ptahrrific: Jon and Stephen, "Believe in the me who believes in you" (fake news)
Erin Ptah ([personal profile] ptahrrific) wrote2012-11-17 01:58 pm

Fake News | Jon/wife, Jon/"Stephen", others | PG-13 | All My Roads Lead To You (3)

Title: All My Roads Lead To You (3/5?)
Rating: PG-13
Contents: Metaphorical sex
Characters/pairings: Jon/Tracey, Jon/"Stephen", kids, Jimmy Fallon
Disclaimer: #NotIntendedToBeAFactualStatement. Characters belong to the Report. Names of real people are used in a fictitious context, and all dialogue, actions, and content are products of the author's imagination only.

Sentinel Jon pulls his Guide's feelings back on track, so that Stephen can help him achieve greater sensory heights in their ongoing auxiliary police work. Now it's Jon's turn to have confusing feelings, and to drag the most important people in his life back and forth as he tries to balance them.

AO3 mirror | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Stephen sobbed through Richard Gere taking Julia Roberts to the opera for the first time, and fell asleep before the credits with his cheeks still wet.

Jimmy risked getting close enough to the cushion fort to draw a sheet over him, then rolled up in his own sleeping bag and closed his eyes without even bothering to brush his teeth.

Sleepovers were fun.


Follow it! ordered Jon.

His lynx didn't need to be told twice. On plate-sized paws it bounded after the mystery creature, whose short legs were no match for such a pursuer. Instead it stopped in its tracks and flopped down in the grass, rolling its body into a football-sized lump.

A hedgehog.

The lynx nosed cautiously at its spines, then looked up at Jon as he jogged over, as if to say, Now what?

Jon sank into a crouch and tried to touch the spray of spines without jabbing himself. Turned out he was worried about the wrong thing: his hands went right through it as if it were made of smoke.

Stephen? he asked.

The hedgehog wiggled. Like it was trying to roll, but didn't know how.

Okay, backing off, said Jon. He couldn't say how, but he was dead certain that as much as the lynx was him, the hedgehog was Stephen. You too, he added to his lynx, and it obligingly padded backward to sit on its haunches in the low grass.

Take better care of your Guide, one of the other Sentinels had told him. What did that mean? What kind of care did self-involved, sensual Stephen need that he wasn't making a point of getting for himself?

On the other hand...I've been kind of wrapped up in myself since this whole thing started, haven't I? said Jon out loud. Okay, I thought about what it meant for my family, but you're involved just as much as they are. And I never even asked about how it was affecting you.

He paused. Considered the spines.

Not that you made it easy, he pointed out. What with yelling at me all the time, and being generally...well, you know. I don't think you've done anything uncomplicatedly nice, since you hugged me at Landstuhl. He paused again. I was really glad to see you, you know that? Don't know if I mentioned it, because I got swept up in sensory overload like ten minutes later, but I...I was so, so happy to see you.

Now that he stopped and looked at it, Stephen's prickliness wasn't so different from his own snappishness when his senses were out of control. And while Stephen was the one person who could be counted on not to overwhelm Jon's Sentinel senses, it couldn't work the other way around, could it? Whether or not a Guide had heightened empathy in general, their Sentinel was always the person they felt most strongly.

I'm sorry I yelled, said Jon softly.

Stephen-the-hedgehog twitched. Out between the spines peered a pair of bright black eyes. Jon-the-lynx flattened itself against the ground and stretched its nose forward.

"You should be sorry," huffed Stephen.

Under the chipped stone archway, where there had nothing but weeds a moment ago, he was sitting against one of the columns. His hands were clasped over one knee while the other leg stretched out in front of him, fallen leaves catching on his bare foot. Shadowy though his figure was, Jon could see that he was without glasses, and, for some reason, wearing cowboy pajamas.

"I didn't do anything wrong," he continued, jaw set and shoulders stiff. "You were very rude."

