Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2010-11-21 04:41 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2010-11-21 04:41 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: State of Grace, chapter 33
Title: State of Grace, Chapter 33: Animals and Children
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
This chapter contains two dead dogs. There's also a horse mixed up in there somewhere. Have all necessary tissues on hand before reading.
Stephen's conflicting sets of memories about Shasta are presented in this clip and I Am America 34-35. Mo is randomly borrowed from Nurse Jackie. Title swiped from Savage Garden.
Animals and Children
November 2, 2007
(Continued)
12 DOWN: This animal would make a purr-fect pet!
Jon didn't know what Tracey had done to convince the former Lorraine Colbert to let her ex-husband within fifty feet of her, but he was profoundly grateful for it. Even if he wasn't legally entitled to it, Stephen deserved a chance to say goodbye.
Which left Jon on his own in the desolate waiting room, trying to print CAT in a crossword from a year-old magazine. It didn't help that someone had already inked PETSTOR in wobbly letters in 9 across (You can find lots of lovable animals here).
He was halfway through replacing it with SHELTER in thick, heavy strokes when the door creaked unhappily and Stephen emerged: eyes red, feet dragging, glasses dangling from one hand.
Jon dropped the magazine and stood, twisting the brim of his Mets cap away from his face. Stephen fell into his arms with a silent sob.
"I thought he might be mad," he whispered, raspy and faint even from right beside Jon's ear. "Because I haven't seen him for almost a year. But he was so happy! Couldn't even see me, but he sniffed my hand and right away his tail started wagging, just like always."
"Gipper's a good dog," murmured Jon.
"He's such a good dog!" choked Stephen, as a tear trickled down Jon's neck.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Even with Jon's lead he barely made it to one of the stiff chairs, tight fabric stretched over hard cushions in a crude parody of comfort. Anger he could ride. Adoration he could lie back and devour. Grief just cut him loose, like a small boat on a wide and choppy sea.
"He's not abandoning me," he insisted, clinging to Jon's shirt over the crammed-together arms of their chairs. "He's sick. He can't help it."
Jon's hand on his arm, stroking. "That's right."
Stephen scrubbed his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. "Not like Shasta."
"Shasta," echoed Jon. "That's not...the dog who ran off when you were a kid?"
"That's her," agreed Stephen. "Did everything together—even when Charlene couldn't be there—no bear ever got near us when she was around. Then she stopped walking to school with me, but she was always right there when I got home, so I didn't think...and then one day—"
—Shasta was already ten feet behind when she sat down altogether, one hip twisted to angle froglike beneath her.
"Get up!" snapped Stephen from down the path. His backpack was heavier than usual, dragging on his shoulders with the bulk of his new remedial science textbook (three tests in a row he had turned over his paper and not recognized a word of it, and it was no use pleading with his teachers that he had studied). "Whatever it is, shake it off! I need to get home and study."
The golden lab whined apologetically as she struggled to pull her legs back into alignment, liquid eyes begging Stephen to be patient. On swaying hips she finally hopped forward—
—in sock feet the little boy crept down the stairs, feeling his way through the darkness, the closet door whisper-soft as he swung it open. Above the box with the dwindling pile of small hats and mittens hung Mama's purse; his hand slipped under the clasp.
Just a couple of bills. Just enough to buy a bit of chicken, or maybe a sausage. Something to let Shasta know he wasn't mad at her for not coming to school anymore, that even Stephen was only mad because it was easier than being scared—
—"She's happier there," said Papa brusquely. "She'll get lots of fresh air, and she can chase the rabbits."
Impossible, unless she had been faking it with the hips all along, but good boys don't question. Seethe with fury at your traitorous and absent pet, but never ever doubt—
—but somewhere inside, he knew—
"Stephen? Stephen, it's over. It's 2007, and you're at the vet's office, with—"
"—Jon," choked Stephen, a violent shudder jostling his bones. All that anger, not an ounce of it deserved, and nothing else to wall back the decades of grief deferred, so that he was battered by it, drowning in it. "Jon, I—I can't take this."
"You can," insisted Jon. "Whatever you're seeing, it was a long time ago. It's gone now. It can't hurt you anymore."
"...smaller pieces..."
"What?"
"Can't...believe that all at once," whispered Stephen. "Give it to me...in smaller pieces."
