Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2011-05-18 01:58 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2011-05-18 01:58 pm
Fake News: Red String
Title: Red String
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: "Stephen", Jon/Tracey, families
Disclaimer: #NotIntendedToBeAFactualStatement. The fictional characters are fictional, not mine, and used with love, not profit.
An epilogue to Green & Gray. Just enough to tie up the loose ends.
Red String
"Jon! Jon, wake up. You have to wake up!"
He doesn't want to. It's comfortable, and he's sleepy. But that's Stephen's voice, and when Stephen wants something from Jon he usually gets it, so it'll save time to just give in now.
"'Sup?" he yawns, kneading the cobwebs from his eyes.
"It's dinnertime. And your wife worked very hard on those frozen pizzas out of a box, you'd better show some appreciation. Jon, come on!"
The armchair creaks in sympathy as Jon gets up. Stephen's nearly hopping with anxiety, and Jon realizes with a start that he's not alone: the kids are hiding behind his legs, Nate clutching a Captain America action figure, Maggie's eyes wider than ever behind her new glasses.
"It's okay, guys," he says, taking their hands. "Uncle Stephen sometimes gets nervous when he doesn't need to, remember? There's nothing to worry about. I'm fine."
♦
It's been six months since the sirens pulled up to the foot of the building while Stephen cried over a body twenty floors above. Five months since he was ruled not guilty by virtue of self-defense. Four months since Jon's kids stopped waking up in the middle of the night to check that their parents hadn't disappeared again.
Liam's sister got the apartment, and almost everything else. She has a standing order that keeps Stephen away from the gravesite. His own family hasn't been in touch, except to uninvite him from things.
The first time Jon and Tracey came up to the cabin was, he later confessed, the first time he had shaved in weeks. If it weren't for the drives into town to see his therapist, he's not sure he would have showered.
This time, he greets them at the door with a grin, sporting freshly combed hair and a new cable knit sweater. He brags about his new boat, laughs as he takes them out on the water.
And if he has to leave when the kids start carving jack-o-lanterns, to lock himself upstairs and have a good cry...well, he's not doing that every day any more. It's progress.
♦
Long after the kids have been put to bed, nobody's suggested that Stephen go back to his own cabin.
He's glad. It's warm and safe on the rug before the Stewarts' (real, working) fireplace, talking about the new project Tad's working on, the movies Steve wants him to be in, the guest post he made on a (heavily-moderated) political blog that drew so much traffic it crashed their servers. He doesn't use the phrase Colbert Bump, tarnished as it was by too many awful tabloid puns, but the principle still holds.
Eventually the conversation retreats to Jon and Tracey, and Stephen lets his eyes fall closed.
His own cabin has guardians stationed everywhere: the golden statuette on the mantel and a cave troll on his bureau, a plush Steagle Colbeagle on the piano and a plastic Lady Liberty on the bathroom sink. Here, he feels safe enough to only need one.
♦
Jon doesn't say: About once a day, no matter what I'm doing, I end up thinking about how the bastard died with my name stamped in his skull. Sometimes I don't catch it until someone asks me why I'm smiling.
Stephen doesn't say: I still love him. I can't forgive him, but I don't know how to stop loving him.
Tracey doesn't say: After everything else you two have gone through, it wouldn't make much sense to draw the line here. She thinks she would, if one or both of them came to her and asked permission to spend a night together; but they don't ask.
♦
When Jon nudges him awake, Tracey's already upstairs and the fire has burnt itself out. The pewter pendant on its length of red string slips from his cardigan when he sits up.
"Didn't know you were wearing that," says Jon mildly, brushing carpet scruff off his back.
"It's a Catholic thing." Stephen wraps his fist around the medal and lets Jon guide him up the stairs. "St. Andrew. He's, um, kind of the patron saint of BDSM."
"I'm guessing that's not official."
Stephen, who's still relearning how to be teased, winces. "I'd get rid of it if you told me to."
Jon stops at the door of the guest room and lifts the string over his head. Before Stephen can let go of the pendant, Jon winds the loop around his wrist and holds it in place. They're always going to be tied to each other, but not by debt. Never by debt.
"You don't owe me anything," he says. "Be who you are. Do what you love. Wear what you want. Just don't wear this guy to bed, because being a saint doesn't stop it from being a choking hazard, and I want you still here in the morning."