"I could have been nicer." Jon's eyes flicked between the indistinct human form under reddish stones and the poky little hedgehog sitting on a three-pointed leaf. "Stephen...if you're really mad, okay. But if you're just trying to find things to stab me with so I won't eat you...."

"It's an appreciable risk," said Stephen. "I would be delicious."

Jon-the-lynx flopped down in a furry half-circle in the grass around Stephen-the-hedgehog: protective, not forcing any touches, but not about to let him go anywhere. "Will you answer me one thing? Are you having trouble with emotions, or not?"


"So let me help you," said Jon. "I don't know what I can do, but at least let me try."

"The other Guide said you should try to do for my emotions whatever I do to help with your senses," admitted Stephen.

Jon perked up. "Another Guide? Did you have a mystical experience with the spirit-avatars of your comrades too?"

Stephen gave him an odd look. "No. I called a hotline."


"And if you're supposed to yell at me to get it together, I'd rather stay in my huddle, thanks," added Stephen, with forced chipperness. "Unless I've been doing this wrong the whole time. In which case, sorry, but I don't know how to do any better, so —" He took a deep breath. "So you should probably cut your losses and find yourself a better Guide because you probably deserve that anyway."

Jon tugged at a curling pale-green creeper that lay along the ground. The stem twisted between his fingers. "I don't think the yelling helps."

"Gee, thanks!" yelled Stephen, as his hedgehog rolled up tighter than ever. "Real model of tact you are here, Stewart!"

"It doesn't hurt, either!" protested Jon. "The yelling isn't important! What's important is that it's you!"

"Oh, sure!" Against the moss-tinted backlighting, Stephen's hands formed air-quotes. "You fact-y types love to reduce everything to 'science' and 'biology'. No personal responsibility, just hormones and —"

The creeper snapped off at the base. Jon flicked it away. "I like your voice."

"— what?"

"Your voice. Loud, quiet, whatever — I like it. Which is good, because I listen to you all the time. I'm so used to it...any situation, any environment, I can tell how you should sound. It's familiar. Comfortable. Easy to calibrate my Sentinel hearing by, sometimes when you're not even actually there. I bet you anything the reason I bonded with you, and not any other Guide, has a lot to do with how much I like your voice."

Stephen was facing him now, intent in the gloom, the planes of his limbs and back forming stern lines. "Where are you going with this?"

"What if you listened to my emotions like that?"

"Your angry emotions," sulked Stephen, but there wasn't much bite to it. The hedgehog's eyes were visible again.

"I'm not angry right now. And even if I was, it doesn't hurt my ears when you yell," Jon reminded him. "You can use me as a baseline. Calibrate everything else by that. All you have to do — I think — is open up. At least try it."

Stephen-the-hedgehog started to unroll, revealing tiny feet and pinkish skin under a fine layer of white fluff. So he thought Jon might be on to something after all. He only needed a little more coaxing....

"I won't hurt you right now," said Jon. "I swear. Let me feel it at you."

I just want you to be okay again.

The hedgehog fell flat on its stomach, a tiny spray of grass blades all around it like a halo of secondary spines. The lynx, otherwise taxidermy-still, kept it fixed with golden eyes.

Darkness had fallen on the forest-edge, the toppled columns, everything except the two creatures. Jon couldn't see his own feet, could pick Stephen's shape out more by immediate memory than by vision, but the hedgehog with lowered spines was clear as it touched its nose to the lynx's cheek.

You're my friend. One of my best, and I love you.

The big grey cat was purring. Whether that was something real lynxes did or only metaphorical spirit-ones, Jon couldn't have said.

I don't want any other Guide. Better, worse, whatever. I want you.

Stephen-the-hedgehog had clambered up onto one of Jon-the-lynx's front paws. With a flick of its wrist Jon-the-lynx tipped the little form between both paws, then rubbed its fluffy cheeks against Stephen-the-hedgehog's stomach.

Because you're mine.

