand) fell. "It's okay, honey. I'm not mad. Just surprised, is all." He held out a cautious hand, which Stevie grabbed and pulled close like a small stuffed toy. "Do you want to finish your story?"
"Stephen says if the movie makes enough money then the free market will have spoken and it'll mean we really did land on the moon so that's why I wanted to watch it again," blurted Stevie all in one breath. "That's all I wanted to say."
September 10, 2007
Monday
The instant he stepped into his studio again, Stephen felt his heart soar.
Colbert, said the title above the desk. Colbert, said the shadow it cast on the wall. Colbert, said the graphic on all the plasma screens. Colbert, said the chaser lights at his feet. And not a hard T among them—not even in the "Report" that followed each one, not the way he pronounced it.
This was his place.
"Huckabee said something that felt right in my gut," he announced from behind his C-shaped desk, and Jimmy rolled the montage of the Republican candidates talking about honor—to which Stephen knew exactly how he was supposed to respond. "Which brings us to tonight's Wørd: Honor-bound."
The clean blue lines of the Wørd graphic rolled onto the screen.
"Now, I don't exactly know what they mean when they say 'honor', but it does feel right when they say it."
Things made sense here. He supported the troops, obeyed the President, and followed his gut; right was right, good was good, and up was up. All of the doubt and fear and chaos of the past two weeks had no place here.
"Let's just set aside if we should have gone into Iraq in the first place," he continued. "That's debatable."
Just Not In A Fox News Debate, the bullet chimed in.
As usual, Stephen ignored it. He could even block out the dim awareness that the text was coming from somewhere inside of him, surrounded as he was by so much glimmering reinforcement of his own identity. He could, he felt, put up with anything, so long as he was seen and named.
"God, I love you."
"Who let God into this?" teased Jon. "That was all me."
Tracey gave his bare shoulder a mock-stern shove. "Nothing's slowing that mouth down tonight, I see."
"Well, something had to pick up the slack."
"Fair enough." Tracey sobered. "Hon, I know it's just one of those things, happens to every man at some point, but...if there's anything I can do, or anything you want to talk about...."
What could Jon say to that? Well, babe, my dick is probably still a little gun-shy because I sent Stephen into a complete meltdown when I couldn't tell which of his alters I was about to slam it into. Oh, didn't I mention he has alternate personalities? And what's more, I'm starting to think maybe Stephen himself isn't real, or at least no more real than any of the other people running around in his head....
"Don't worry about it," he said instead, nuzzling his wife's neck. "Can I tell you something? This was about the least emotionally draining thing I've done all week."
He's standing in his studio—not as it looks today, but as it looked eight years ago, when it wasn't his yet. It's definitely a familiar hall, but without any of the pictures of himself on the walls, he isn't at all sure which hall it is.
He's dressed in what had once been his favorite pair of leather short shorts, and nothing else.
He has to get out of here—but which way? If he can just get to wardrobe, he can put a show suit on. Or if he can get to his and Steve Carell's office, he can at least barricade himself in. But he doesn't recognize these doors, and any one of them could dump him onto a crowded set.
Well, he can't stay here. That much is certain.
He begins to walk down the hall.
After taking several turns, he hasn't seen any familiar doors; but he hasn't run into any people, either, so that's good. Maybe his luck will hold. Maybe—
He turns a corner and comes face to face with Jon.
"There's a perfectly good explanation for this," he tries to say, but he can't get the words out, and it isn't as though he could have said anything to explain this anyhow. He stops short, panicking...
...and Jon walks right by without giving him a second glance. Or a first one.
He whirls around just as Jon turns a corner, and tries to follow; but it feels like he's wading through molasses, every step coming sluggishly after a long struggle, and by the time he reaches the corner Jon is far off in the distance.
"Jon!" he calls, voice working again.
No response.
"How can you not notice this?" he shouts. "What's the matter? This not shocking enough? What if I took it off? You'd have to notice that!"
The other man's stride doesn't even break.
A wave of shame and regret rolls over him. What was he thinking? "Jon, wait! I didn't mean it! I know I'm not supposed to be like this! I'll get dressed, I promise! Which way are the suits, Jon?"
Maybe Jon is leading him to the suits. Maybe that's it. Jon isn't abandoning him; Jon's just showing him the way. All he has to do is catch up.
But no sooner has the thought come into his mind than his feet grow even slower; and the hallway seems to stretch as Jon walks down it, so that the harder he runs, the farther and farther he gets left behind.
"Jon—wait—please, Jon—please—!"
He trips, and falls, and no amount of effort seems able to wrest his head from the ground.
"You don't care!" he screams, knowing it's wrong but unable to stop himself, as if someone else is shouting with his voice. Besides, if it'll make Jon turn around, it's worth it. "You don't care at all! You're just too high-and-mighty to have to say 'hi' to me in the halls! Just you wait! I'm going to have you taken down a peg! Permanently!"
Someone switches off the lights. The linoleum under his feet is hard and cold.
"I didn't mean it! I'm wrong! I'm sorry! I don't want you hurt! I'll be what you want! I promise! Just come back! Don't leave me! JON!"