Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2011-05-14 11:48 am
ptahrrific) wrote2011-05-14 11:48 am
Fake News: Hagiography (II)
Title: Hagiography (II)
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: OC/"Stephen", Jon/Tracey
Warnings: Everything from previous parts, now with extra violence and (skip) character death
Beta:sarcasticsra
Disclaimer: #NotIntendedToBeAFactualStatement. The fictional characters are fictional, not mine, and used with love, not profit.
The long-awaited climax of the Green & Gray 'verse. (If your memories of previous installments have gotten fuzzy and you were thinking of doing a reread, now would be the time.)
In which Jon swoops in and carries Stephen to safety under cover of night. At least, that was the plan.
Hagiography (II)
For someone who didn't know Stephen, the photos on the bookcase would have telegraphed the notion that he had no friends at all.
Jon stacked the single shots and the lone family portrait gently in the backpack, skipping over anything featuring the man whose apartment he was currently sneaking through. There was a novelty Steagle Colbeagle plushie perched on a bit of empty shelf space; Jon didn't know whose it was, but the idea of that man toying with anything named after Stephen made his stomach lurch, and without thinking twice he tucked the eagle in beside the picture frames.
The rest of the place had gone uncomfortably quiet. Slinging the backpack over one arm, he went looking for Stephen, pausing only long enough to check the elevator in the front room. Its dial rested safely at the ground floor.
He found Stephen in the walk-in closet connecting the two bedrooms. A single dim bulb shone over him like a halo as his hands clasped a set of tailored shirts on hangers, the better to bury his face in the mask of silk.
"Stephen," said Jon under his breath. "You can always get new clothes."
Stephen lifted his head, but barely. Eyes still downcast, he whispered, "These are the ones he bought for me."
"You can always," repeated Jon, "get new clothes."
Again with the perfect stillness, as if Stephen had fallen asleep standing up. The only clothes on his body were a faded T-shirt and a pair of cloud-printed pajama bottoms; the red marks on his wrists fairly glowed in contrast, and for the first time Jon realized there were bruises on his neck.
"Jon," he said, soft and broken, "I'm a whore."
Jon's heart did a sickening flop in his chest. "Is that what he told you? Because you let him buy you things? God, Stephen. He had no right."
Stephen shook his head. "It's nothing to do with him. I mean, I used to have sex for money."
"...Oh."
The bare bulb hummed.
"Is there anything else you absolutely need?" asked Jon. "Books, movies, gadgets, papers, Lord of the Rings toys?"
Did Stephen's eyes look redder than before, or was it the light? "N-no books," he stammered, letting the shirts slide from his hands. "DVDs...I can buy new ones. Laptop's at the studio. Keys! I'll need my keys."
♦
Jon had urged him to start packing while they were driving over. Stephen, now curled up in a ball on the drawing room floor with the iPhone pressed to his ear, had begged not to. I don't want to move. I'm scared of what I'll do if I get up.
You don't have to, Tracey had replied. Jon, tell him he doesn't have to.
He can hear you, babe. Speakerphone.
Turn Left At Next Light, the GPS had put in.
They gave him something to hang on to, passing words of reassurance along a lifeline strung together with satellite beams and anytime minutes.
He had explained where Liam was, and they had planned for what to do if he came back before they showed up (wait until he was asleep, then have Stephen sneak out; they promised they would be there, no matter how long it took). He had buzzed Jon in and guided him up. He had, at the last minute, pulled himself together enough to pull on soft cotton clothes, wishing he had managed to save the shirt Jon loaned him.
Maybe Jon would give him a new one.
♦
Stephen threw his wallet and keys in the backpack, then left Jon to keep watch while he took the red and blue duffel bag back to the bedroom.
Jon kept his eyes glued to the dial. He had been told Stephen's Dom (ex-Dom? Could he say that, finally?) could disappear for hours at a time, but it would be just like the man to show up at exactly the wrong moment.
It was still pointing firmly to L when Stephen reappeared, the duffel notably heavier and with what looked like a miniature dwarven hammer (if that was dwarves; Jon would ask later) poking out of the corner. "Toys," he said, blushing. "Checkbook. Phone. That's...that's it, I think...shoes! Should I stop to put on shoes?"
"Can you do it before the elevator gets here?" asked Jon, already pressing the lower of the tasteful ivory buttons.