Jon-the-lynx had him pinned. Surrounded, by warmth and strength and purring like a semi going by. Stephen wriggled and thrashed, not to escape, but to throw himself against Jon's chest and end up half-submerged in thick fur.

My Guide. Like my city. The one I get to protect. The one I....

Stephen-the-human moaned into the vast empty quiet, and Jon realized, too late to care about stopping, that this had gone way beyond what he had bargained for.

Love me harder, begged Stephen, and Jon adored him, sharp and thundering, unstoppable as the tide coming in.


Stephen was making pancakes (for loose values of the word "making") when Jimmy found him in the kitchen. "Good morning, Jimmy Fallon!" he singsonged, dumping another set of palm-sized oblongs onto a plate. Each was speckled with appetizing shades of brown and tan in between blooms of charcoal-black.

"Stephen! You look...." Hmm, he probably wouldn't appreciate hearing less like a hollow-eyed zombie. "...better! Guess you really just needed a good night's sleep after all, huh?"

"And popcorn!" said Stephen brightly. "And movies. Have some pancakes."

"Um," said Jimmy.

"...Or don't," added Stephen after a moment, switching off the stove. His voice had gone blown-glass cautious; he brushed some of the flour off his wrists (and onto the floor, but oh well). "You can say no. won't crush my soul forever if you don't like my pancakes. I mean, obviously it won't! That would be stupid! Right?"

It was pretty standard Stephen Colbert hyperbole, but something about his strained cheerfulness made Jimmy want to give it a serious answer. "That wouldn't be stupid if it happened," he said. "It would be sad. And I think...maybe...God willing...we could make these edible. What if we tried them with my ice cream?"


Jon refused to feel weird about this. Or guilty. At least, not yet. He waited for the game of Wii Go-Kart to reach a breaking point, then leaned over the back of the couch, ruffled his son's hair, and said to his wife, "Is it okay if I leave early for this thing, meet Stephen for coffee?"

Tracey looked up from her controller. "More coffee? Honey, are you feeling all right?"

"Didn't sleep that deeply," admitted Jon. "But I think I might be having a breakthrough."

"Oh, good! I guess your subconscious mind was just working too hard to let you get much rest."

"Something like that," said Jon, over the familiar ditty of the Choose Your Kart! screen. "And I won't really know if it'll work until I get a chance to talk with my Guide, so...."

He felt immediately bad for pulling rank. Tracey rolled her eyes, but gave him a peck on the cheek. "Of course you're going. Take care of your city."

Nate frowned up at him. "Dad? Are you like a spy now?"

"Nah. Way less exciting," Jon assured him. "If we were in a movie, I would be Tech Lab Guy #3, and this would be the part they collapse into a two-minute montage."


Up until a few blocks from the address Jon had named on the phone, Stephen couldn't remember the last time he had felt this calm.

It was like he'd been living under a waterfall. The roar of Other People's Feelings had become part of the background, unnoticed until the day he woke up able to hear his own whispers again, and realized he had been covering his ears and shouting for who knew how long.

He didn't trust it, naturally. His gut was sure it couldn't last.

A stoplight away from the coffee place, Stephen was relieved to feel that something was wrong — so much that he threw a couple of large bills at the cabbie without counting them. He found a short line at the counter with Jon standing off to one side, studying the blackboard with the day's specials chalked on it. Someone had drawn a false-color sandwich under the list of tea flavors. It was better than Stephen could do, but it wasn't that fascinating.

Stephen's hand was on his shoulder without even thinking about it. "Jon," he said, voice low. "Quit staring at the molecules and decide, already."

Jon unfroze with a gasp. "Stephen! I...thanks." He refocused on Stephen's hand, blinking rapidly under the brim of his Mets cap. "Um. I'm okay now, I think."

"Good!" Clamping his hands under his arms, Stephen tried to sense whether Jon was listening to his suddenly racing heartbeat. "Good. Then I'm getting in line. You can keep standing around if you need to, but I always know what I want."

