Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2010-11-11 02:23 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2010-11-11 02:23 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: State of Grace, chapter 28
Title: State of Grace, Chapter 28: Couples, Counseled
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
Clips referenced: Dr. Rubin; Dan Savage; blacking out; Columbus Day.
Couples, Counseled
October 1, 2007
Monday
"So, uh, I guess I'm supposed to lie on the couch now?"
"If you like," said Dr. Rubin reasonably. "You're free to wander around the room, if that's what strikes your fancy. I once had a patient who used to spend entire sessions working on puzzles. But most people just sit."
"Amateurs."
"I suppose that's one way to look at it."
"Are you humoring me?"
The doctor gave him a thoughtful once-over. "Would it bother you if I was?"
"As long as you don't do it when I get to the serious stuff. And by 'serious stuff' I mean 'the sex I'm not having'. You know, like every other middle-aged neurotic Jew freaking out over his declining libido. Uh, no aspersions to present company."
Dr. Rubin hm-hmmed over this, folding his hands together. "Do you think your worries are typical?"
"Well." The thinning elbows of Jon's sleeves rested on his knees, hands twitching in abbreviated gestures as they dangled in the air. "A couple weeks ago, I triggered my partner so badly that he wouldn't let me touch him for days. I'm pretty sure they didn't cover that in Annie Hall."
The doctor didn't miss a beat. "And how did that make you feel?"
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
October 3, 2007
Wednesday
Lunch in Stephen's office had always been somewhat surreal, so Jon took it in stride when he found Stephen already wearing one of his show suits. He made himself comfortable on the couch, high-class grey-and-khaki ensemble and all, and tried not to drip soy sauce on the imitation leather.
"Dan Savage is on today," remarked Stephen, trying to sound nonchalant as he picked at his eggroll.
"'Zat so?" said Jon through a mouthful of flat noodles.
"Mmhmm. He's one of the gays, by the way. Did you know that?"
Jon swallowed, hiding a smile behind his napkin. "I've heard rumors."
"It's not rude to say so, right?" asked Stephen anxiously. "I mean, it's just a fact. Can't be an insult if it's just fact."
"Well, generally speaking," agreed Jon, treading with care. How many layers of meaning was Stephen pulling out of this? Certainly more than he could see. "If you were trying to make him feel bad about it, that would be another story. Careful," he added, as Stephen worried the end of a chopstick between his teeth. "You don't want to get splinters."
Spitting out the chopstick, Stephen shoved his dish aside. Before Jon knew what was happening, the other man was snatching the half-full carton of noodles out of his own hands to drop it, metal fork and all, in the trash.
"Ste—" spluttered Jon, as his immaculately besuited boyfriend straddled his thighs.
"If I said you were gay," began Stephen. He didn't finish the sentence, just arched his eyebrows expectantly.
"Well, uh, you would be close," stammered Jon. There didn't seem to be anywhere to put his hands; he ended up resting them on Stephen's hips. "I'm somewhere in the middle. I mean, I'm gay enough to, ah, to want you, but straight enough that I didn't see it coming. This is still you, right?"
"It's me!" cried Stephen, slamming the heels of his hands down on either side of Jon's head, polka-dotted navy-blue tie flapping wildly in the air between them. "It's my studio. It's my time. Answer me, Jon! You liked it? The gay stuff? Before I...before?"
"Before," echoed Jon. "When I thought it was going well."
Stephen gulped, Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Did you? I was there for some of it, you know. I saw. Usually I just black out during sex, any sex, but this time I was there, and you...you looked so...." He brushed a hand against Jon's cheek. "So fragile."
Jon managed an uncomfortable laugh. "Careful, you'll hurt my manly pride."
Face falling, Stephen jerked away.
"Now, hang on—I didn't mean—Stephen, you do realize this stuff is fragile for everyone, right? Obviously it's harder for someone who's been...shamed and used, the way you have. But sex isn't perfectly easy for anyone. Doesn't mean somebody did something wrong. It's just part of the human condition."
"It's easy for Tyrone," muttered Stephen, chewing on his bottom lip.
For the hundredth time, their conversations from that night ran through Jon's mind (every moment by now elaborated with mental footnotes for things he could have done better). "I don't think it is," he said softly. "I think he's as vulnerable as you are."
"I'm not—!" Stephen stopped on the fly, course-correcting in midair before he repeated Tyrone's line syllable for syllable. "I hate being vulnerable!"
"I know, babe. I know."
Stephen flinched. "And it's supposed to be like that? And you knew? And you did it anyway?"
"Well, yeah," said Jon. "Sometimes it's worth it."
Stephen reflexively smoothed back his tie, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it fell away from his chest the instant he let it go. "Jon? Will you pull me closer?"
"Sure." Jon slid his hands around Stephen's waist, clasping them against the small of Stephen's back, where they rested smoothly between the silk of his shirt and the even silkier lining of his jacket. "Is this okay?"
"Fine! Just fine. Don't move."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"Let me say this clearly: You should never attack someone based on sexual orientation and gender. You should attack them based on fear and anger."
