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ptahrrific) wrote2010-11-19 08:03 am
ptahrrific) wrote2010-11-19 08:03 am
Entry tags:
Fake News: State of Grace, chapter 32
Title: State of Grace, Chapter 32: For The Love Of Dog
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
The similarity of this belief to that of most people, whether or not they have a religious sense...of heaven, makes me uneasy about calling [the patient's] belief a delusion.
—Splitting (Stoller, 1973), the author trying to determine which of his patient's unverifiable beliefs can be attributed to his patient's mental illness, and which can't.
Clips referenced: Toby.
For The Love Of Dog
October 27, 2007
(Continued)
The table in the dining room was spread with a medley of diagrams and fabric swatches: preliminary steps in what Stephen had declared was sure to be the most popular line of animated-television tie-in children's clothing ever, in spite of the fact that most of The New Adventures of Tek Jansen had been rated as Not Suitable For Their Age Group. The only space left for food was taken by a plastic container of cubed honeydew, piled so high that it threatened to tip and splatter all over a few strips of ocean-blue fabric.
Stephen himself was ignoring the lot of this, in favor of bending over George's high chair and moving the floppy cow back and forth across the baby's field of view.
"Check it out, Jon!" he exclaimed, as Jon watched this tableau from the doorway. He hadn't looked up, and his glasses were perched on one of the order forms anyway; Jon's footfalls were evidently just that familiar to him now. "He follows it, see?"
Sure enough, as he moved the well-chewed toy in a slow arc, George burbled and twisted after it. The cherubic cuteness of it was almost enough to distract Jon from his surprise. "You're not still mad?"
"Mad? What would I be mad about?"
Jon's heart lifted, then immediately sank with guilt for having done so. "You don't remember."
"Why would I remember?" asked Stephen, brimming with false cheer. "It's not like I would give you a horribly awkward pseudo-kiss and then flip my ess-aitch-eye-tee afterwards. Must've been one of the alters." To George he added, "That's called spelling. We'll get to that after you work out 'sitting up'."
Jon kicked off his shoes in the hall and shuffled across the floorboards in sock feet, taking a seat at the end of the table. "I really am sorry."
Stephen's face fell as he passed the cow into George's hands, where it was clutched tightly and its ear promptly gummed. "I had this whole speech planned out for the doctor. Telling her what a horrible person you were, complete with some nicely intimidating hand gestures and a few clever puns. I'd pass the puns on to my writing staff, only most of them would just get bleeped on-air anyway."
Was Jon supposed to react with pride or remorse? He settled for neutral interest. "How did she take it?"
"She never heard it. I was all geared up to launch into it when Stevie popped out and started bawling about how you probably hated us now. Don't," he added, before Jon could stammer another apology. "She talked him down. Hugged him and made him explain the whole thing."
"Never thought Moreau would be a hugger," admitted Jon, nudging aside a couple of papers and resting his elbows on the resulting small patches of table.
"Well. She sat next to us and put her arm around us. That counts, right?"
"I don't see why not."
"Anyway, she said it sounded like you didn't mean it, and you were just flustered because I was shouting too much."
Jon nodded, folding his hands. "I didn't. I was. You...well...."
Stephen circled the high chair and cupped his hands gently over George's ears. "The meds were supposed to take care of that!" he hissed, finally turning his plaintive gaze to meet Jon's. "Okay, they've been stopping the panic attacks, but they're also supposed to stop me from going off at things that don't matter! And the doctor won't let me take any more. She says any higher dose would short out my kidneys!"
"That doesn't sound good."
"I don't need kidneys, Jon! I need you!"
"Stephen, you're yelling again!"
Fury flashed briefly on Stephen's face before dying out; he bowed his head, letting his hands slide down to drape limply over George's shoulders. "Sorry."
Jon wanted nothing more than to to apologize, to offer help, to promise anything in his power that would make it okay. He remembered what Tracey had said, not to mention the meaningfully raised eyebrows Dr. Rubin kept giving him, and restricted himself to a silent nod.
"I need everyone to stop making me angry in the first place," grumbled Stephen, slumping back into his chair. "I need a pill that makes everything better, with no side effects. I need to hop in a time machine and go back and fix everything that went wrong, starting with wrecking that stupid bookshelf before it could fall on us. I need...I need...."
In the silence left by his hesitation, an insistent gurgle rumbled from the vicinity of his stomach.
"Sounds like you need lunch," said Jon frankly.
It earned him a weak smile. "Pass the honeydew?" asked Stephen, making a halfhearted grabby-hand gesture at the pile of succulent bite-sized chunks. "It's my favorite, you know."
"I know. You once spent an entire lunch hour trying to convince me that it was the king of melons."
One of Stephen's eyebrows arched like an angry cat. "It is the king of melons," he said sternly, in a tone that dared Jon to try and challenge the royal succession. "Gimme."
Jon's fingertips were inches from the handle of the container when a thought struck him. "Stephen? Honeydew is a good thing in your mind, right? No bad associations?"
"Why? Should there be?"
"No! No, that's the whole point. Listen, close your eyes for a minute, okay?"
Stephen went rigid. "What are you going to do?"
"Give you some honeydew. That's all. I promise."
"...Okay." Letting his eyelids fall closed, Stephen sat up straight and held out his hand expectantly.