He planted himself at the end of the queue. A moment later, Jon fell in step behind him.

Stephen couldn't help knowing that Jon was balancing a swirl of confused Feelings, but for once he was able to wall off the full force of them, long enough to pay the barista without yelling at anyone. His phone said forty minutes until they were expected at the precinct; two tall and empty chairs by the window tables said they had a place to wait it out.

"So," said Jon, who had been un-American enough to get tea. "That did happen, right? It wasn't just a really elaborate dream?"

"You were a very handsome lynx," said Stephen, and (against his gut's better judgment) opened himself to the reaction.

A moment of sharp, sweet relief: Everything Jon had felt at him last night was still there. Tenderness and thanks, warmth and love, a fierce possessiveness that left the paper sleeve of Stephen's mug sticking to his suddenly sweaty palms. But all that was rolled up in guilt and contrition, a sense of torment Stephen couldn't place. It wasn't that Jon was angry at Stephen, at least; no, he put all the blame on himself for, for....

"Jon, don't be absurd," hissed Stephen, under his breath so the whole room wouldn't listen in. "That was the pure and unsullied expression of the deep spiritual connection between a Sentinel and his Guide. It was not cheating."

Jon winced. "Are you implying that my marriage is tawdry and unspiritual, or what?"

"No!" snapped Stephen. Apparently quiet-yelling was an untapped skill of his. "Not all of it! Mostly just the sex part. And it's not like you're having much luck there lately anyway."

Jon went as still as if he'd zoned-out again. "How did you —?"

"Couldn't block it out," said Stephen primly. "But I think I'll be able to now. Given how happy your lady wife usually is when she knows I'm paying attention, she should be thanking you for taking care of it."

That made an impression, he could tell. "I guess," allowed Jon. "But it can't happen again. You understand?"

"No," huffed Stephen, swirling his coffee with one of those ubiquitous bisected brown mini-straws.


"Look, if you want to be stubborn about this, fine." Even if he wanted to, a tiny little hedgehog could hardly chase down a lynx that didn't want to be caught — no matter how svelte and athletic he was on the non-astral plane. "But it made you happy. I don't understand why you don't want to feel like that again."


For the first time, Jon wished he and Stephen could trade abilities. He couldn't tell if Stephen was in denial, or had somehow failed to make the connection, or hadn't experienced their dream-meeting as sexual in the first place.

No, scratch that last one. The way he had moaned....

Jon tried not to think about it as Officer Wilson loaded up the next DVD. It was a moot point anyway. At least, until Stephen's thumbs dug into his shoulder blades, and he nearly jumped out of his chair. "What are you doing?"

"Getting a head start," said Stephen matter-of-factly. "Unless you have a secret fetish for crippling neck pain? I'm not saying I would judge you or anything...but I would judge you."

"I can deal with it," protested Jon. "You really don't have to...."

"You liked it fine yesterday."

"You didn't do this yesterday."

Wilson coughed. "Afraid he did, Sentinel Stewart. If you were insensate at the time, it's the responsibility of you and your Guide to notify —"

"I wasn't zoned, and you don't have to call me Sentinel," said Jon quickly. "It's fine. Stephen, go ahead and do whatever. Officer, just roll the tape, okay?"

The security footage started up again. This was a nighttime shot, eerie greens standing out from pitch-black shadows. Taxis zipped by. Someone paused on the sidewalk to wrestle with a broken umbrella; other pedestrians speedwalked around her in ones and twos. Jon took in every shadowed face with ease, matching hairstyles and cheekbones, jawlines and eye spacing. None of them were the target.

And they left him with sensory processing to spare.

Stephen's hands had gone still; whether he was wisely spacing out his efforts to give Jon relief without cramps or simply being lazy, Jon couldn't tell. What he could sense was the exact pressure and position of each finger against his shoulders, the texture of the T-shirt fabric where it was held against his skin. And there was something in addition to the warmth, a slight pulsing...he listened for Stephen's heartbeat, and sure enough, they matched up.