Dan inevitably got some flak whenever he appeared on The Colbert Report, but to his own surprise, he kind of liked it. Raging homophobe though the host was, he never failed to start out charming and friendly; and even when he got hostile, he had such odd ideas that it was hard to take him seriously.
"Besides, violence is never the answer," continued Stephen. "You can do far more damage pantsing them in gym class."
See?
Okay, Stephen favored indiscriminate shouting at people who disagreed with him; but that just made Dan especially proud when he managed to get a good explanation in edgewise.
Once he had set up the segment, Stephen introduced his guest, waited for the applause to die down, then asked, "Why do we need expanded hate-crime laws? There are already laws that say I can't attack you! Why do we need to make this a hate crime?"
Dan was well prepared for this one. "The pro-hate-crimes-legislation argument is really about pluralism. When someone targets a person because of their faith, or their sexual orientation, or their race, it's an attack not just against that person as an individual, but an attempt to terrorize the entire group. To make all African-Americans feel oppressed. To make all gay people feel oppressed. To make all Christians!—Christians are a protected class, under hate crimes legislation as it is currently passed. This is just updating it, adding sexual orientation—which would not only add an extra level of protection for me, but for you! If I—"
"Excuse me?" demanded Stephen. "What are you insinuating?"
(What was that—five, six sentences before he had interrupted? That had to be some kind of record.)
"I'm insinuating...." Okay, Dan had his suspicions about the man, but they hadn't affected his argument. "...that you're a heterosexual. Are you rejecting that?"
Stephen froze.
His composure was impressive. Only a muscle in his jaw twitched, so small that probably no one but Dan would notice.
No. No way. He's a heterosexually-identified married homophobe. He hasn't softened his attitude towards homosexuality recently. He hasn't even been caught with a gay hooker. He is not going to come out right now.
Is he?
"...you know what?" said Stephen, breaking the too-long pause.
"What?" prompted Dan, by now dying with curiosity.
"I am...secure enough," said Stephen, slowly, as if dipping his verbal toes into this idea to see how it felt, "in my sexual orientation...that I do not need to...defend it...from you. That's right. What do you think, audience? Do I need to prove anything to this man?"
The crowd in the stands burst out in a combination of various nays and indiscriminate applause.
Stephen threw open his arms to the crowd, which broke into cheers; he basked in these for longer than was strictly necessary, then shut them off with a wave of his hand. "There," he said triumphantly to Dan. "What do you think of that?"
"I think," said Dan, "that that was a much better answer than I expected."
"Really? Cool! —Not that I need your approval, or anything."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
October 4, 2007
Thursday
With a scream and a crash he landed on a floor that seemed much too cold.
Hold still. Don't cry. Don't be a nuisance.
Where was he?
(Shake it off, Col-bert!)
This was it. He had pulled out one plank of his existence and the rest had come tumbling down after it and now he was nothing....
"Stephen? Are you okay?"
"Ch-Charlene?" croaked Stephen. Had his tongue always been so heavy? "Is this my room?"
"Of course it's your room. Can I come in?"
Stephen didn't answer. He was too busy clutching the blanket around him, concentrating on the texture, building up the solid and present scene around him. His room. His bed. His house. His fortress.
"I heard you scream," ventured Charlene, crouching beside him in the dimness. Even the moon was hiding; the only light was the bright red digits spelling out 2:48 on the nightstand.
"Nightmare," whispered Stephen.
"But you're okay now?"
I'm fine. Never better. See me shake?
"C-cold," choked Stevie.
Charlene jumped to her feet with palpable relief. "I'll make you some cocoa."
She was gone before Stephen could plead Don't leave me alone.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," murmured Stephen, staring at the half-melted mini-marshmallows bobbing on the surface of his cocoa. "About me. Us. Father Ted said we should."
Across the kitchen table, Charlene cocked her head. "Your priest knows?"
"He knew we were keeping a secret. He doesn't know about 'we'."
"Oh."
"A-and I'm sorry Tyrone won't come out," her cousin continued, hands wrapped tightly around the Blue's Clues mug. "I think he's embarrassed. I think. I didn't know he could get embarrassed."
"Steve was good at hiding it," admitted Charlene, stumbling over the third-person pronouns addressed to the second-person face. "I usually saw through him, though."
"Like Jon sees through me."
Charlene broke into a mild coughing fit.
"Shake it off, Col-bert," added Stephen sharply. "It's too hot. You'll burn your tongue."
"Is that Stevie?" echoed Charlene. "The little one?"
"Uh-huh. He wants the cocoa."
"Can I say hi to him?"
"Go ahead."
Any other time, she might not have gone with it. But at three in the morning and half-asleep herself, she was just floaty enough to say, with perfect seriousness, "Hello, Stevie. How are you this morning?"
"Fine, thank you ma'am."
For Charlene, whose own accent had morphed and curled as a dozen different languages flowed into her vocabulary, the unfettered South Cackalakian was a jolt to the ears. "Good. That's good," she stammered. "Do you know me?"