Lifting a chunk of melon from the top of the heap, Jon leaned over the table and brushed it across Stephen's mouth.
Stephen twitched in surprise, but not far. When Jon held the honeydew still against his lips, he hesitated a moment, then inched forward and took it delicately into his mouth.
He chewed. Swallowed. Licked his lips.
"W-well?" he demanded, eyes resolutely closed. "Am I getting another?"
Something warm curled up in Jon's chest, heady waves radiating outwards. "As much as you want."
He fed Stephen a second piece of fruit in the same manner, then a third, maybe a dozen in all: Stephen asking for pleasure and Jon giving it to him, without condition, without hesitation, as the autumn sunlight streamed in and made everything glow.
At last, when Stephen had begun openly smiling, Jon said, "You know, I'm kind of hungry myself. You want to switch places?"
Stephen's eyes flew open. "Really?"
"I don't see why not."
Jon picked up the container two-handed and passed it across the table; Stephen shoved aside a whole suit's worth of fabric swatches to make a place for it. With exaggerated care he selected a medium-sized piece and placed it on George's high chair, where it proved just the right size to be easily gooshed by tiny hands. Taking a second piece, he turned expectantly to Jon.
Jon closed his eyes. "Ready when you are."
Lips slightly parted, he waited.
And waited.
This was more awkward than he had realized.
When the silence was verging on intolerable, he hazarded, "Still there?"
Stephen let out a muffled, inarticulate noise of surprise.
Jon cracked an eyelid. Stephen's mouth was stuffed to bursting: cheeks bulging, lines of juice dribbling down his chin. He clapped a hand over his mouth and cringed, the proverbial kid with his hand in the cookie jar. "Sowwy, D'on!"
"Oh, honey," sighed Jon. "Chew and swallow that first, okay?"
Some noisy chewing and gulping later, Stevie repeated, "Sorry, Jon." Red-faced, he looked on the verge of tears.
"It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay," insisted Jon. "Stevie, honey, you don't have to do that. There's more than enough honeydew to go around. Even if we finish this one, we can go buy another. You don't have to worry whether you'll get any."
"I—I don't?"
"You don't. You can have as much as you want. Just...one at a time, okay?"
"One at a time," repeated Stevie.
"That's right."
Stevie gave the remaining fruit a cautious once-over, then shook himself and straightened up, the lines reappearing around his mouth as if his face were some kind of cosmic Etch-a-Sketch.
"What I need is some soap and water," Stephen said briskly, wrinkling his nose at his sticky palm. "Keep an eye on George?"
Did that mean he was taking a rain check on the feeding thing, or tabling it indefinitely? Jon decided not to push it. "Will do."
Stephen was halfway to the kitchen before he paused. "Can I, ah, get you anything? Since I didn't give you any honeydew."
"I'm actually okay for now," admitted Jon. "But thanks."
For a moment Stephen hesitated, muttering something that sounded like "As much as you want, but one at a time. As much as you want, but one at a time."
Then he sprinted back to Jon, bent down, and pulled him into a sweet, sticky, hungry, breathtaking kiss.
When he pulled away, leaving Jon gasping from shock, Tyrone managed a triumphant smirk for a second before bolting for the kitchen.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
October 28, 2007
Sunday
The air was grey and almost frosty when Jon let out the dogs. They frolicked in the cool grass while he pulled his jacket closer and mentally clocked the number of days and hours remaining until the WGA deadline was up.
If worst came to worst, as it looked like it might...he and the other writers had signed on for this, but the production crew was another matter. And they had kids, aging parents, medical bills. Could he get them on the rolls as miscellaneous Busboy employees for the duration? He'd have to email a couple of the lawyers about it. And pester his brother with the details when they had lunch that afternoon.
Jon was still adding up salaries in his head as he checked the headlines, clipped the crossword for later, and spooned a carefully rationed amount of brown sugar onto Nate's oatmeal. After a brief exchange with Tracey, he set off to do a quick sweep of his kids' rooms to make sure they had rounded up all essential toys, while she covered the playroom and the halls and Charlene coaxed Maggie into not dumping her applesauce on the floor.
Halfway across George's room, it occurred to Jon that George wasn't one of "his kids" in this equation.
"Sorry, kiddo," he whispered. The baby was still fast asleep in the crib, thumb planted contentedly in his mouth; his cries had dragged Stephen out of bed around half past three that morning, so the sight was a welcome change. "Didn't mean to bother you. I know your dad would be in here if you needed anything."
The earlier-than-usual takeoff meant they would be gone before Stephen got home from church, so he headed for the master bedroom next. Stephen would be cross if his preparations were disrupted, but even crosser if Jon didn't give him a proper goodbye before he went.
Or so Jon thought, until he opened the door and found the room already empty.
Shrugging it off, he went back to packing, retrieving a stray sock from the bathroom floor and the pills he kept on hand in case of severe insomnia from the cabinet, where Stephen's lithium now sat tucked in the corner like an uncomfortable party guest. Stephen could have gone to church early for pretty much any reason, even just to soak up the community spirit.
It wasn't until Jon went to round up the dogs that he got two shocks in a row. First, that Stephen was sitting on the back steps, nonchalantly throwing tennis balls; and second, that he was wearing a T-shirt under his jacket.