Oh, god, he could feel Stephen's heart through his fingertips and he wasn't zoning, or overloading, instead he was hitting some kind of perfect groove where he could compare every digitally captured nose to Creepy McStalkerface's and at the same time guess exactly which air currents on the back of his neck were the result of Stephen breathing in.

"Stop the tape!"

Wilson grabbed the remote and hit pause. "Timestamp?"

"What?...No, I didn't see the guy, it's not that. Can we do the speed test again? I'm having a better feeling about it this time."


At 14:28 of the 3/17/2012 tape, Creepy McStalkerface strolled into frame, wearing a muffler and leading a tired-looking basset hound. He stood next to a fire hydrant for ten minutes, staring at the revolving door of the hotel his ex was trying to manage in peace. Didn't even clean up after the dog when it squatted next to one of the decorative bushes.

He wasn't on the next tape, which Jon blew through in its entirety just in time to finish out the afternoon. But with proof positive that the restraining order had been treated like a nonbinding Congressional resolution, any more sightings they found over the next few days would be gravy.

"Good work, Senti— er, Mr. Stewart," said Wilson, with a fervent shake of Jon's hand. "You too, Mr. Colbert," he added. Stephen nodded and tried to look stoic, though it wasn't easy when he could practically taste Jon's elation on the air.

His hand found its way to Jon's lower back as they emerged onto the clear evening outside. It wasn't like he planned it, and obviously he would have stopped right away if Jon didn't appreciate it, but Jon's reaction was nothing like it had been with the stupid over-feely professional at Landstuhl. On the contrary, he didn't even seem to notice as he brought up a number on his phone screen. "Hi, babe. Yeah, it's over. And I have good news...."

Stephen couldn't make out the exact words, but from her tone of voice Tracey was obviously thrilled. They traded a few lines about domestic little things, none of it significant in the broader scheme of American greatness; there was no reason it should make Jon so happy. (Unless this was what he had preferred all along? No. He had always appreciated it when Stephen talked at him about important topics. Right?)

Stephen's fingers tensed, digging into the folds of Jon's shirt....

Jon jumped. "Stephen! Uh, you can let go now, okay?"

"You only had to ask," sulked Stephen, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Mmhmm," said Jon, and went back to the phone, adjusting his hat. "Sorry, hon. No, it's fine. On my way now. Love you too."

The sky to the west was solid grey, and as they went their separate ways Stephen heard the first rumble of thunder. He wondered if Jon would already be able to listen to the rain.


Jon was still glowing with the joy of accomplishment as he fielded a late-night call from his publicist. Tracey's feet lay across his lap; she was trawling some craft blog or other. When Jon had finished turning down interview requests, he tried to stretch far enough to plug the phone into its charger without disturbing her, with no success. Sentinel senses might push the limits of human capabilities, but Sentinel spines didn't bend any more than usual.

The phone ended up on the carpet next to the arm of the couch, while Jon leaned the other way and imposed himself on his wife's attention. "Hey, babe. Can I steal you from that thing?"

Tracey obligingly set her MacBook aside (it ended up sitting nicely on an end table), though she raised her eyebrows as Jon tried to cuddle. "What, out here? The kids are in the next room."

Jon made a face. "I think I can control myself if we resolve to just snuggle. Please? I was pretty fantastic today, remember. Doesn't that do anything for you?"

Her smile was brilliant. "C'mere."

Jon ended up lying half on top of her, just enough so that they both fit along the couch, not so much that she would feel crushed. He blew a few strands of hair out of the way and rested his face against her neck, fingers braceleting her wrist as they rested against her ribcage. When she hummed in appreciation, he could feel the vibration in her throat and from her lungs.

"What are you thinking so hard about?" teased Tracey.

"Not thinking," corrected Jon, thumb circling the pulse point on her wrist. "Listening."