Were her eyes playing tricks on her, or had Stephen's eyes gotten bigger? "I used to play with you," he said dutifully. "You taught me how to make googley-eyed clams."
All at once Charlene was wide awake. "You remember that?"
Stevie cringed, the blanket around his shoulders looking suddenly far too large for his frame, like it might fall over and envelop him.
Then he sat up, straighter than before. "I knew that didn't sound like me," he muttered triumphantly, the newsman accent firmly back in place.
"So he was there too? Some of my Steve was him?"
"Of course some of it was him," huffed Stephen. "What makes you think none of it was me? He's supposed to be a part of me, right?"
Charlene leaned forward, elbows crumpling the tablecloth. "Stephen, if you're stringing me along...."
"I'm not! I swear, I'm not!" cried Stephen. "I can't be. Because I care about you! That had to come from somewhere, right? So what if I don't remember much? Lots of people have repressed memories, even when they have just regular old PTSD and not—not this. It doesn't have to mean anything!"
It was still Stephen's voice, but again he looked as small as Stevie had, a child huddled in the dark and shouting to keep the monsters at bay. Both of them present, she realized, different but linked. On some level they were all tangled together, even if none of them could reach that deep.
The feeling of looking at an imposter in her cousin's body—a cloud that had shadowed her long before there was any diagnosis to give it shape—began to evaporate.
"Does it help at all when we reminisce?" she asked softly. "When we talk about things we used to do together, I mean. When I fill in the parts you don't remember."
"Dunno," mumbled Stephen.
"I like it when you tell me stories," added Stevie shyly.
"Don't bother her," chided Stephen. "Drink your cocoa."
One or both of them gulped down a mouthful, leaving a line of foam on their upper lip.
"Well, I think I'd like it too," confessed Charlene.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
October 8, 2007
Monday
As the rehearsal finished, Stephen sat back in his chair, crossed his heels on the C-shaped desk, and flipped through the script. That went well! A little celebration of Columbus Day, a little praise of the Pope, a little kid-friendly backing of the President, a little support of Rush Limbaugh, and a congratulation for Dr. Moreau on her brand new Nobel. All in a day's work.
Then, slowly, tentatively, he reached out to Stevie. You want to try some of this?
"Me?" squeaked Stevie.
"Yes, you! If you're going to be staying around, you need to learn to behave like a grown-up. Which means working for a living. Which, if you're me, which you are, means shouting at people who disagree with you."
"Can't I please just say how Dr. Moreau's awesome?" begged Stevie. "I liked that part."
"No. You understand why these things need to be shouted about, right?"
"Uh-huh."
"So why can't you—? Hang on. Do you disagree with them?"
"Uh-huh."
"All of them?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why!?"
"I'm sorry!" yelped Stevie, and tried to hide.
Stephen took a deep breath. Then another. "What if I said you could change something on here?"
"...really?"
"One thing!" added Stephen quickly. "And you can't say anything unpatriotic. Or un-Catholic. And you can't imply that I've reconsidered any of my past opinions. Because it's still my show."
"Then what am I s'posed to do?"
"How should I know? You're the one who thinks all the time! Think of something!"
"Okay!" cried Stevie. "Let me think about it!"
So Stephen eased back and let Stevie flip through the script.
At last the boy said, "Well, I don't think Columbus was so great."
"Why not?" demanded Stephen. "You got something against discovering America?"
"No! I love discovering America!"
"Then why would you belittle the great American hero who—"
"He wasn't American!"
"What?"
"He wasn't! He was Italian! An' there were already people in America when he got here!"
Stephen did a double-take. "Wait, really?"
"Really!"
"Well, then, this is going to have to change," declared Stephen. Yanking the cap off his pen with his teeth, he spat it off to one side and started drawing a series of thick blue lines through the first page.
"Um, Stephen?"
"What?"
"I think people are staring."
Stephen looked up. The camera crew, roadies, and interns were all suddenly preoccupied with their shoes, the ceiling, and assorted other non-Stephen parts of the room.
"Bobby!" called Stephen. "Was I just talking to myself?"
The stage manager jumped. "Uh, that's what it looked like."
"It's just Formidable Opponent!" shouted Stephen to the room. "Stop acting like you haven't seen it a million times!"
"No problem, Stephen," said Bobby. "Um, were you just striking part of the script?"
"Yes," announced Stephen definitively. "Yes, I am."
"Are you going to replace it with a Formidable Opponent? Because you know you're supposed to tell the writers when you do that...."
"No, no, don't worry about it. I'll wing it."
"If you're sure, Stephen."
"I'm always sure." Then, clamping his mouth closed and holding his breath so that Stevie's whimpers couldn't escape, he thought sternly, See? It'll be fine. Stop freaking out. I'll even handle the shouting. You just tell me what to shout.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
October 12, 2007
Friday
Standing next to the baby-products shelf with a cart full of diapers, Stephen patted George's head. "Just a little longer, baby boy," he soothed. "Hang in there."
George whimpered his discontent. Stephen rocked back and forth on his heels until the fussing settled.