"Didn't realize you were still here," stammered Jon, approaching carefully so as not to kick over the baby monitor. "Are you watching the clock? You're not leaving yourself much time to change."
"Don't need to," said Stephen, dully enough that Jon wasn't sure it was Stephen. All the alters had their own ways of being happy or angry or scared, but this clipped flatness could have come from almost anyone.
"Are you wearing that to Mass?" ventured Jon. "Not that I'm complaining. It's just, uh, unexpected."
"I'm not going!"
"What?"
Monkey, cheerfully oblivious, trotted up to Stephen and dropped a tennis ball at his feet. Stephen picked it up with three fingers, gazing into it as if he expected mystic visions to appear in the fuzzy green surface.
With the rote solemnity of ritual, he said, "It has been three weeks since my last confession."
Jon wasn't sure how many more surprises he could take. Tracey got along fine with a couple of visits a year, but Stephen.... "Did something happen?"
A barrage of words, the inflection changing on almost every line: "We're fine! We're not fine. They don't want us! Why can't we be good enough? Fuck them, anyway!" With sudden viciousness he hurled the ball like a missile, slamming it into a tree trunk and sending a shower of red and gold leaves tumbling down.
All Jon's reservations about Stephen's particular brand of faith came crashing to the fore. "Of course you're good enough," he hissed through gritted teeth. "If that place had the nerve to reject you, they're the ones who don't deserve—"
"Don't you dare tell me how my faith works!"
Jon bit his tongue. The anger had brought Stephen into sharp relief, pushing back the rest of the chattering crowd and leaving him alone to jab a finger in Jon's direction.
"I've been busy," he continued, trembling but determined. "I've fallen a little behind, that's all. Wasn't even in town last weekend, so of course I didn't go. It's no big deal. Happens to everyone sometimes. I'll get back on the wagon any day now."
He stretched to get his fingers around Shamsky's ball, which the bull terrier had dropped from a cautious distance in case there was going to be more shouting, and slung it in a wobbly but less frenetic arc.
"We, uh, we have to take the dogs," mumbled Jon, jerking his thumb self-consciously at the door. "You gonna be okay?"
"Of course, Jon. Why wouldn't I be?" Stephen stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled across the grass. "Here, boys!"
Both dogs bounded delightedly towards him, dropping their prizes at his feet and circling with wagging tails. "I'll bring them out to the van," said Stephen, before lighting up as he gave each bull terrier in turn a vigorous two-handed head-rub. "Car time! What do you think about that? Oh, it'll be fun. You're good boys. You two are such good boys."
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
October 31, 2007
Wednesday
Chaos and disarray.
Mostly inside Stephen's head, although he was fairly sure there was something going on around the studio, too. He kept running into groups of whispering staffers who stopped as soon as he was in earshot, and it was too early for them to be planning him a surprise birthday party. It was getting to the point where Sweetness bristled whenever he turned a corner.
You like him, smirked Caesar in the background, while Stephen was in the middle of recording a string of radio station promos.
It was one kiss! snapped Tyrone. What's the big deal?
There isn't one! put in Stephen quickly. Now shut up! I need to concentrate on whinnying like a rockin' stallion.
He was fussing over a graphic, explaining that yes, he was sure the artist understood how to work Photoshop, but surely she could fit a few more explosions in there, when the thought crossed his mind: It really isn't a big deal to you, right? It's not like you think his kisses are special, or anything.
Tyrone's answer wasn't the quick dismissal he had been counting on. Never said he wasn't pretty, he groused. Just because I don't have a fetish for the short and tubby doesn't mean I can't know a nice mouth when I see one.
"It's method acting for my costume," he snapped, when the third stagehand in a row asked if he was all right. "For Halloween I'm going as a crazy person. You would think a person dressed so convincingly as Professor X would know a thorough costume when he saw one."
Bobby pulled him aside and whispered, "Stephen, that's Toby. He's been in a wheelchair since 1992."
He barricaded himself in the office over lunch, putting Fox News on the flatscreen and cranking the volume as high as he could stand. It didn't cover the girlish singsong in the back of his head: Tyrone an' Jo-on, sittin' in a tree. Which brings us to tonight's Wørd....
She nudged Stevie, who dutifully chanted, K-I-S-S—
Does that song have a verse where the other person has their cock down your throat? interrupted Tyrone. Because you might want to skip ahead a bit.
"Not tonight," moaned Stephen, when Tad came to fetch him for rehearsal. "I have a headache."
"Just two more days," pleaded Tad. "Have some water. Have some aspirin. We can turn down the lights; we can tell the audience to golf-clap. Just, please, keep it up for two more days. Do it for your writers."
Who needed writers? Not Stephen. All he needed was his gut. And—
You can't have him! he snapped, scowling at Tyrone in the mirror while Antonia put on his face. He's mine—you can't want—he doesn't want—and I know I can't, but I'm working on it, so—you can't have him!
If you think he doesn't want it anyway, why are you freaking out, huh, old man? countered Tyrone. There is nothing going on...tree-wise. So take your insecurities and—
"It's the strangest thing," fretted Antonia. "Your usual shade isn't blending the way it's supposed to. But you couldn't have gotten a tan overnight, or lost five pounds since I last saw you, or...."