"I...I don't know. Maybe." Stephen ducked his head. "It hurts to sit."
"Can you lean against the wall and hold your foot up?"
The dial slid smoothly past the third floor as Jon eased a black dress sock onto Stephen's left foot, folding it down to avoid the red marks on his ankle. He was unrolling the other sock when Stephen gasped and put his foot down: "Oh, no...."
"What's wrong?" asked Jon, then gaped as Stephen sprinted across the room.
"The most important thing!" There was more panicked energy in Stephen in that moment than he had shown the rest of the night put together. "It'll only take a second, Jon, I swear—"
Jon turned anxiously to the elevator, wondering how long they had. It was eight floors below, and moving steadily if slowly upward.
Then he heard the echo of footsteps.
Of course.
The building had stairs.
A quick scan of the room revealed nothing big enough to hide behind.
Stupid idea anyway, when Stephen was going to come running out in a moment or two. And he couldn't flee with the bags in a matter of seconds, or shout a warning that wasn't bound to be overheard.
Jon pushed the backpack and duffel bag into a spot where they would be easy to grab, then positioned himself between the door to the stairs and Stephen's path to the elevator.
The key turned in the lock just as he heard Stephen bound into the room behind him and skid to a stop. Jon wondered what Stephen had been so eager to get, but didn't dare look away as the door to the stairwell opened, the new arrival heralded by a blast of sweat and stale air. Even gym shorts and a towel managed to look stylish on a man that well cut.
So it was with a perverse sense of triumph that Jon took in the look of stupefaction on his face. "...the fuck are you doing here?"
"Don't worry about it." If Jon had been less terrified, he might even have thrown in a wiseass smirk. "We were just leaving."
"You are, that's for sure. Go to your room, Stephen. We'll talk about this when he's gone."
The elevator doors slid open. Jon caught the warm pine and mirrors of the brilliantly lit interior out of the corner of his eye. "I'm not leaving without him."
"He's not going anywhere."
"My wife's parked across the street. If we're not both out there in four minutes, she's calling the cops." He was shaving down the time; he didn't want to know what the man would do if given ten.
"Is that supposed to be a threat? You're the one who's trespassing."
"The hell I am! I was invited. I wouldn't cross Stephen's boundaries without his permission."
"Don't get cute, Stewart. Stephen's needs are not a joke."
And the wild thing was, he sounded like he meant it.
"Then give him what he needs," said Jon softly, trying to find the reservoir of goodwill he tapped for the most bombastic guests. Let's be reasonable and talk about this. I think you're hurting America, but I believe that you don't want to. "You love him. Give him this."
By the sound of the voice that spoke next, Stephen hadn't taken so much as a step toward the waiting lift. "Please, sir," he said, hoarse and small. "Please, Liam. Let us go."
The other man's expression was fixed, unreadable. "I made you a promise, pet."
He stepped forward, a calm stride measured to walk past Jon with no more interest than he would have spared a piece of furniture. Stephen let out a choked cry. As if he were already being hit.
"Stephen, go!" shouted Jon, and lunged.
He got in one good punch.
Even that was lucky.
Liam caught the next one and bent his wrist back, bringing a fist up into his gut in the same moment.
Jon gave up on strategy and settled for momentum, throwing his whole weight against the other man, not caring where they landed—probably should have, they hit a corner of the couch on the way down, uprooting cushions as it broke their fall, giving the other man the purchase he needed to roll—
—then he had the upper hand, Jon grabbing for him, yanking and clawing at hair and clothes (Stephen screaming in the distance), anything to keep him from getting to Stephen (run, you idiot, I can't distract him long)—
—but he wasn't pulling back, not even far enough to get the windup for another good swing, just bracing his thumbs against Jon's windpipe.
He flails, gags, then there's a knee pressing down on his chest and that's it for the flailing.
His hands claw at the other man's wrists—they might as well be iron bars for all the good it's doing.
The face above him is cold. Tense around the mouth but that's it, not angry or distraught or even god forbid aroused, looking him straight in the eye like he's nothing, like a stubborn weed that's finally getting pulled.
Dammit, if you're going to kill a man, at least have the decency to look like you mean it.
Stephen's still here. Still screaming. Something about pumpkins.
Don't worry about me. Just get out of here. What's the point if you don't get out?
(Trace, I'm sorry, tell the kids I)
Vision's starting to tunnel.