"I'm going to walk around all the aisles now," he said under his breath, trying not to feel self-conscious. Anyone watching would assume he was talking to the baby. "So the rest of you can have a chance to pick things out. If you see something you want, just grab it. I'm not promising I'll buy it. But grab it anyway."
Still jiggling the sling that cradled George, he pushed the cart forwards and tried not to think too hard. That, at least, posed no trouble.
When he got to the end of the last aisle (laundry detergent on one side, jars of peanuts on the other), Stephen stopped and gaped at the cart. There were snacks stacked on top of the diapers, stuffed animals crammed in between the band-aids and cotton swabs, hair gel piled next to the toothpaste; in the lap of a plush black cat was a hollow plastic pumpkin, just the right size to hold enough Halloween candy to send a small child into insulin shock. Picking up the pumpkin, Stephen found that it had been stuffed with four sheets of stickers, a box of Trojans, and a vial of glittery pink nail polish.
"I am not getting any of this junk," he said out loud. "Especially not...that."
He glared reproachfully at a bright orange stuffed bear, picking it up by its candy-corn nose with the distaste normally reserved for...well, George's diapers.
Oh, fuck you, Colbert, snapped a voice in the back of his head.
Stephen was so startled that he dropped the bear. "Tyrone?" he blurted.
Static. Silence and static, a low flood of white noise that seemed to be composed of Stevie sniffling over the teddy while Sweetness hissed at it.
"Fine," muttered Stephen, snatching it up and perching it on top of the shelf of detergent. "We're still not getting the bear. But we can get the cat. And the stickers. And some of the food. Only not the Baconnaise, because Jon will have a pre-emptive heart attack. Are you happy now?"
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
October 13, 2007
Saturday
"It feels good when I talk with her," said Stephen cautiously, laying the words methodically down as if he meant to knock each one to check whether they were hollow. "Sometimes. Other times it feels like I accidentally drank one of my sponsors. I mean the beer sponsors, not the Axe Body Spray. Although I wouldn't be surprised if they taste about the same."
"Working through our wrongdoings can be a painful process," replied Father Ted from the other side of the screen. (Stephen had never realized priests knew so much beyond how many Hail Marys to hand out.) "Nobody ever said the path to Heaven would be easy. Only that it would be worth it."
"You think?"
"I do. And if you ever find something too difficult to talk about on your own, you're welcome to invite her here for couples counseling."
Stephen choked back a decidedly unpious snort. The idea of having someone sit down with him and Charlene and ask sober questions, which would doubtless include So How About That Conjugal Bed! and Have You Started Thinking About Bringing More Little Catholics Into The Fold? (Not that George wasn't a perfectly valid budding Catholic, mind you. But there were more than a few parishioners who gave his baby funny looks when they thought Stephen wasn't paying attention.)
"She has this, uh, friend," he blurted. "A guy she's known since they were kids. And, well, I don't like the idea of them hanging out. I don't think he's good for her. Is that wrong of me, Father?"
"You can't control your wife's friendships," the priest said gently. "Are you concerned that there might be romantic feelings between them?"
Now Stephen really did laugh. "What? No! Don't be ridiculous. They're—he's—she's—he sings for the other choir. If you know what I mean."
"I see." Father Ted's voice was grave. "I realize this can be troubling, my son, but the Lord calls on us to meet homosexuality with love, not fear."
"H-He does?"
"He does. No one among us is without sin, after all. And perhaps an association with a healthy, loving marriage will prove to be just what this man needs to guide him back to the right path."
Before he could agree, Stephen's head was flooded with Stevie's voice, riding on a wave of Stevie's hurt and fear. "I don't like it here. He's scaring me. Jon wouldn't say that. Jon would hug me and tell me it's all right. Where's Jon?"
Shake it off, Col-bert! ordered Stephen. Jon's at home. And we're not going there now, because I'm busy!
"I can't stay here!" wailed Stevie. "You can't make me stay!"
He tripped over a gnarled root and stumbled down the grassy slope, skidding to a halt as he reached the sidewalk that bordered the parking lot.
Sunlight. Fresh air. The stone walls of the church behind him, and Sandy Schill who ran the nursery off to the right, shepherding her cross-looking eight-year-old towards its doors. She gave her fellow parishioner a friendly nod, which Stephen returned automatically, though the sulk on her daughter's face was more than enough to set Stevie trembling all over again.
I don't have to go back in, Stephen told himself, striding firmly towards the car as if that had been his plan all along. I got most of the confessing done. It probably counts. And I can miss the service, just to be sure. I'll say I got sick. Or George got sick. Who knows? Maybe he even will. I'd better stay home with him, just in case. I don't have to come back at all...until next Saturday.
Not fooled for an instant, Stevie let out an internal sob the instant that plan tried to sneak by.
I won't even make it home if you keep panicking like that! thought Stephen desperately.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he shouted back into his own mind, as loudly as he could: Will someone in there please hug Stevie for a while?
Whether Tyrone or Sweetness or somebody else responded, he couldn't tell. All he knew was that by the time he got behind the wheel the panic receded, the sobs in the back of his head dwindling to sniffles.