"Prescott's courting my sponsorship again," lied Stephen. "Sent me free samples of their miracle spa product. It's supposed to give me the skin of a twenty-year-old."
The glare of the stage lights was calming, though he had to dismiss the usual flock of interns who applauded at rehearsal, citing his constant headache. Against the silence he straightened his tie, adjusted his glasses, twisted the ring on his finger.
Never should have given that to him, hissed Sweetness, peering crossly over his shoulder. It isn't his. You aren't his. He has no right to hold it.
Back off, Sweetness! snapped Stephen.
It was the first time he had ever shouted at her. With an unhappy snarl she retreated, lurking at the top of his head, muttering dire predictions under her breath.
"Is everything all right?" asked Sam, as Stephen swung into the back of the limo. "You look pale."
"Maybe you're not stocking a good nutrient-heavy brand of mineral water," countered Stephen. "Maybe we're in the process of wasting away completely, and it's all your fault."
"'We'?"
"It's the royal we," said Stephen, who had been holding that excuse in reserve for weeks and was gratified to finally get a chance to deploy it. "You got a problem with that?"
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
November 2, 2007
Friday
A day away from confession and ignoring the ominous thunderheads massing on the horizon, Stephen dragged Jon into the basement, without any clear idea what he was going to say until it burst out: "Jon, why do you have to be a heretic?"
Jon's hand fell away from his. "Do we have to go there?" he protested, rubbing the back of his neck. "All it's going to do is make you upset."
"Jon, please!" Stephen stamped his foot. The crowd in his head had been quieter today, but he couldn't suppress the rush of childish frustration. "I want to talk about this. I need to talk about this. It's not fair if you won't!"
"What am I supposed to say, Stephen?" asked Jon helplessly. "There are so many things your church considers heretical, I can't even begin to explain them all. The only parts I know in any detail are the ones that Tracey follows, and she's the kind of Catholic who's down with evolution and condoms, which I know isn't you."
"Of course not," snapped Stephen. "My kind of Catholic has a word for that kind of Catholic. 'Protestant'."
"Your kind of Catholic has a couple of words for us, too," countered Jon.
Neither of them had managed to sit down; Stephen braced his sock-clad heels against the carpet, while Jon shifted back and forth on bare feet. "Is that keeping you away? You think they won't accept you? Of course they will! The whole point, of confession, of baptism, of everything, is that anybody can be forgiven if you do the penance!"
"Sometimes there's nothing to do penance for!"
The words soared airily through Stephen's consciousness, barely registering before Stevie caught them, clutching them to his chest like a rosary. You're forgiven, my child. Go in peace.
"It's not about the specifics, anyway," continued Jon, lower and almost apologetic. "I have tremendous respect for people of faith. People who can find that balance, who feel a profound sense of something greater than themselves, and who don't go starting wars over it—I admire that. I do. But I don't feel it."
"Don't know what you're talking about," scoffed Stephen. "I've never felt anything like that, and it's never stopped me before."
Jon blanched. "You haven't?"
"I don't need to! I know when I'm doing the right thing. It says so in the Bible, and every word in the Bible is true, which it must be because it says that in the Bible too! That's a neat little logical circle, Jon. If we could just go around dropping parts, what's to stop us from getting rid of 'thou shalt not kill'?"
"Rational thought?"
"Why do you have to think so much?"
"Why don't you?"
Lost for words, heart thundering in his ears, Stephen almost missed the knock at the door.
"Not a good time, Charlene!" called Jon, eyes never leaving Stephen's.
"It's an emergency!" came the muffled reply. "Tracey's on the phone, and—"
Jon was on the steps in an instant. "Is she hurt?"
"No. No, she's fine."
"The kids?" He opened the door, Stephen inches behind him.
"It's not them," said Charlene, then caught her cousin's eye. "I'm sorry."
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
The similarity of this belief to that of most people, whether or not they have a religious sense...of heaven, makes me uneasy about calling [the patient's] belief a delusion.
—Splitting (Stoller, 1973), the author trying to determine which of his patient's unverifiable beliefs can be attributed to his patient's mental illness, and which can't.
Clips referenced: Toby.
For The Love Of Dog
October 27, 2007
(Continued)
The table in the dining room was spread with a medley of diagrams and fabric swatches: preliminary steps in what Stephen had declared was sure to be the most popular line of animated-television tie-in children's clothing ever, in spite of the fact that most of The New Adventures of Tek Jansen had been rated as Not Suitable For Their Age Group. The only space left for food was taken by a plastic container of cubed honeydew, piled so high that it threatened to tip and splatter all over a few strips of ocean-blue fabric.
Stephen himself was ignoring the lot of this, in favor of bending over George's high chair and moving the floppy cow back and forth across the baby's field of view.
"Check it out, Jon!" he exclaimed, as Jon watched this tableau from the doorway. He hadn't looked up, and his glasses were perched on one of the order forms anyway; Jon's footfalls were evidently just that familiar to him now. "He follows it, see?"
Sure enough, as he moved the well-chewed toy in a slow arc, George burbled and twisted after it. The cherubic cuteness of it was almost enough to distract Jon from his surprise. "You're not still mad?"
"Mad? What would I be mad about?"
Jon's heart lifted, then immediately sank with guilt for having done so. "You don't remember."