"O-okay." Jon's arm around his shoulders; Jon's heartbeat against his knuckles. "Um. That was the past; this is the present. They're different. With me so far?"
Stephen tried. Fought to redraw the line around all the past in his head, from his childhood despair to his teenage haircuts, numbed legs and shameful wanton thrills and dueling shouts that echoed down the hall.
And then one of the figures in his head stepped across the line and walked in the door.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
Lorraine rang the bell for the receptionist and studied a poster on the wall while waiting for him to appear. She could feel her ex-husband's gaze on her back, and had no intention of returning it.
The dog, by Tracey's account, had been delighted to see Stephen. That made one of them.
The white-coated functionary appeared behind the counter, exchanged a few forms with her, made some stock noises of sympathy, and disappeared again. All she had to do was make a straight line for the exit. But Stephen's chair was beside it, and Lorraine's traitorous eyes stole a glance in his direction.
To her surprise, they only connected for a split second before Stephen turned and buried his face in the crook of his companion's neck.
"Hey, Lorraine," said Jon, as though this were perfectly normal.
"Hello, Jon," replied Lorraine, who was still fond of the man, in spite of his dubious choice of friends.
Friends?
She took in the details of their position. Jon's protective arm around Stephen's shoulders. Stephen's hand clinging to Jon's dark shirt. The knees pressed together. The heads inclined towards each other. And a dozen other minor details, too subtle to articulate, but when you sink two decades of your life into a marriage, you come out of it knowing a few things purely on instinct.
Mere steps from the door, she said, "You're not."
Jon's startled expression fooled nobody. "Not what?"
Double-checking to make sure the receptionist was still gone, Lorraine lowered her voice and hissed, "For God's sake, Jon! Your wife's back there!"
"She knows," said Jon quickly. "We've got it worked out. It's okay."
"What about his wife? Or is he running around on this one too?" Although if she was stupid enough to marry her stalker, she deserved whatever she got.
Without missing a beat Jon's voice went from placating to steely. "Everyone knows who needs to know. You divorced him, Lor, well before any of this started. He hasn't run around on anyone."
"Have," whispered Stephen.
At once Jon's full attention was turned to him. And, in spite of herself, Lorraine's too.
"Jon...wasn't part of it," he added, forehead still resting against Jon's shoulder. "Don't blame Jon. But I...as far as you're concerned, 'I'...there were others."
Lorraine stared. Not because she hadn't had her suspicions for years—they had come up again and again during the proceedings—but she had fully expected Stephen to deny them until his dying day. Why the sudden surge of honesty? And what the hell did "as far as you're concerned" mean? What was he—?
No. It didn't matter. He wasn't her concern any more.
She reached for the door handle.
"Wait!" cried Stephen.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
It was like watching a squadron of stunt pilots in action. The slightest miscalculation, and they would crash into each other; all you could do from the ground was watch, and pray that they knew what they were doing.
As Stephen shrugged off Jon's hands, slipped on his glasses, and clambered to his feet, Jon sent up a quick prayer to any gods who might be listening that he knew what he was doing.
"Wait," repeated Stephen. "Please."
"Save it," snapped Lorraine. "I don't want to hear it."
"The kids."
A pause. "What about them?"
"I know it's early," stammered Stephen, "but, please—what do they want for Christmas?"
Lorraine put a hand on her hip. "Why don't you just give them autographed photos of yourself? That's always been good enough before."
"It wasn't," said Stephen. "It was never good enough. I want to do better. Please. I—I can't do it on my own."
There was a heart-stopping pause.
"JP," said Lorraine, "is into toy cars."
Jon nearly cheered.
"Nothing too fancy," she continued. "It can't have small parts, or sharp edges. And it needs to be durable enough to do a lot of crashing into things."
"Toy car for His Holiness," repeated Stephen intently, as though repeating the words for transcription. For all Jon knew, someone inside really was writing it down. "No small parts, no sharp edges, crashable."
"Sally's a big fan of craft kits—you know, the ones with lots of yarn and beads and so on, plus instructions for making bracelets or scarves or potholders. Or you could just fill a box with stuff, and let her sort through it on her own."
"Craft kit for Sally," echoed Stephen. "Or materials."
"Mary's fallen in love with horses. Models, movies, books, toys, anything that has to do with horses will make her happy."
Silence.
"Did you catch that?" asked Lorraine, more out of caution than concern.
"She loves horses," whispered Stephen: distant, breathy.