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
Clips referenced: Dr. Rubin; Dan Savage; blacking out; Columbus Day.
Couples, Counseled
October 1, 2007
Monday
"So, uh, I guess I'm supposed to lie on the couch now?"
"If you like," said Dr. Rubin reasonably. "You're free to wander around the room, if that's what strikes your fancy. I once had a patient who used to spend entire sessions working on puzzles. But most people just sit."
"Amateurs."
"I suppose that's one way to look at it."
"Are you humoring me?"
The doctor gave him a thoughtful once-over. "Would it bother you if I was?"
"As long as you don't do it when I get to the serious stuff. And by 'serious stuff' I mean 'the sex I'm not having'. You know, like every other middle-aged neurotic Jew freaking out over his declining libido. Uh, no aspersions to present company."
Dr. Rubin hm-hmmed over this, folding his hands together. "Do you think your worries are typical?"
"Well." The thinning elbows of Jon's sleeves rested on his knees, hands twitching in abbreviated gestures as they dangled in the air. "A couple weeks ago, I triggered my partner so badly that he wouldn't let me touch him for days. I'm pretty sure they didn't cover that in Annie Hall."
The doctor didn't miss a beat. "And how did that make you feel?"
October 3, 2007
Wednesday
Lunch in Stephen's office had always been somewhat surreal, so Jon took it in stride when he found Stephen already wearing one of his show suits. He made himself comfortable on the couch, high-class grey-and-khaki ensemble and all, and tried not to drip soy sauce on the imitation leather.
"Dan Savage is on today," remarked Stephen, trying to sound nonchalant as he picked at his eggroll.
"'Zat so?" said Jon through a mouthful of flat noodles.
"Mmhmm. He's one of the gays, by the way. Did you know that?"
Jon swallowed, hiding a smile behind his napkin. "I've heard rumors."
"It's not rude to say so, right?" asked Stephen anxiously. "I mean, it's just a fact. Can't be an insult if it's just fact."
"Well, generally speaking," agreed Jon, treading with care. How many layers of meaning was Stephen pulling out of this? Certainly more than he could see. "If you were trying to make him feel bad about it, that would be another story. Careful," he added, as Stephen worried the end of a chopstick between his teeth. "You don't want to get splinters."
Spitting out the chopstick, Stephen shoved his dish aside. Before Jon knew what was happening, the other man was snatching the half-full carton of noodles out of his own hands to drop it, metal fork and all, in the trash.
"Ste—" spluttered Jon, as his immaculately besuited boyfriend straddled his thighs.
"If I said you were gay," began Stephen. He didn't finish the sentence, just arched his eyebrows expectantly.
"Well, uh, you would be close," stammered Jon. There didn't seem to be anywhere to put his hands; he ended up resting them on Stephen's hips. "I'm somewhere in the middle. I mean, I'm gay enough to, ah, to want you, but straight enough that I didn't see it coming. This is still you, right?"
"It's me!" cried Stephen, slamming the heels of his hands down on either side of Jon's head, polka-dotted navy-blue tie flapping wildly in the air between them. "It's my studio. It's my time. Answer me, Jon! You liked it? The gay stuff? Before I...before?"
"Before," echoed Jon. "When I thought it was going well."
Stephen gulped, Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Did you? I was there for some of it, you know. I saw. Usually I just black out during sex, any sex, but this time I was there, and you...you looked so...." He brushed a hand against Jon's cheek. "So fragile."
Jon managed an uncomfortable laugh. "Careful, you'll hurt my manly pride."
Face falling, Stephen jerked away.
"Now, hang on—I didn't mean—Stephen, you do realize this stuff is fragile for everyone, right? Obviously it's harder for someone who's been...shamed and used, the way you have. But sex isn't perfectly easy for anyone. Doesn't mean somebody did something wrong. It's just part of the human condition."
"It's easy for Tyrone," muttered Stephen, chewing on his bottom lip.
For the hundredth time, their conversations from that night ran through Jon's mind (every moment by now elaborated with mental footnotes for things he could have done better). "I don't think it is," he said softly. "I think he's as vulnerable as you are."
"I'm not—!" Stephen stopped on the fly, course-correcting in midair before he repeated Tyrone's line syllable for syllable. "I hate being vulnerable!"
"I know, babe. I know."
Stephen flinched. "And it's supposed to be like that? And you knew? And you did it anyway?"
"Well, yeah," said Jon. "Sometimes it's worth it."
Stephen reflexively smoothed back his tie, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it fell away from his chest the instant he let it go. "Jon? Will you pull me closer?"
"Sure." Jon slid his hands around Stephen's waist, clasping them against the small of Stephen's back, where they rested smoothly between the silk of his shirt and the even silkier lining of his jacket. "Is this okay?"
"Fine! Just fine. Don't move."
"Let me say this clearly: You should never attack someone based on sexual orientation and gender. You should attack them based on fear and anger."