"Why would I remember?" asked Stephen, brimming with false cheer. "It's not like I would give you a horribly awkward pseudo-kiss and then flip my ess-aitch-eye-tee afterwards. Must've been one of the alters." To George he added, "That's called spelling. We'll get to that after you work out 'sitting up'."
Jon kicked off his shoes in the hall and shuffled across the floorboards in sock feet, taking a seat at the end of the table. "I really am sorry."
Stephen's face fell as he passed the cow into George's hands, where it was clutched tightly and its ear promptly gummed. "I had this whole speech planned out for the doctor. Telling her what a horrible person you were, complete with some nicely intimidating hand gestures and a few clever puns. I'd pass the puns on to my writing staff, only most of them would just get bleeped on-air anyway."
Was Jon supposed to react with pride or remorse? He settled for neutral interest. "How did she take it?"
"She never heard it. I was all geared up to launch into it when Stevie popped out and started bawling about how you probably hated us now. Don't," he added, before Jon could stammer another apology. "She talked him down. Hugged him and made him explain the whole thing."
"Never thought Moreau would be a hugger," admitted Jon, nudging aside a couple of papers and resting his elbows on the resulting small patches of table.
"Well. She sat next to us and put her arm around us. That counts, right?"
"I don't see why not."
"Anyway, she said it sounded like you didn't mean it, and you were just flustered because I was shouting too much."
Jon nodded, folding his hands. "I didn't. I was. You...well...."
Stephen circled the high chair and cupped his hands gently over George's ears. "The meds were supposed to take care of that!" he hissed, finally turning his plaintive gaze to meet Jon's. "Okay, they've been stopping the panic attacks, but they're also supposed to stop me from going off at things that don't matter! And the doctor won't let me take any more. She says any higher dose would short out my kidneys!"
"That doesn't sound good."
"I don't need kidneys, Jon! I need you!"
"Stephen, you're yelling again!"
Fury flashed briefly on Stephen's face before dying out; he bowed his head, letting his hands slide down to drape limply over George's shoulders. "Sorry."
Jon wanted nothing more than to to apologize, to offer help, to promise anything in his power that would make it okay. He remembered what Tracey had said, not to mention the meaningfully raised eyebrows Dr. Rubin kept giving him, and restricted himself to a silent nod.
"I need everyone to stop making me angry in the first place," grumbled Stephen, slumping back into his chair. "I need a pill that makes everything better, with no side effects. I need to hop in a time machine and go back and fix everything that went wrong, starting with wrecking that stupid bookshelf before it could fall on us. I need...I need...."
In the silence left by his hesitation, an insistent gurgle rumbled from the vicinity of his stomach.
"Sounds like you need lunch," said Jon frankly.
It earned him a weak smile. "Pass the honeydew?" asked Stephen, making a halfhearted grabby-hand gesture at the pile of succulent bite-sized chunks. "It's my favorite, you know."
"I know. You once spent an entire lunch hour trying to convince me that it was the king of melons."
One of Stephen's eyebrows arched like an angry cat. "It is the king of melons," he said sternly, in a tone that dared Jon to try and challenge the royal succession. "Gimme."
Jon's fingertips were inches from the handle of the container when a thought struck him. "Stephen? Honeydew is a good thing in your mind, right? No bad associations?"
"Why? Should there be?"
"No! No, that's the whole point. Listen, close your eyes for a minute, okay?"
Stephen went rigid. "What are you going to do?"
"Give you some honeydew. That's all. I promise."
"...Okay." Letting his eyelids fall closed, Stephen sat up straight and held out his hand expectantly.
Lifting a chunk of melon from the top of the heap, Jon leaned over the table and brushed it across Stephen's mouth.
Stephen twitched in surprise, but not far. When Jon held the honeydew still against his lips, he hesitated a moment, then inched forward and took it delicately into his mouth.
He chewed. Swallowed. Licked his lips.
"W-well?" he demanded, eyes resolutely closed. "Am I getting another?"
Something warm curled up in Jon's chest, heady waves radiating outwards. "As much as you want."
He fed Stephen a second piece of fruit in the same manner, then a third, maybe a dozen in all: Stephen asking for pleasure and Jon giving it to him, without condition, without hesitation, as the autumn sunlight streamed in and made everything glow.
At last, when Stephen had begun openly smiling, Jon said, "You know, I'm kind of hungry myself. You want to switch places?"
Stephen's eyes flew open. "Really?"
"I don't see why not."
Jon picked up the container two-handed and passed it across the table; Stephen shoved aside a whole suit's worth of fabric swatches to make a place for it. With exaggerated care he selected a medium-sized piece and placed it on George's high chair, where it proved just the right size to be easily gooshed by tiny hands. Taking a second piece, he turned expectantly to Jon.
Jon closed his eyes. "Ready when you are."
Lips slightly parted, he waited.
And waited.
This was more awkward than he had realized.
When the silence was verging on intolerable, he hazarded, "Still there?"
Stephen let out a muffled, inarticulate noise of surprise.
Jon cracked an eyelid. Stephen's mouth was stuffed to bursting: cheeks bulging, lines of juice dribbling down his chin. He clapped a hand over his mouth and cringed, the proverbial kid with his hand in the cookie jar. "Sowwy, D'on!"