This seemed to satisfy her, though Jon's own nerves had jacked up the threat level to orange. "Right. And Tyrone would—"
A razor-sharp hiss. "Who's that?"
Lorraine's voice iced over. "Your firstborn son. He got tired of being the second most Stephen Junior in your life, so he's going by his middle name now."
"No."
"Yes, he—"
"NO!"
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
She loves horses.
The girl had a horse. Had a horse, and lost her when they fled to Little League, and hid the grief away while Stephen sat on the bench and kept proud watch over the bats he was never allowed to swing—
I can't feel this, not three times in a row, once in a lifetime is too much already—
—she grabbed him. Sank in her claws and dragged him back, away from the body, away from the pain, and all other feeling with it. Into safety. Into darkness. This is why you don't love! Why don't you listen? Let me take care of it. Let me protect you.
"And Tyrone would—"
Who's that?
"Your firstborn son. He got tired of being the second most important Stephen Junior in your life, so he's going by his middle name now."
"No," said Stephen. A safe shell of Stephen, all but empty, talons closed around his heart.
"Yes, he—"
"NO!" Not him, not my son, not going to let that happen to my son not now not ever "I won't let him!" he's still mine have to keep him safe have to protect him from being hurt hated helpless lonely lost "I don't care what he thinks—" rules rules rules be a good boy and follow the rules "—I am still his father—" listen to your father listen to your Father do what he wants and you'll be safe be good be lovable "—and you tell him I put my foot down!" as he took a step forward, hurt you punish you it's for your own good just don't break the rules don't be shameful don't don't don't and everything will work out fine someone touched him don't hurt my son don't you DARE try to stop me no no no no no no no NO NO NO he pulled back and swung—
—and saw blue eyes in the instant before his fist connected.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
"Lor, wait! Please!"
Lorraine strode through the overcast parking lot without looking back. "I'm not doing this anymore, Jon!"
"If you could just let me know what—what Ty wants—"
She stopped at the side of the little blue Camry, a gust of wind sending dry leaves whirling past her feet, and turned on her pursuer. "He wants his father to leave him alone! Can't you of all people understand that?"
A low blow, but right then she didn't care. Not with Jon already wincing as his fingers gingerly brushed the curve of his cheek.
"Wouldn't let Stephen near him right now even if he wanted it," she continued. "I put up with a lot from that man before I cut him loose, but I never would have let him hit me! I thought you had more self-respect than that!"
"It's not like this is a routine thing...."
"So it's okay if he slaps you around just a little?"
"No! It's not okay, and I'll deal with it, but you have to understand, there's more going on here!"
"Like what?"
"I—uh, I don't think it's my place to tell you."
"Why am I not surprised?" demanded Lorraine, digging through her purse. "He's a domineering, impulsive, unpredictable control freak. That's never going to change!"
"It's changing already! He's working on it! He just needs help, and care, and patience—"
"You think I wasn't patient? You think I didn't care?"
"That's not what I'm saying!"
"I was in love with him! Why do you think I stuck around for so long?" She pulled out her keys, scratching silver flecks in the paint as she jabbed them unsteadily at her goal. "I loved him, and he thought that gave him the right to walk all over me, and finally I made the smart decision and got away from him." Throwing herself into the driver's seat, she added, "And, Jon, if you have no sense of self-preservation, so be it. What Stephen Colbert does to people is no longer my problem."
She slammed the door, fired up the engine, and burned rubber.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
He leaned weakly against the waiting room wall, sweating, panting. It took him a moment to recognize that someone had entered at all, and even then he stared without recognition.
"Stephen?"
A woman in a long white coat (they're coming to take me away, ha-ha).
"Stephen, what happened? Where's Jon?"
Was she talking to him?
"You want me to call someone, Tracey?" Another white coat, this one behind glass. "Cops? Hospital? National Enquirer?"
"I know you're joking, Mo, but don't." A hand arced in front of his face; he flinched. "Can you hear me?"
He nodded. Yes, he could hear.
"Can you say something?"
A faint croak, not sounding like him at all: "I...."
"I'll get him, Trace."
Jon?
"Honey, is that...did he...?"
"Yeah. And we'll deal with it. But not here, okay?"
"Right."
His tongue was thick and heavy in his mouth, and wørds seemed to be failing him. "Jon...." he managed, before they gave out altogether.