It was nice. And surprisingly easy. Why hadn't he tried this before?

For that matter, why shouldn't Jon try to go a little farther?

It was high time he made his Sentinel senses work for him, instead of against. He'd calibrated them on Stephen earlier, so the memories were fresh; all he had to do was match those levels. Closing his eyes would help him focus, keep him from zoning on the visuals. Then it was just a matter of listening to her heartbeat, feeling the subtle differences in temperature along her skin, losing himself in the cadences of her laugh and the near-silent rhythm of her drawing breath....

Jon? Are you there?


Come on, Stewart! You need to snap out of it....


When Jon's hand fell still and his breathing evened out, Tracey was glad he'd been able to relax. It was too much to hope for that her insomniac husband had dozed off this quickly, even if he needed it. But the fact that he was calm rather than overstimulated, not even flinching when she kissed his forehead, seemed like a good sign.

A minute or two later, she tried to move.

"Honey, you need to let me up a minute," she said, when he didn't respond. The arm trapped under his body was on the verge of going numb. "My arm's starting to hurt...."

Jon didn't so much as twitch.

Maybe he really was asleep. Tracey craned her neck and confirmed that his eyes were closed, though his grip on her wrist was still tense. "Jon! Wake up!"

Again, no reaction...until she tried to shake loose her hand, thinking to give him a friendly shove. His fingers instantly tightened, just enough to hurt, enough to hold her in place.

The Sentinel was absorbed in studying something, and he wasn't going to let it get away until he was done.

Tracey focused on taking deep breaths. Jon could be snapped out of these, right? The visual ones, anyway...but that had been a result of removing the stimulus. Covering his eyes wasn't going to help here. And even if she could wrest herself away from his touch, he was zoned on hearing, too. He'd said as much himself. Listening.

The noise-canceling headphones hadn't been invented that could block even moderate Sentinel hearing. As long as there was a path between the sound and their eardrums, even if it went through other parts of their head along the way, they could pick it up.

"After we get out of this, I'm having you re-tested," grumbled Tracey. Jon's hearing had tested on the low end of moderate, but those tests were about the sensitivity you could reliably reach, not your outer limit. And judging by the breakthrough he'd made with Stephen today, even his reliable reach was expanding.

Stephen. She'd have to call Stephen. If only the nearest phone weren't somewhere way down by her feet.

"Jon. Honey," she said, voice starting to go thin. "I know you could hear this if you wanted to. Wake up."

Her arm was definitely numb now.

"You can feel my heartbeat, at least, right? Notice how it's gone up? There's a reason for that. Put it together, Jon. Come on."

No answer.

Swallowing hard, Tracey made an executive decision. "Nate!"

From the next room came the prompt shout: "What?"

"Sweetie, come in here, please," called Tracey. "I need you to give me a hand with something."


The entire crew seemed to be glaring at Stephen as he stepped out from under the lights, still in makeup and twirling the prop umbrella. He ignored them. "Jon! I'm so glad you called. Listen, I've been feeling things about this afternoon, and I feel like maybe you had a feeling of awkwardness about —"

"Stephen, it's me. Tracey."

"Madam!" said Stephen, instinctively straightening his posture just in case Lady Stewart could sense that sort of thing from a distance. "In that case, I'm in the middle of a photoshoot, so if you could call back later? Or, better yet, if I could call you...."

"Jon's zoned. I need you to snap him out of it."

Well, Stephen wasn't inexplicably irritable, so there couldn't be anything too bad happening to Jon. "Have you tried getting in his way? I find that works very well."

"It isn't going to help. And we can't just wait. The way he's frozen, he's, well, sort of holding my arms down."

"If he's pinning your arms, how are you using a phone?" demanded Stephen.

"My son dialed, and he's holding it up." In an indulgent aside, she added, "And he's doing it very well."

Something about her voice did gooey things to Stephen's insides. Things that were not very compatible with his strong and manly exterior, even if he did have to be a strong and manly Guide. "Tell the kid to move it to Jon's ear, already."