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: "Stephen", Jon/Tracey, families
Disclaimer: #NotIntendedToBeAFactualStatement. The fictional characters are fictional, not mine, and used with love, not profit.
An epilogue to Green & Gray. Just enough to tie up the loose ends.
Red String
"Jon! Jon, wake up. You have to wake up!"
He doesn't want to. It's comfortable, and he's sleepy. But that's Stephen's voice, and when Stephen wants something from Jon he usually gets it, so it'll save time to just give in now.
"'Sup?" he yawns, kneading the cobwebs from his eyes.
"It's dinnertime. And your wife worked very hard on those frozen pizzas out of a box, you'd better show some appreciation. Jon, come on!"
The armchair creaks in sympathy as Jon gets up. Stephen's nearly hopping with anxiety, and Jon realizes with a start that he's not alone: the kids are hiding behind his legs, Nate clutching a Captain America action figure, Maggie's eyes wider than ever behind her new glasses.
"It's okay, guys," he says, taking their hands. "Uncle Stephen sometimes gets nervous when he doesn't need to, remember? There's nothing to worry about. I'm fine."
It's been six months since the sirens pulled up to the foot of the building while Stephen cried over a body twenty floors above. Five months since he was ruled not guilty by virtue of self-defense. Four months since Jon's kids stopped waking up in the middle of the night to check that their parents hadn't disappeared again.
Liam's sister got the apartment, and almost everything else. She has a standing order that keeps Stephen away from the gravesite. His own family hasn't been in touch, except to uninvite him from things.
The first time Jon and Tracey came up to the cabin was, he later confessed, the first time he had shaved in weeks. If it weren't for the drives into town to see his therapist, he's not sure he would have showered.
This time, he greets them at the door with a grin, sporting freshly combed hair and a new cable knit sweater. He brags about his new boat, laughs as he takes them out on the water.
And if he has to leave when the kids start carving jack-o-lanterns, to lock himself upstairs and have a good cry...well, he's not doing that every day any more. It's progress.
Long after the kids have been put to bed, nobody's suggested that Stephen go back to his own cabin.
He's glad. It's warm and safe on the rug before the Stewarts' (real, working) fireplace, talking about the new project Tad's working on, the movies Steve wants him to be in, the guest post he made on a (heavily-moderated) political blog that drew so much traffic it crashed their servers. He doesn't use the phrase Colbert Bump, tarnished as it was by too many awful tabloid puns, but the principle still holds.
Eventually the conversation retreats to Jon and Tracey, and Stephen lets his eyes fall closed.
His own cabin has guardians stationed everywhere: the golden statuette on the mantel and a cave troll on his bureau, a plush Steagle Colbeagle on the piano and a plastic Lady Liberty on the bathroom sink. Here, he feels safe enough to only need one.
Jon doesn't say: About once a day, no matter what I'm doing, I end up thinking about how the bastard died with my name stamped in his skull. Sometimes I don't catch it until someone asks me why I'm smiling.
Stephen doesn't say: I still love him. I can't forgive him, but I don't know how to stop loving him.
Tracey doesn't say: After everything else you two have gone through, it wouldn't make much sense to draw the line here. She thinks she would, if one or both of them came to her and asked permission to spend a night together; but they don't ask.
When Jon nudges him awake, Tracey's already upstairs and the fire has burnt itself out. The pewter pendant on its length of red string slips from his cardigan when he sits up.
"Didn't know you were wearing that," says Jon mildly, brushing carpet scruff off his back.
"It's a Catholic thing." Stephen wraps his fist around the medal and lets Jon guide him up the stairs. "St. Andrew. He's, um, kind of the patron saint of BDSM."
"I'm guessing that's not official."
Stephen, who's still relearning how to be teased, winces. "I'd get rid of it if you told me to."
Jon stops at the door of the guest room and lifts the string over his head. Before Stephen can let go of the pendant, Jon winds the loop around his wrist and holds it in place. They're always going to be tied to each other, but not by debt. Never by debt.
"You don't owe me anything," he says. "Be who you are. Do what you love. Wear what you want. Just don't wear this guy to bed, because being a saint doesn't stop it from being a choking hazard, and I want you still here in the morning."
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