Jon jerked his head toward the door. "Come on, Stephen."
Like a balloon tugged into the wind on a child's wrist, he followed.
◊ · § · ◊ · § · ◊
The sky outside was darker than ever, static crackling in the breeze. Cars passed by with their lights on: paired clusters of brilliance painting streaks through the stifling grey. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance.
Jon kept his gaze forward, though his ears were keenly tuned to Stephen's footsteps a few paces behind. The whole side of his face was throbbing now; he didn't trust himself to reach out gently enough to pull Stephen from the blankness that had closed around him.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when someone plucked at the waist of his shirt, and spun to find Stevie jerking away, meek as a lamb. "It's okay, hon," he said gruffly. "Let's keep going."
Stevie held off, dawdling on the far side of the painted white line Jon had just stepped across. The glasses had slid down his nose, unveiling dry and reddened eyes. "Jon, please...hit me."
"What?"
"Hit me," pleaded Stevie, squeezing his eyes shut. "Or slap me. Punch me. Kick me. Anything. Just hurt me!"
Jon sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Hitting you won't make anything better. And even if it would, you don't deserve it."
"Jon, please! We—we punched you, and—" He choked. "You can't let that go!"
"You're right," said Jon. "I can't. Now come on."
He turned away and strode on.
The van chirped when he pressed the button to unlock it, distracting Jon for the half-second it took Tyrone to lunge forward and shove him up against the side.
"So don't hit us!" he exclaimed over the crash of Jon's keys on the pavement, hips flush with Jon's but mercifully still. "Find something else to do. Fuck us. Give us one of your sanctimonious lectures. Be nice to us, if that's what gets you off. But don't fucking ignore us!"
"I swear to you, Tyrone, I'm not ignoring you," said Jon. "But we're not doing anything until I get back to the house and have a nice long conversation with an ice pack. Preferably without getting rained on in the process. Now, are you going to let me up, or are we going to hold this pose until the storm hits?"
Slowly, in a deliberate and ruthlessly fluid motion, Tyrone took a half step back and sank to his knees, staring Jon down all the while. Jon held steady, refusing to respond one way or the other, but never broke his gaze.
At last Tyrone swiped blindly for the keys, scooped them up on the first try, and without a word pressed them into Jon's hand.
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: R
Disclaimer/Warnings: See the table of contents.
This chapter contains two dead dogs. There's also a horse mixed up in there somewhere. Have all necessary tissues on hand before reading.
Stephen's conflicting sets of memories about Shasta are presented in this clip and I Am America 34-35. Mo is randomly borrowed from Nurse Jackie. Title swiped from Savage Garden.
Animals and Children
November 2, 2007
(Continued)
12 DOWN: This animal would make a purr-fect pet!
Jon didn't know what Tracey had done to convince the former Lorraine Colbert to let her ex-husband within fifty feet of her, but he was profoundly grateful for it. Even if he wasn't legally entitled to it, Stephen deserved a chance to say goodbye.
Which left Jon on his own in the desolate waiting room, trying to print CAT in a crossword from a year-old magazine. It didn't help that someone had already inked PETSTOR in wobbly letters in 9 across (You can find lots of lovable animals here).
He was halfway through replacing it with SHELTER in thick, heavy strokes when the door creaked unhappily and Stephen emerged: eyes red, feet dragging, glasses dangling from one hand.
Jon dropped the magazine and stood, twisting the brim of his Mets cap away from his face. Stephen fell into his arms with a silent sob.
"I thought he might be mad," he whispered, raspy and faint even from right beside Jon's ear. "Because I haven't seen him for almost a year. But he was so happy! Couldn't even see me, but he sniffed my hand and right away his tail started wagging, just like always."
"Gipper's a good dog," murmured Jon.
"He's such a good dog!" choked Stephen, as a tear trickled down Jon's neck.
Even with Jon's lead he barely made it to one of the stiff chairs, tight fabric stretched over hard cushions in a crude parody of comfort. Anger he could ride. Adoration he could lie back and devour. Grief just cut him loose, like a small boat on a wide and choppy sea.
"He's not abandoning me," he insisted, clinging to Jon's shirt over the crammed-together arms of their chairs. "He's sick. He can't help it."
Jon's hand on his arm, stroking. "That's right."
Stephen scrubbed his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. "Not like Shasta."