"Oh, honey," sighed Jon. "Chew and swallow that first, okay?"
Some noisy chewing and gulping later, Stevie repeated, "Sorry, Jon." Red-faced, he looked on the verge of tears.
"It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay," insisted Jon. "Stevie, honey, you don't have to do that. There's more than enough honeydew to go around. Even if we finish this one, we can go buy another. You don't have to worry whether you'll get any."
"I—I don't?"
"You don't. You can have as much as you want. Just...one at a time, okay?"
"One at a time," repeated Stevie.
"That's right."
Stevie gave the remaining fruit a cautious once-over, then shook himself and straightened up, the lines reappearing around his mouth as if his face were some kind of cosmic Etch-a-Sketch.
"What I need is some soap and water," Stephen said briskly, wrinkling his nose at his sticky palm. "Keep an eye on George?"
Did that mean he was taking a rain check on the feeding thing, or tabling it indefinitely? Jon decided not to push it. "Will do."
Stephen was halfway to the kitchen before he paused. "Can I, ah, get you anything? Since I didn't give you any honeydew."
"I'm actually okay for now," admitted Jon. "But thanks."
For a moment Stephen hesitated, muttering something that sounded like "As much as you want, but one at a time. As much as you want, but one at a time."
Then he sprinted back to Jon, bent down, and pulled him into a sweet, sticky, hungry, breathtaking kiss.
When he pulled away, leaving Jon gasping from shock, Tyrone managed a triumphant smirk for a second before bolting for the kitchen.
October 28, 2007
Sunday
The air was grey and almost frosty when Jon let out the dogs. They frolicked in the cool grass while he pulled his jacket closer and mentally clocked the number of days and hours remaining until the WGA deadline was up.
If worst came to worst, as it looked like it might...he and the other writers had signed on for this, but the production crew was another matter. And they had kids, aging parents, medical bills. Could he get them on the rolls as miscellaneous Busboy employees for the duration? He'd have to email a couple of the lawyers about it. And pester his brother with the details when they had lunch that afternoon.
Jon was still adding up salaries in his head as he checked the headlines, clipped the crossword for later, and spooned a carefully rationed amount of brown sugar onto Nate's oatmeal. After a brief exchange with Tracey, he set off to do a quick sweep of his kids' rooms to make sure they had rounded up all essential toys, while she covered the playroom and the halls and Charlene coaxed Maggie into not dumping her applesauce on the floor.
Halfway across George's room, it occurred to Jon that George wasn't one of "his kids" in this equation.
"Sorry, kiddo," he whispered. The baby was still fast asleep in the crib, thumb planted contentedly in his mouth; his cries had dragged Stephen out of bed around half past three that morning, so the sight was a welcome change. "Didn't mean to bother you. I know your dad would be in here if you needed anything."
The earlier-than-usual takeoff meant they would be gone before Stephen got home from church, so he headed for the master bedroom next. Stephen would be cross if his preparations were disrupted, but even crosser if Jon didn't give him a proper goodbye before he went.
Or so Jon thought, until he opened the door and found the room already empty.
Shrugging it off, he went back to packing, retrieving a stray sock from the bathroom floor and the pills he kept on hand in case of severe insomnia from the cabinet, where Stephen's lithium now sat tucked in the corner like an uncomfortable party guest. Stephen could have gone to church early for pretty much any reason, even just to soak up the community spirit.
It wasn't until Jon went to round up the dogs that he got two shocks in a row. First, that Stephen was sitting on the back steps, nonchalantly throwing tennis balls; and second, that he was wearing a T-shirt under his jacket.
"Didn't realize you were still here," stammered Jon, approaching carefully so as not to kick over the baby monitor. "Are you watching the clock? You're not leaving yourself much time to change."
"Don't need to," said Stephen, dully enough that Jon wasn't sure it was Stephen. All the alters had their own ways of being happy or angry or scared, but this clipped flatness could have come from almost anyone.
"Are you wearing that to Mass?" ventured Jon. "Not that I'm complaining. It's just, uh, unexpected."
"I'm not going!"
"What?"
Monkey, cheerfully oblivious, trotted up to Stephen and dropped a tennis ball at his feet. Stephen picked it up with three fingers, gazing into it as if he expected mystic visions to appear in the fuzzy green surface.
With the rote solemnity of ritual, he said, "It has been three weeks since my last confession."
Jon wasn't sure how many more surprises he could take. Tracey got along fine with a couple of visits a year, but Stephen.... "Did something happen?"
A barrage of words, the inflection changing on almost every line: "We're fine! We're not fine. They don't want us! Why can't we be good enough? Fuck them, anyway!" With sudden viciousness he hurled the ball like a missile, slamming it into a tree trunk and sending a shower of red and gold leaves tumbling down.
All Jon's reservations about Stephen's particular brand of faith came crashing to the fore. "Of course you're good enough," he hissed through gritted teeth. "If that place had the nerve to reject you, they're the ones who don't deserve—"
"Don't you dare tell me how my faith works!"
Jon bit his tongue. The anger had brought Stephen into sharp relief, pushing back the rest of the chattering crowd and leaving him alone to jab a finger in Jon's direction.
"I've been busy," he continued, trembling but determined. "I've fallen a little behind, that's all. Wasn't even in town last weekend, so of course I didn't go. It's no big deal. Happens to everyone sometimes. I'll get back on the wagon any day now."