"Thank you," said Lady Stewart, then "Nate, can you move the phone to Daddy's ear now? There we go." The last words faded out

"Jon?" said Stephen into the silence. "Are you there?"

No answer. But when Stephen took a risk and stretched out with his feelings, he was warmed with a faint glow of recognition.

"Come on, Stewart!" he ordered. "You need to snap out of it...."

"Mr. Colbert? Do you need anything? A glass of water?"

"No, I do not need a glass of water!" hissed Stephen at the poor hapless attendant. "I need to talk to my Sentinel, who has suffered in what was probably a vital quest to protect our fair city. Go babysit the photographer. I understand these creative types are very sensitive."
Sorry, s—"

Anything else he said, Stephen missed, thanks to a gasp on the other end of the line. "S-Stephen? What...?"

"Jon! Sit up, already! And apologize to your lady wife."

"Oh my god." There was a scuffle and a shifting; Jon's voice fell away for a moment or two, then returned. "...okay. I'm okay. Thank you, Stephen. Sorry we had to interrupt your night."

"Do you need me to come over?" asked Stephen. "I'll need to get out of this suit, Vogue would probably be unhappy if I ran off in it, but —"

", I'll be fine. Thanks."

"Are you sure? I mean, sure, it's a hallmark of liberal science to claim that when something unpredictable happens once you can predict it might happen again in the future, but sometimes I think they might be on to something."

"It wasn't unpredictable, all right?" said Jon tersely. "I was trying...something, it's not important. Point is, obviously it didn't work out, and I'm not going to pull it again. Okay? I'll see you tomorrow, all right?"

"All right," said Stephen, slathering the words with disdain and disapproval and the full weight of exactly how not-all-right it was.

"Bye," said Jon, and the line went dead.

Stephen shoved his phone into the hands of the nearest non-hapless attendant (he had brought a couple of his own, wisely, since magazine people were always trying to offer him water at the wrong temperature or treat his skin with inferior moisturizer) and stalked back under the lights. "I'm ready for my close-up!"

Relief and irritation pressed in from all around him. The crew thought he was being overdramatic! Well, let them. Other people's emotions couldn't swamp Stephen any more.

Because Jon loved him.

He could feel it constantly now, however close or far they were, a thin bright line running through everything. Jon loved him — and not in an icky gay way, either, which Stephen felt he could say with some authority, because he had been in enough icky gay situations to know what those felt like. No, what Jon felt was pure and strong and fervent and always, always there.

And if Jon didn't want to take any steps toward letting Stephen love him back? That was his loss.
politicette: (Default)

[personal profile] politicette 2012-11-17 10:38 pm (UTC)(link)
Wow, that brain-sex was surprisingly hot. >_>


No, what Jon felt was pure and strong and fervent and always, always there.

themistoklis: Janice Rand (Default)

[personal profile] themistoklis 2012-11-19 06:44 am (UTC)(link)
Jon perked up. "Another Guide? Did you have a mystical experience with the spirit-avatars of your comrades too?"

Stephen gave him an odd look. "No. I called a hotline."


Bwahahahahahaha. I have read enough we-are-the-most-serious-of-AUs Sentinel AUs that this was pretty hilarious.

Also, I like how Stephen keeps refering to Tracey as Lady Everything. It is very cute.
kribban: (Default)

[personal profile] kribban 2012-11-26 10:27 pm (UTC)(link)
Urgh, so much rage! I had a long comment written, then my Internet died. Damn you Dreamwidth for not auto saving comments!


Okay what I remember was:

Cute hedgehog. The metaphorical sex scene gave D/s vibes. The scene where Jon zones out with Tracey is scary. Does Stephen have mommy issues since hearing Tracey encourage Nate gave him gooey feelings?

He had always appreciated it when Stephen talked at him about important topics. Right?

Stephen and Jon must think different topics are important to talk about. :)