"Shasta," echoed Jon. "That's not...the dog who ran off when you were a kid?"
"That's her," agreed Stephen. "Did everything together—even when Charlene couldn't be there—no bear ever got near us when she was around. Then she stopped walking to school with me, but she was always right there when I got home, so I didn't think...and then one day—"
—Shasta was already ten feet behind when she sat down altogether, one hip twisted to angle froglike beneath her.
"Get up!" snapped Stephen from down the path. His backpack was heavier than usual, dragging on his shoulders with the bulk of his new remedial science textbook (three tests in a row he had turned over his paper and not recognized a word of it, and it was no use pleading with his teachers that he had studied). "Whatever it is, shake it off! I need to get home and study."
The golden lab whined apologetically as she struggled to pull her legs back into alignment, liquid eyes begging Stephen to be patient. On swaying hips she finally hopped forward—
—in sock feet the little boy crept down the stairs, feeling his way through the darkness, the closet door whisper-soft as he swung it open. Above the box with the dwindling pile of small hats and mittens hung Mama's purse; his hand slipped under the clasp.
Just a couple of bills. Just enough to buy a bit of chicken, or maybe a sausage. Something to let Shasta know he wasn't mad at her for not coming to school anymore, that even Stephen was only mad because it was easier than being scared—
—"She's happier there," said Papa brusquely. "She'll get lots of fresh air, and she can chase the rabbits."
Impossible, unless she had been faking it with the hips all along, but good boys don't question. Seethe with fury at your traitorous and absent pet, but never ever doubt—
—but somewhere inside, he knew—
"Stephen? Stephen, it's over. It's 2007, and you're at the vet's office, with—"
"—Jon," choked Stephen, a violent shudder jostling his bones. All that anger, not an ounce of it deserved, and nothing else to wall back the decades of grief deferred, so that he was battered by it, drowning in it. "Jon, I—I can't take this."
"You can," insisted Jon. "Whatever you're seeing, it was a long time ago. It's gone now. It can't hurt you anymore."
"...smaller pieces..."
"What?"
"Can't...believe that all at once," whispered Stephen. "Give it to me...in smaller pieces."
"O-okay." Jon's arm around his shoulders; Jon's heartbeat against his knuckles. "Um. That was the past; this is the present. They're different. With me so far?"
Stephen tried. Fought to redraw the line around all the past in his head, from his childhood despair to his teenage haircuts, numbed legs and shameful wanton thrills and dueling shouts that echoed down the hall.
And then one of the figures in his head stepped across the line and walked in the door.
Lorraine rang the bell for the receptionist and studied a poster on the wall while waiting for him to appear. She could feel her ex-husband's gaze on her back, and had no intention of returning it.
The dog, by Tracey's account, had been delighted to see Stephen. That made one of them.
The white-coated functionary appeared behind the counter, exchanged a few forms with her, made some stock noises of sympathy, and disappeared again. All she had to do was make a straight line for the exit. But Stephen's chair was beside it, and Lorraine's traitorous eyes stole a glance in his direction.
To her surprise, they only connected for a split second before Stephen turned and buried his face in the crook of his companion's neck.
"Hey, Lorraine," said Jon, as though this were perfectly normal.
"Hello, Jon," replied Lorraine, who was still fond of the man, in spite of his dubious choice of friends.
Friends?
She took in the details of their position. Jon's protective arm around Stephen's shoulders. Stephen's hand clinging to Jon's dark shirt. The knees pressed together. The heads inclined towards each other. And a dozen other minor details, too subtle to articulate, but when you sink two decades of your life into a marriage, you come out of it knowing a few things purely on instinct.
Mere steps from the door, she said, "You're not."
Jon's startled expression fooled nobody. "Not what?"
Double-checking to make sure the receptionist was still gone, Lorraine lowered her voice and hissed, "For God's sake, Jon! Your wife's back there!"
"She knows," said Jon quickly. "We've got it worked out. It's okay."
"What about his wife? Or is he running around on this one too?" Although if she was stupid enough to marry her stalker, she deserved whatever she got.
Without missing a beat Jon's voice went from placating to steely. "Everyone knows who needs to know. You divorced him, Lor, well before any of this started. He hasn't run around on anyone."
"Have," whispered Stephen.
At once Jon's full attention was turned to him. And, in spite of herself, Lorraine's too.