He stretched to get his fingers around Shamsky's ball, which the bull terrier had dropped from a cautious distance in case there was going to be more shouting, and slung it in a wobbly but less frenetic arc.
"We, uh, we have to take the dogs," mumbled Jon, jerking his thumb self-consciously at the door. "You gonna be okay?"
"Of course, Jon. Why wouldn't I be?" Stephen stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled across the grass. "Here, boys!"
Both dogs bounded delightedly towards him, dropping their prizes at his feet and circling with wagging tails. "I'll bring them out to the van," said Stephen, before lighting up as he gave each bull terrier in turn a vigorous two-handed head-rub. "Car time! What do you think about that? Oh, it'll be fun. You're good boys. You two are such good boys."
October 31, 2007
Wednesday
Chaos and disarray.
Mostly inside Stephen's head, although he was fairly sure there was something going on around the studio, too. He kept running into groups of whispering staffers who stopped as soon as he was in earshot, and it was too early for them to be planning him a surprise birthday party. It was getting to the point where Sweetness bristled whenever he turned a corner.
You like him, smirked Caesar in the background, while Stephen was in the middle of recording a string of radio station promos.
It was one kiss! snapped Tyrone. What's the big deal?
There isn't one! put in Stephen quickly. Now shut up! I need to concentrate on whinnying like a rockin' stallion.
He was fussing over a graphic, explaining that yes, he was sure the artist understood how to work Photoshop, but surely she could fit a few more explosions in there, when the thought crossed his mind: It really isn't a big deal to you, right? It's not like you think his kisses are special, or anything.
Tyrone's answer wasn't the quick dismissal he had been counting on. Never said he wasn't pretty, he groused. Just because I don't have a fetish for the short and tubby doesn't mean I can't know a nice mouth when I see one.
"It's method acting for my costume," he snapped, when the third stagehand in a row asked if he was all right. "For Halloween I'm going as a crazy person. You would think a person dressed so convincingly as Professor X would know a thorough costume when he saw one."
Bobby pulled him aside and whispered, "Stephen, that's Toby. He's been in a wheelchair since 1992."
He barricaded himself in the office over lunch, putting Fox News on the flatscreen and cranking the volume as high as he could stand. It didn't cover the girlish singsong in the back of his head: Tyrone an' Jo-on, sittin' in a tree. Which brings us to tonight's Wørd....
She nudged Stevie, who dutifully chanted, K-I-S-S—
Does that song have a verse where the other person has their cock down your throat? interrupted Tyrone. Because you might want to skip ahead a bit.
"Not tonight," moaned Stephen, when Tad came to fetch him for rehearsal. "I have a headache."
"Just two more days," pleaded Tad. "Have some water. Have some aspirin. We can turn down the lights; we can tell the audience to golf-clap. Just, please, keep it up for two more days. Do it for your writers."
Who needed writers? Not Stephen. All he needed was his gut. And—
You can't have him! he snapped, scowling at Tyrone in the mirror while Antonia put on his face. He's mine—you can't want—he doesn't want—and I know I can't, but I'm working on it, so—you can't have him!
If you think he doesn't want it anyway, why are you freaking out, huh, old man? countered Tyrone. There is nothing going on...tree-wise. So take your insecurities and—
"It's the strangest thing," fretted Antonia. "Your usual shade isn't blending the way it's supposed to. But you couldn't have gotten a tan overnight, or lost five pounds since I last saw you, or...."
"Prescott's courting my sponsorship again," lied Stephen. "Sent me free samples of their miracle spa product. It's supposed to give me the skin of a twenty-year-old."
The glare of the stage lights was calming, though he had to dismiss the usual flock of interns who applauded at rehearsal, citing his constant headache. Against the silence he straightened his tie, adjusted his glasses, twisted the ring on his finger.
Never should have given that to him, hissed Sweetness, peering crossly over his shoulder. It isn't his. You aren't his. He has no right to hold it.
Back off, Sweetness! snapped Stephen.
It was the first time he had ever shouted at her. With an unhappy snarl she retreated, lurking at the top of his head, muttering dire predictions under her breath.
"Is everything all right?" asked Sam, as Stephen swung into the back of the limo. "You look pale."
"Maybe you're not stocking a good nutrient-heavy brand of mineral water," countered Stephen. "Maybe we're in the process of wasting away completely, and it's all your fault."
"'We'?"
"It's the royal we," said Stephen, who had been holding that excuse in reserve for weeks and was gratified to finally get a chance to deploy it. "You got a problem with that?"
November 2, 2007
Friday
A day away from confession and ignoring the ominous thunderheads massing on the horizon, Stephen dragged Jon into the basement, without any clear idea what he was going to say until it burst out: "Jon, why do you have to be a heretic?"
Jon's hand fell away from his. "Do we have to go there?" he protested, rubbing the back of his neck. "All it's going to do is make you upset."
"Jon, please!" Stephen stamped his foot. The crowd in his head had been quieter today, but he couldn't suppress the rush of childish frustration. "I want to talk about this. I need to talk about this. It's not fair if you won't!"