Dan inevitably got some flak whenever he appeared on The Colbert Report, but to his own surprise, he kind of liked it. Raging homophobe though the host was, he never failed to start out charming and friendly; and even when he got hostile, he had such odd ideas that it was hard to take him seriously.
"Besides, violence is never the answer," continued Stephen. "You can do far more damage pantsing them in gym class."
See?
Okay, Stephen favored indiscriminate shouting at people who disagreed with him; but that just made Dan especially proud when he managed to get a good explanation in edgewise.
Once he had set up the segment, Stephen introduced his guest, waited for the applause to die down, then asked, "Why do we need expanded hate-crime laws? There are already laws that say I can't attack you! Why do we need to make this a hate crime?"
Dan was well prepared for this one. "The pro-hate-crimes-legislation argument is really about pluralism. When someone targets a person because of their faith, or their sexual orientation, or their race, it's an attack not just against that person as an individual, but an attempt to terrorize the entire group. To make all African-Americans feel oppressed. To make all gay people feel oppressed. To make all Christians!—Christians are a protected class, under hate crimes legislation as it is currently passed. This is just updating it, adding sexual orientation—which would not only add an extra level of protection for me, but for you! If I—"
"Excuse me?" demanded Stephen. "What are you insinuating?"
(What was that—five, six sentences before he had interrupted? That had to be some kind of record.)
"I'm insinuating...." Okay, Dan had his suspicions about the man, but they hadn't affected his argument. "...that you're a heterosexual. Are you rejecting that?"
Stephen froze.
His composure was impressive. Only a muscle in his jaw twitched, so small that probably no one but Dan would notice.
No. No way. He's a heterosexually-identified married homophobe. He hasn't softened his attitude towards homosexuality recently. He hasn't even been caught with a gay hooker. He is not going to come out right now.
Is he?
"...you know what?" said Stephen, breaking the too-long pause.
"What?" prompted Dan, by now dying with curiosity.
"I am...secure enough," said Stephen, slowly, as if dipping his verbal toes into this idea to see how it felt, "in my sexual orientation...that I do not need to...defend it...from you. That's right. What do you think, audience? Do I need to prove anything to this man?"
The crowd in the stands burst out in a combination of various nays and indiscriminate applause.
Stephen threw open his arms to the crowd, which broke into cheers; he basked in these for longer than was strictly necessary, then shut them off with a wave of his hand. "There," he said triumphantly to Dan. "What do you think of that?"
"I think," said Dan, "that that was a much better answer than I expected."
"Really? Cool! —Not that I need your approval, or anything."
October 4, 2007
Thursday
With a scream and a crash he landed on a floor that seemed much too cold.
Hold still. Don't cry. Don't be a nuisance.
Where was he?
(Shake it off, Col-bert!)
This was it. He had pulled out one plank of his existence and the rest had come tumbling down after it and now he was nothing....
"Stephen? Are you okay?"
"Ch-Charlene?" croaked Stephen. Had his tongue always been so heavy? "Is this my room?"
"Of course it's your room. Can I come in?"
Stephen didn't answer. He was too busy clutching the blanket around him, concentrating on the texture, building up the solid and present scene around him. His room. His bed. His house. His fortress.
"I heard you scream," ventured Charlene, crouching beside him in the dimness. Even the moon was hiding; the only light was the bright red digits spelling out 2:48 on the nightstand.
"Nightmare," whispered Stephen.
"But you're okay now?"
I'm fine. Never better. See me shake?
"C-cold," choked Stevie.
Charlene jumped to her feet with palpable relief. "I'll make you some cocoa."
She was gone before Stephen could plead Don't leave me alone.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," murmured Stephen, staring at the half-melted mini-marshmallows bobbing on the surface of his cocoa. "About me. Us. Father Ted said we should."
Across the kitchen table, Charlene cocked her head. "Your priest knows?"
"He knew we were keeping a secret. He doesn't know about 'we'."
"Oh."
"A-and I'm sorry Tyrone won't come out," her cousin continued, hands wrapped tightly around the Blue's Clues mug. "I think he's embarrassed. I think. I didn't know he could get embarrassed."
"Steve was good at hiding it," admitted Charlene, stumbling over the third-person pronouns addressed to the second-person face. "I usually saw through him, though."
"Like Jon sees through me."
Charlene broke into a mild coughing fit.
"Shake it off, Col-bert," added Stephen sharply. "It's too hot. You'll burn your tongue."
"Is that Stevie?" echoed Charlene. "The little one?"
"Uh-huh. He wants the cocoa."
"Can I say hi to him?"
"Go ahead."
Any other time, she might not have gone with it. But at three in the morning and half-asleep herself, she was just floaty enough to say, with perfect seriousness, "Hello, Stevie. How are you this morning?"
"Fine, thank you ma'am."
For Charlene, whose own accent had morphed and curled as a dozen different languages flowed into her vocabulary, the unfettered South Cackalakian was a jolt to the ears. "Good. That's good," she stammered. "Do you know me?"
Were her eyes playing tricks on her, or had Stephen's eyes gotten bigger? "I used to play with you," he said dutifully. "You taught me how to make googley-eyed clams."