"Jon...wasn't part of it," he added, forehead still resting against Jon's shoulder. "Don't blame Jon. But I...as far as you're concerned, 'I'...there were others."
Lorraine stared. Not because she hadn't had her suspicions for years—they had come up again and again during the proceedings—but she had fully expected Stephen to deny them until his dying day. Why the sudden surge of honesty? And what the hell did "as far as you're concerned" mean? What was he—?
No. It didn't matter. He wasn't her concern any more.
She reached for the door handle.
"Wait!" cried Stephen.
It was like watching a squadron of stunt pilots in action. The slightest miscalculation, and they would crash into each other; all you could do from the ground was watch, and pray that they knew what they were doing.
As Stephen shrugged off Jon's hands, slipped on his glasses, and clambered to his feet, Jon sent up a quick prayer to any gods who might be listening that he knew what he was doing.
"Wait," repeated Stephen. "Please."
"Save it," snapped Lorraine. "I don't want to hear it."
"The kids."
A pause. "What about them?"
"I know it's early," stammered Stephen, "but, please—what do they want for Christmas?"
Lorraine put a hand on her hip. "Why don't you just give them autographed photos of yourself? That's always been good enough before."
"It wasn't," said Stephen. "It was never good enough. I want to do better. Please. I—I can't do it on my own."
There was a heart-stopping pause.
"JP," said Lorraine, "is into toy cars."
Jon nearly cheered.
"Nothing too fancy," she continued. "It can't have small parts, or sharp edges. And it needs to be durable enough to do a lot of crashing into things."
"Toy car for His Holiness," repeated Stephen intently, as though repeating the words for transcription. For all Jon knew, someone inside really was writing it down. "No small parts, no sharp edges, crashable."
"Sally's a big fan of craft kits—you know, the ones with lots of yarn and beads and so on, plus instructions for making bracelets or scarves or potholders. Or you could just fill a box with stuff, and let her sort through it on her own."
"Craft kit for Sally," echoed Stephen. "Or materials."
"Mary's fallen in love with horses. Models, movies, books, toys, anything that has to do with horses will make her happy."
Silence.
"Did you catch that?" asked Lorraine, more out of caution than concern.
"She loves horses," whispered Stephen: distant, breathy.
This seemed to satisfy her, though Jon's own nerves had jacked up the threat level to orange. "Right. And Tyrone would—"
A razor-sharp hiss. "Who's that?"
Lorraine's voice iced over. "Your firstborn son. He got tired of being the second most Stephen Junior in your life, so he's going by his middle name now."
"No."
"Yes, he—"
"NO!"
She loves horses.
The girl had a horse. Had a horse, and lost her when they fled to Little League, and hid the grief away while Stephen sat on the bench and kept proud watch over the bats he was never allowed to swing—
I can't feel this, not three times in a row, once in a lifetime is too much already—
—she grabbed him. Sank in her claws and dragged him back, away from the body, away from the pain, and all other feeling with it. Into safety. Into darkness. This is why you don't love! Why don't you listen? Let me take care of it. Let me protect you.
"And Tyrone would—"
Who's that?
"Your firstborn son. He got tired of being the second most important Stephen Junior in your life, so he's going by his middle name now."
"No," said Stephen. A safe shell of Stephen, all but empty, talons closed around his heart.
"Yes, he—"
"NO!" Not him, not my son, not going to let that happen to my son not now not ever "I won't let him!" he's still mine have to keep him safe have to protect him from being hurt hated helpless lonely lost "I don't care what he thinks—" rules rules rules be a good boy and follow the rules "—I am still his father—" listen to your father listen to your Father do what he wants and you'll be safe be good be lovable "—and you tell him I put my foot down!" as he took a step forward, hurt you punish you it's for your own good just don't break the rules don't be shameful don't don't don't and everything will work out fine someone touched him don't hurt my son don't you DARE try to stop me no no no no no no no NO NO NO he pulled back and swung—
—and saw blue eyes in the instant before his fist connected.
"Lor, wait! Please!"
Lorraine strode through the overcast parking lot without looking back. "I'm not doing this anymore, Jon!"
"If you could just let me know what—what Ty wants—"
She stopped at the side of the little blue Camry, a gust of wind sending dry leaves whirling past her feet, and turned on her pursuer. "He wants his father to leave him alone! Can't you of all people understand that?"
A low blow, but right then she didn't care. Not with Jon already wincing as his fingers gingerly brushed the curve of his cheek.