(please let there be a light on the other side.)
this is the way the world ends
not with a whimper
but a
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: OC/"Stephen", Jon/Tracey
Warnings: Everything from previous parts, now with extra violence and (skip) character death
Beta:
sarcasticsraDisclaimer: #NotIntendedToBeAFactualStatement. The fictional characters are fictional, not mine, and used with love, not profit.
The long-awaited climax of the Green & Gray 'verse. (If your memories of previous installments have gotten fuzzy and you were thinking of doing a reread, now would be the time.)
In which Jon swoops in and carries Stephen to safety under cover of night. At least, that was the plan.
Hagiography (II)
For someone who didn't know Stephen, the photos on the bookcase would have telegraphed the notion that he had no friends at all.
Jon stacked the single shots and the lone family portrait gently in the backpack, skipping over anything featuring the man whose apartment he was currently sneaking through. There was a novelty Steagle Colbeagle plushie perched on a bit of empty shelf space; Jon didn't know whose it was, but the idea of that man toying with anything named after Stephen made his stomach lurch, and without thinking twice he tucked the eagle in beside the picture frames.
The rest of the place had gone uncomfortably quiet. Slinging the backpack over one arm, he went looking for Stephen, pausing only long enough to check the elevator in the front room. Its dial rested safely at the ground floor.
He found Stephen in the walk-in closet connecting the two bedrooms. A single dim bulb shone over him like a halo as his hands clasped a set of tailored shirts on hangers, the better to bury his face in the mask of silk.
"Stephen," said Jon under his breath. "You can always get new clothes."
Stephen lifted his head, but barely. Eyes still downcast, he whispered, "These are the ones he bought for me."
"You can always," repeated Jon, "get new clothes."
Again with the perfect stillness, as if Stephen had fallen asleep standing up. The only clothes on his body were a faded T-shirt and a pair of cloud-printed pajama bottoms; the red marks on his wrists fairly glowed in contrast, and for the first time Jon realized there were bruises on his neck.
"Jon," he said, soft and broken, "I'm a whore."
Jon's heart did a sickening flop in his chest. "Is that what he told you? Because you let him buy you things? God, Stephen. He had no right."
Stephen shook his head. "It's nothing to do with him. I mean, I used to have sex for money."
"...Oh."
The bare bulb hummed.
"Is there anything else you absolutely need?" asked Jon. "Books, movies, gadgets, papers, Lord of the Rings toys?"
Did Stephen's eyes look redder than before, or was it the light? "N-no books," he stammered, letting the shirts slide from his hands. "DVDs...I can buy new ones. Laptop's at the studio. Keys! I'll need my keys."
Jon had urged him to start packing while they were driving over. Stephen, now curled up in a ball on the drawing room floor with the iPhone pressed to his ear, had begged not to. I don't want to move. I'm scared of what I'll do if I get up.
You don't have to, Tracey had replied. Jon, tell him he doesn't have to.
He can hear you, babe. Speakerphone.
Turn Left At Next Light, the GPS had put in.
They gave him something to hang on to, passing words of reassurance along a lifeline strung together with satellite beams and anytime minutes.
He had explained where Liam was, and they had planned for what to do if he came back before they showed up (wait until he was asleep, then have Stephen sneak out; they promised they would be there, no matter how long it took). He had buzzed Jon in and guided him up. He had, at the last minute, pulled himself together enough to pull on soft cotton clothes, wishing he had managed to save the shirt Jon loaned him.
Maybe Jon would give him a new one.
Stephen threw his wallet and keys in the backpack, then left Jon to keep watch while he took the red and blue duffel bag back to the bedroom.
Jon kept his eyes glued to the dial. He had been told Stephen's Dom (ex-Dom? Could he say that, finally?) could disappear for hours at a time, but it would be just like the man to show up at exactly the wrong moment.
It was still pointing firmly to L when Stephen reappeared, the duffel notably heavier and with what looked like a miniature dwarven hammer (if that was dwarves; Jon would ask later) poking out of the corner. "Toys," he said, blushing. "Checkbook. Phone. That's...that's it, I think...shoes! Should I stop to put on shoes?"
"Can you do it before the elevator gets here?" asked Jon, already pressing the lower of the tasteful ivory buttons.
"I...I don't know. Maybe." Stephen ducked his head. "It hurts to sit."