All at once Charlene was wide awake. "You remember that?"
Stevie cringed, the blanket around his shoulders looking suddenly far too large for his frame, like it might fall over and envelop him.
Then he sat up, straighter than before. "I knew that didn't sound like me," he muttered triumphantly, the newsman accent firmly back in place.
"So he was there too? Some of my Steve was him?"
"Of course some of it was him," huffed Stephen. "What makes you think none of it was me? He's supposed to be a part of me, right?"
Charlene leaned forward, elbows crumpling the tablecloth. "Stephen, if you're stringing me along...."
"I'm not! I swear, I'm not!" cried Stephen. "I can't be. Because I care about you! That had to come from somewhere, right? So what if I don't remember much? Lots of people have repressed memories, even when they have just regular old PTSD and not—not this. It doesn't have to mean anything!"
It was still Stephen's voice, but again he looked as small as Stevie had, a child huddled in the dark and shouting to keep the monsters at bay. Both of them present, she realized, different but linked. On some level they were all tangled together, even if none of them could reach that deep.
The feeling of looking at an imposter in her cousin's body—a cloud that had shadowed her long before there was any diagnosis to give it shape—began to evaporate.
"Does it help at all when we reminisce?" she asked softly. "When we talk about things we used to do together, I mean. When I fill in the parts you don't remember."
"Dunno," mumbled Stephen.
"I like it when you tell me stories," added Stevie shyly.
"Don't bother her," chided Stephen. "Drink your cocoa."
One or both of them gulped down a mouthful, leaving a line of foam on their upper lip.
"Well, I think I'd like it too," confessed Charlene.
October 8, 2007
Monday
As the rehearsal finished, Stephen sat back in his chair, crossed his heels on the C-shaped desk, and flipped through the script. That went well! A little celebration of Columbus Day, a little praise of the Pope, a little kid-friendly backing of the President, a little support of Rush Limbaugh, and a congratulation for Dr. Moreau on her brand new Nobel. All in a day's work.
Then, slowly, tentatively, he reached out to Stevie. You want to try some of this?
"Me?" squeaked Stevie.
"Yes, you! If you're going to be staying around, you need to learn to behave like a grown-up. Which means working for a living. Which, if you're me, which you are, means shouting at people who disagree with you."
"Can't I please just say how Dr. Moreau's awesome?" begged Stevie. "I liked that part."
"No. You understand why these things need to be shouted about, right?"
"Uh-huh."
"So why can't you—? Hang on. Do you disagree with them?"
"Uh-huh."
"All of them?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why!?"
"I'm sorry!" yelped Stevie, and tried to hide.
Stephen took a deep breath. Then another. "What if I said you could change something on here?"
"...really?"
"One thing!" added Stephen quickly. "And you can't say anything unpatriotic. Or un-Catholic. And you can't imply that I've reconsidered any of my past opinions. Because it's still my show."
"Then what am I s'posed to do?"
"How should I know? You're the one who thinks all the time! Think of something!"
"Okay!" cried Stevie. "Let me think about it!"
So Stephen eased back and let Stevie flip through the script.
At last the boy said, "Well, I don't think Columbus was so great."
"Why not?" demanded Stephen. "You got something against discovering America?"
"No! I love discovering America!"
"Then why would you belittle the great American hero who—"
"He wasn't American!"
"What?"
"He wasn't! He was Italian! An' there were already people in America when he got here!"
Stephen did a double-take. "Wait, really?"
"Really!"
"Well, then, this is going to have to change," declared Stephen. Yanking the cap off his pen with his teeth, he spat it off to one side and started drawing a series of thick blue lines through the first page.
"Um, Stephen?"
"What?"
"I think people are staring."
Stephen looked up. The camera crew, roadies, and interns were all suddenly preoccupied with their shoes, the ceiling, and assorted other non-Stephen parts of the room.
"Bobby!" called Stephen. "Was I just talking to myself?"
The stage manager jumped. "Uh, that's what it looked like."
"It's just Formidable Opponent!" shouted Stephen to the room. "Stop acting like you haven't seen it a million times!"
"No problem, Stephen," said Bobby. "Um, were you just striking part of the script?"
"Yes," announced Stephen definitively. "Yes, I am."
"Are you going to replace it with a Formidable Opponent? Because you know you're supposed to tell the writers when you do that...."
"No, no, don't worry about it. I'll wing it."
"If you're sure, Stephen."
"I'm always sure." Then, clamping his mouth closed and holding his breath so that Stevie's whimpers couldn't escape, he thought sternly, See? It'll be fine. Stop freaking out. I'll even handle the shouting. You just tell me what to shout.
October 12, 2007
Friday
Standing next to the baby-products shelf with a cart full of diapers, Stephen patted George's head. "Just a little longer, baby boy," he soothed. "Hang in there."
George whimpered his discontent. Stephen rocked back and forth on his heels until the fussing settled.