"Wouldn't let Stephen near him right now even if he wanted it," she continued. "I put up with a lot from that man before I cut him loose, but I never would have let him hit me! I thought you had more self-respect than that!"
"It's not like this is a routine thing...."
"So it's okay if he slaps you around just a little?"
"No! It's not okay, and I'll deal with it, but you have to understand, there's more going on here!"
"Like what?"
"I—uh, I don't think it's my place to tell you."
"Why am I not surprised?" demanded Lorraine, digging through her purse. "He's a domineering, impulsive, unpredictable control freak. That's never going to change!"
"It's changing already! He's working on it! He just needs help, and care, and patience—"
"You think I wasn't patient? You think I didn't care?"
"That's not what I'm saying!"
"I was in love with him! Why do you think I stuck around for so long?" She pulled out her keys, scratching silver flecks in the paint as she jabbed them unsteadily at her goal. "I loved him, and he thought that gave him the right to walk all over me, and finally I made the smart decision and got away from him." Throwing herself into the driver's seat, she added, "And, Jon, if you have no sense of self-preservation, so be it. What Stephen Colbert does to people is no longer my problem."
She slammed the door, fired up the engine, and burned rubber.
He leaned weakly against the waiting room wall, sweating, panting. It took him a moment to recognize that someone had entered at all, and even then he stared without recognition.
"Stephen?"
A woman in a long white coat (they're coming to take me away, ha-ha).
"Stephen, what happened? Where's Jon?"
Was she talking to him?
"You want me to call someone, Tracey?" Another white coat, this one behind glass. "Cops? Hospital? National Enquirer?"
"I know you're joking, Mo, but don't." A hand arced in front of his face; he flinched. "Can you hear me?"
He nodded. Yes, he could hear.
"Can you say something?"
A faint croak, not sounding like him at all: "I...."
"I'll get him, Trace."
Jon?
"Honey, is that...did he...?"
"Yeah. And we'll deal with it. But not here, okay?"
"Right."
His tongue was thick and heavy in his mouth, and wørds seemed to be failing him. "Jon...." he managed, before they gave out altogether.
Jon jerked his head toward the door. "Come on, Stephen."
Like a balloon tugged into the wind on a child's wrist, he followed.
The sky outside was darker than ever, static crackling in the breeze. Cars passed by with their lights on: paired clusters of brilliance painting streaks through the stifling grey. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance.
Jon kept his gaze forward, though his ears were keenly tuned to Stephen's footsteps a few paces behind. The whole side of his face was throbbing now; he didn't trust himself to reach out gently enough to pull Stephen from the blankness that had closed around him.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when someone plucked at the waist of his shirt, and spun to find Stevie jerking away, meek as a lamb. "It's okay, hon," he said gruffly. "Let's keep going."
Stevie held off, dawdling on the far side of the painted white line Jon had just stepped across. The glasses had slid down his nose, unveiling dry and reddened eyes. "Jon, please...hit me."
"What?"
"Hit me," pleaded Stevie, squeezing his eyes shut. "Or slap me. Punch me. Kick me. Anything. Just hurt me!"
Jon sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Hitting you won't make anything better. And even if it would, you don't deserve it."
"Jon, please! We—we punched you, and—" He choked. "You can't let that go!"
"You're right," said Jon. "I can't. Now come on."
He turned away and strode on.
The van chirped when he pressed the button to unlock it, distracting Jon for the half-second it took Tyrone to lunge forward and shove him up against the side.
"So don't hit us!" he exclaimed over the crash of Jon's keys on the pavement, hips flush with Jon's but mercifully still. "Find something else to do. Fuck us. Give us one of your sanctimonious lectures. Be nice to us, if that's what gets you off. But don't fucking ignore us!"
"I swear to you, Tyrone, I'm not ignoring you," said Jon. "But we're not doing anything until I get back to the house and have a nice long conversation with an ice pack. Preferably without getting rained on in the process. Now, are you going to let me up, or are we going to hold this pose until the storm hits?"
Slowly, in a deliberate and ruthlessly fluid motion, Tyrone took a half step back and sank to his knees, staring Jon down all the while. Jon held steady, refusing to respond one way or the other, but never broke his gaze.
At last Tyrone swiped blindly for the keys, scooped them up on the first try, and without a word pressed them into Jon's hand.