"Can you lean against the wall and hold your foot up?"
The dial slid smoothly past the third floor as Jon eased a black dress sock onto Stephen's left foot, folding it down to avoid the red marks on his ankle. He was unrolling the other sock when Stephen gasped and put his foot down: "Oh, no...."
"What's wrong?" asked Jon, then gaped as Stephen sprinted across the room.
"The most important thing!" There was more panicked energy in Stephen in that moment than he had shown the rest of the night put together. "It'll only take a second, Jon, I swear—"
Jon turned anxiously to the elevator, wondering how long they had. It was eight floors below, and moving steadily if slowly upward.
Then he heard the echo of footsteps.
Of course.
The building had stairs.
A quick scan of the room revealed nothing big enough to hide behind.
Stupid idea anyway, when Stephen was going to come running out in a moment or two. And he couldn't flee with the bags in a matter of seconds, or shout a warning that wasn't bound to be overheard.
Jon pushed the backpack and duffel bag into a spot where they would be easy to grab, then positioned himself between the door to the stairs and Stephen's path to the elevator.
The key turned in the lock just as he heard Stephen bound into the room behind him and skid to a stop. Jon wondered what Stephen had been so eager to get, but didn't dare look away as the door to the stairwell opened, the new arrival heralded by a blast of sweat and stale air. Even gym shorts and a towel managed to look stylish on a man that well cut.
So it was with a perverse sense of triumph that Jon took in the look of stupefaction on his face. "...the fuck are you doing here?"
"Don't worry about it." If Jon had been less terrified, he might even have thrown in a wiseass smirk. "We were just leaving."
"You are, that's for sure. Go to your room, Stephen. We'll talk about this when he's gone."
The elevator doors slid open. Jon caught the warm pine and mirrors of the brilliantly lit interior out of the corner of his eye. "I'm not leaving without him."
"He's not going anywhere."
"My wife's parked across the street. If we're not both out there in four minutes, she's calling the cops." He was shaving down the time; he didn't want to know what the man would do if given ten.
"Is that supposed to be a threat? You're the one who's trespassing."
"The hell I am! I was invited. I wouldn't cross Stephen's boundaries without his permission."
"Don't get cute, Stewart. Stephen's needs are not a joke."
And the wild thing was, he sounded like he meant it.
"Then give him what he needs," said Jon softly, trying to find the reservoir of goodwill he tapped for the most bombastic guests. Let's be reasonable and talk about this. I think you're hurting America, but I believe that you don't want to. "You love him. Give him this."
By the sound of the voice that spoke next, Stephen hadn't taken so much as a step toward the waiting lift. "Please, sir," he said, hoarse and small. "Please, Liam. Let us go."
The other man's expression was fixed, unreadable. "I made you a promise, pet."
He stepped forward, a calm stride measured to walk past Jon with no more interest than he would have spared a piece of furniture. Stephen let out a choked cry. As if he were already being hit.
"Stephen, go!" shouted Jon, and lunged.
He got in one good punch.
Even that was lucky.
Liam caught the next one and bent his wrist back, bringing a fist up into his gut in the same moment.
Jon gave up on strategy and settled for momentum, throwing his whole weight against the other man, not caring where they landed—probably should have, they hit a corner of the couch on the way down, uprooting cushions as it broke their fall, giving the other man the purchase he needed to roll—
—then he had the upper hand, Jon grabbing for him, yanking and clawing at hair and clothes (Stephen screaming in the distance), anything to keep him from getting to Stephen (run, you idiot, I can't distract him long)—
—but he wasn't pulling back, not even far enough to get the windup for another good swing, just bracing his thumbs against Jon's windpipe.
He flails, gags, then there's a knee pressing down on his chest and that's it for the flailing.
His hands claw at the other man's wrists—they might as well be iron bars for all the good it's doing.
The face above him is cold. Tense around the mouth but that's it, not angry or distraught or even god forbid aroused, looking him straight in the eye like he's nothing, like a stubborn weed that's finally getting pulled.
Dammit, if you're going to kill a man, at least have the decency to look like you mean it.
Stephen's still here. Still screaming. Something about pumpkins.
Don't worry about me. Just get out of here. What's the point if you don't get out?
(Trace, I'm sorry, tell the kids I)
Vision's starting to tunnel.
(please let there be a light on the other side.)
this is the way the world ends
not with a whimper
but a