"I'm going to walk around all the aisles now," he said under his breath, trying not to feel self-conscious. Anyone watching would assume he was talking to the baby. "So the rest of you can have a chance to pick things out. If you see something you want, just grab it. I'm not promising I'll buy it. But grab it anyway."
Still jiggling the sling that cradled George, he pushed the cart forwards and tried not to think too hard. That, at least, posed no trouble.
When he got to the end of the last aisle (laundry detergent on one side, jars of peanuts on the other), Stephen stopped and gaped at the cart. There were snacks stacked on top of the diapers, stuffed animals crammed in between the band-aids and cotton swabs, hair gel piled next to the toothpaste; in the lap of a plush black cat was a hollow plastic pumpkin, just the right size to hold enough Halloween candy to send a small child into insulin shock. Picking up the pumpkin, Stephen found that it had been stuffed with four sheets of stickers, a box of Trojans, and a vial of glittery pink nail polish.
"I am not getting any of this junk," he said out loud. "Especially not...that."
He glared reproachfully at a bright orange stuffed bear, picking it up by its candy-corn nose with the distaste normally reserved for...well, George's diapers.
Oh, fuck you, Colbert, snapped a voice in the back of his head.
Stephen was so startled that he dropped the bear. "Tyrone?" he blurted.
Static. Silence and static, a low flood of white noise that seemed to be composed of Stevie sniffling over the teddy while Sweetness hissed at it.
"Fine," muttered Stephen, snatching it up and perching it on top of the shelf of detergent. "We're still not getting the bear. But we can get the cat. And the stickers. And some of the food. Only not the Baconnaise, because Jon will have a pre-emptive heart attack. Are you happy now?"
October 13, 2007
Saturday
"It feels good when I talk with her," said Stephen cautiously, laying the words methodically down as if he meant to knock each one to check whether they were hollow. "Sometimes. Other times it feels like I accidentally drank one of my sponsors. I mean the beer sponsors, not the Axe Body Spray. Although I wouldn't be surprised if they taste about the same."
"Working through our wrongdoings can be a painful process," replied Father Ted from the other side of the screen. (Stephen had never realized priests knew so much beyond how many Hail Marys to hand out.) "Nobody ever said the path to Heaven would be easy. Only that it would be worth it."
"You think?"
"I do. And if you ever find something too difficult to talk about on your own, you're welcome to invite her here for couples counseling."
Stephen choked back a decidedly unpious snort. The idea of having someone sit down with him and Charlene and ask sober questions, which would doubtless include So How About That Conjugal Bed! and Have You Started Thinking About Bringing More Little Catholics Into The Fold? (Not that George wasn't a perfectly valid budding Catholic, mind you. But there were more than a few parishioners who gave his baby funny looks when they thought Stephen wasn't paying attention.)
"She has this, uh, friend," he blurted. "A guy she's known since they were kids. And, well, I don't like the idea of them hanging out. I don't think he's good for her. Is that wrong of me, Father?"
"You can't control your wife's friendships," the priest said gently. "Are you concerned that there might be romantic feelings between them?"
Now Stephen really did laugh. "What? No! Don't be ridiculous. They're—he's—she's—he sings for the other choir. If you know what I mean."
"I see." Father Ted's voice was grave. "I realize this can be troubling, my son, but the Lord calls on us to meet homosexuality with love, not fear."
"H-He does?"
"He does. No one among us is without sin, after all. And perhaps an association with a healthy, loving marriage will prove to be just what this man needs to guide him back to the right path."
Before he could agree, Stephen's head was flooded with Stevie's voice, riding on a wave of Stevie's hurt and fear. "I don't like it here. He's scaring me. Jon wouldn't say that. Jon would hug me and tell me it's all right. Where's Jon?"
Shake it off, Col-bert! ordered Stephen. Jon's at home. And we're not going there now, because I'm busy!
"I can't stay here!" wailed Stevie. "You can't make me stay!"
He tripped over a gnarled root and stumbled down the grassy slope, skidding to a halt as he reached the sidewalk that bordered the parking lot.
Sunlight. Fresh air. The stone walls of the church behind him, and Sandy Schill who ran the nursery off to the right, shepherding her cross-looking eight-year-old towards its doors. She gave her fellow parishioner a friendly nod, which Stephen returned automatically, though the sulk on her daughter's face was more than enough to set Stevie trembling all over again.
I don't have to go back in, Stephen told himself, striding firmly towards the car as if that had been his plan all along. I got most of the confessing done. It probably counts. And I can miss the service, just to be sure. I'll say I got sick. Or George got sick. Who knows? Maybe he even will. I'd better stay home with him, just in case. I don't have to come back at all...until next Saturday.
Not fooled for an instant, Stevie let out an internal sob the instant that plan tried to sneak by.
I won't even make it home if you keep panicking like that! thought Stephen desperately.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he shouted back into his own mind, as loudly as he could: Will someone in there please hug Stevie for a while?
Whether Tyrone or Sweetness or somebody else responded, he couldn't tell. All he knew was that by the time he got behind the wheel the panic receded, the sobs in the back of his head dwindling to sniffles.