"What am I supposed to say, Stephen?" asked Jon helplessly. "There are so many things your church considers heretical, I can't even begin to explain them all. The only parts I know in any detail are the ones that Tracey follows, and she's the kind of Catholic who's down with evolution and condoms, which I know isn't you."
"Of course not," snapped Stephen. "My kind of Catholic has a word for that kind of Catholic. 'Protestant'."
"Your kind of Catholic has a couple of words for us, too," countered Jon.
Neither of them had managed to sit down; Stephen braced his sock-clad heels against the carpet, while Jon shifted back and forth on bare feet. "Is that keeping you away? You think they won't accept you? Of course they will! The whole point, of confession, of baptism, of everything, is that anybody can be forgiven if you do the penance!"
"Sometimes there's nothing to do penance for!"
The words soared airily through Stephen's consciousness, barely registering before Stevie caught them, clutching them to his chest like a rosary. You're forgiven, my child. Go in peace.
"It's not about the specifics, anyway," continued Jon, lower and almost apologetic. "I have tremendous respect for people of faith. People who can find that balance, who feel a profound sense of something greater than themselves, and who don't go starting wars over it—I admire that. I do. But I don't feel it."
"Don't know what you're talking about," scoffed Stephen. "I've never felt anything like that, and it's never stopped me before."
Jon blanched. "You haven't?"
"I don't need to! I know when I'm doing the right thing. It says so in the Bible, and every word in the Bible is true, which it must be because it says that in the Bible too! That's a neat little logical circle, Jon. If we could just go around dropping parts, what's to stop us from getting rid of 'thou shalt not kill'?"
"Rational thought?"
"Why do you have to think so much?"
"Why don't you?"
Lost for words, heart thundering in his ears, Stephen almost missed the knock at the door.
"Not a good time, Charlene!" called Jon, eyes never leaving Stephen's.
"It's an emergency!" came the muffled reply. "Tracey's on the phone, and—"
Jon was on the steps in an instant. "Is she hurt?"
"No. No, she's fine."
"The kids?" He opened the door, Stephen inches behind him.
"It's not them," said Charlene, then caught her cousin's eye. "I'm sorry."
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This story's putting me in the weird position of hoping he can reconcile his faith and his doubts, whereas normally I would be rooting for atheism. I guess this Stephen has enough problems that I don't begrudge him an emotional crutch.
Also, the cliff hanger? Killing me. Especially since I'm leaving for internetless wilderness and won't get to check this until Thursday, instead of every morning like I usually do.
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I don't think informed, reasonable faith is necessarily a crutch. But Stephen's definitely using it as a shield without thinking about it, let alone connecting with a whole lot of deeper meaning or sustenance underneath.
Think of it this way: come Thursday, you'll be able to finish off the whole thing all at once!
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Aw, Tyrone! He really does care! :3 And I am so enamored of the other alters and their relentless teasing. They're all such siblings and it's very charming.
(Well. Siblings and their oldest brother's... demonic eagle familiar, I guess. :/)
"What am I supposed to say, Stephen?" asked Jon helplessly. "There are so many things your church considers heretical, I can't even begin to explain them all. The only parts I know in any detail are the ones that Tracey follows, and she's the kind of Catholic who's down with evolution and condoms, which I know isn't you."
"Of course not," snapped Stephen. "My kind of Catholic has a word for that kind of Catholic. 'Protestant'."
LOL this kid fails Bible Class forever. His theology is seriously the worst ever it is both endearing and appalling.
"It's not them," said Charlene, then caught her cousin's eye. "I'm sorry."
:( not this part.
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Stephen's theology is pretty much completely random. It's little wonder Jon is confused XD
Yyyyep. This part. From here on out, I'm afraid.
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Thanks to you, this has been a super fantastic month. It makes me sad we're getting closer and closer to the end!
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I have a hard time believing this is so close to finished. I've been working on it for so long (one year or four and a half, depending whether you count from the start of the rewrite or the initial idea), and the idea of putting it to rest...it's kind of making my head spin.
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I was going to ask earlier, but forgot until Stephen started ranting about his meds just now. Why did you choose to specifically name lithium? It's not commonly used the way Stephen describes, and it's unlikely that a doctor who doesn't specialize in psychiatry would use it as a standalone drug for an off-label use. Just curious since the anti-depressants weren't specifically named, but then, Stephen never actually took them :p
I know when I'm doing the right thing. It says so in the Bible What kind of dogmatic Catholic are you, Stephen? You know you're doing the right thing because the Pope says so. Also
"Don't you dare tell me how my faith works!" - Stephen may not feel the flowery sense of 'something greater' that Jon describes, but he definitely feels his faith. The proclamation that he didn't seemed kind of bleak.
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...because lithium is the most commonly-used drug for bipolar disorder? That's what it was prescribed to treat. Even if it doesn't necessarily line up with the effects it's having on Stephen -- or, more importantly in this scene, the effects he understands it to be having. The books he's been reading and the conversations he's had about his treatment are mostly focused on the PTSD and, later, the DID; he's starting to get familiar with that language, to feel out the ways in which it lines up with his experiences. Meanwhile, he still doesn't really "speak" bipolar, so he isn't prone to framing things in those terms.
Stephen is a terrible dogmatic Catholic. This is infallibly canon =P
But yes, he definitely finds something deep and valuable there. Being cut off from that is one of the big factors that sends him spinning off the rails.
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