Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2009-06-01 04:41 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2009-06-01 04:41 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News/Strangers With Candy: Why Should I Care?, part 10
Title: Why Should I Care? (10/12?)
Series: Strangers With Candy
Pairings: Seamus/OMC; Chuck/Geoffrey; Jon/"Stephen"
Rating: PG
Contents: Mild swearing, allusions to steamy stuff
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stellar_dust
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use.
Summary: In which Seamus keeps talking to parents; several Colberts point cooking utensils at him; and George (and America) have a birthday party.
Previous chapters here.
Why Should I Care?
Part Ten
"To be honest," admitted Seamus, "I wasn't even sure this would be a big deal to you."
Stephen, who had just taken a rather large bite of apple pie with cinnamon and ice cream, put his fingers apologetically to his closed lips and nodded for Seamus to continue.
"Well, you and Jon — you're both married to other people." The Internet hadn't been real clear about the details, and everyone seemed to have their own theory (some of which had been written up in uncomfortably graphic detail), but that much at least had come through. "But you live in the same house, and George treats you as his parents. You're having this long-term affair right out in the—"
Stephen cut him off with a warning noise and a fork aimed at his face.
Though he was starting to understand that this was just the man's style, Seamus snapped his mouth shut and waited patiently for Stephen to finish chewing.
"Not an affair," declared Stephen at last. "George hasn't told you?"
"He hasn't talked about it, no."
"Makes sense. He's sick of explaining it. We have a complicated arrangement — come over some time and I'll break out the flowcharts. And, yes, there are more than two people involved, but that doesn't mean any of us are cheating."
"If you say so," said Seamus doubtfully.
"No," snapped Stephen. "Not 'if I say so'. There are rules, we've all agreed to them, and we're faithful to them. Which means we're being faithful to each other."
He leaned forward, voice going low as he pinned Seamus with his gaze.
"I know about cheating, young man. I used to be something of an expert at it. My first wife has never really forgiven me — the only reason she puts up with me these days is for the sake of our kids — and I don't blame her. But what I'm doing now is completely different. And if you ever get confused about that difference as regards George, Sweetness and I will be happy to come by and explain it to you."
§
"Penny for your thoughts?"
Seamus shook himself out of his reverie. He had been methodically removing the remaining beads from the torso of the green dress (there was no way he was going to be able to repair the decimated beadwork any time soon, and besides, he had some ideas involving ribbon that would look a lot less tacky), and lost all track of time in the process. "What?"
"Am I bidding too low?" asked George. "Name your price, then."
Dropping another bead in the soup can commandeered for the purpose, Seamus couldn't help but smile as the younger man settled next to him on the couch.
He sobered quickly. "Hey, George? Would it be okay if I asked you some questions?"
"Like what?"
Seamus kept his gaze resolutely on the tiny loop of snipped thread the bead had left, picking at it with a pair of tweezers. "Like...what was it like growing up with all those extra parents? Did you ever wish you just had a normal mom and dad? What about the fame? You were in the freakin' Time 100 when you weren't even a year old, not that anyone would recognize you from that photo now, but still! And what the hell are you, anyway? I mean race-wise, but I'll take religion-wise too. Do you think there's anything up there besides clouds, stars, and a space station with your family name printed on the side?"
When George didn't answer, Seamus dared to look up. To his great relief, the younger man didn't look angry or irritated. Surprised, maybe. And...shy?
"You really want to know all that?" he asked at last.
"Well, yeah," huffed Seamus. He wanted to snip off another bead, but knew by now not to reach for scissors when this kind of frustration hit. "I asked, didn't I?"
"Tell you what," said George. "I'll answer anything you ask, on one condition."
Uh-oh. "What is it?"
"You put the sewing away this weekend and take me to Good Time Island. I haven't had a decent night of clubbing in months."
Seamus almost laughed with relief. "Is that all? And here I was afraid you were going to make me wash your car, or something."
George perked up. "Would you do that too?"
"Not a chance. Besides, it's charity car-wash season. Go find some cute activists in skimpy swimsuits who'll give the money to a good cause."
"Deal." He kept his tone light, but a shade of nervousness came back into his eyes. "So...which question should I answer first? You want to start with my by-the-numbers ethnic background, or should I skip straight to what I think about God?"
"Could you maybe start with your parents?"
"Sure thing." George hopped to his feet. "We're gonna need flowcharts, though. Hang on while I grab some paper."
§
When Mom opened the box, it took her a second to realize what she was seeing. (Seamus had said he was bringing a surprise, but he had been hinting that it was a straight-A report card.)
Then her gaze swung from the white satin to the door of her room. "When did you—?"
"Took it out last Thanksgiving," said Seamus. "I've had it ever since."
His mother swallowed hard. "You shouldn't have done that," she said, voice shaking too much to be intimidating. "Did you take it out? Did you—"
"It's okay," interrupted Seamus. "It's a maternity gown. I know."
Hanging her head, Mom kneaded the fabric in her hands.
"I knew I should've just thrown the damn thing away," she muttered at last. "All it did was remind me that I married that bastard in the first place."
"Mom, stop it. You're not exactly an angel yourself, you know."
His mother looked ready to snap a retort to this; but in the end she just sucked in a breath through clenched teeth and let it out with a hiss.
"Besides, you must have loved him at some point," Seamus pointed out. "Or you wouldn't have kept the dress." And I hope to God it's not the only thing you've hung on to.
"Still a waste of closet space," said Mom darkly. "It's a torn-up wreck. All the other snooping you've done, you must have noticed that."
Seamus actually grinned. "You haven't taken it out yet."
§
Every inch of the Colbert house was decorated with red, white, and blue bunting. Flags hung in the windows, flew at the door, and sprouted up all over the lawn like some bizarre new breed of crocus.
It was America's 251st birthday, and George's 20th.
"Hey again," said Seamus, slipping into the kitchen. "Anything I can do in here?"
"Probably not. I'm making spekkoek."
"Okay, never heard of it," admitted Seamus. "But everything I know about cooking, I learned from George. And I hear he was taught by the best."
Charlene — George's Aunt Cholly, who was more technically his stepmother, first cousin once removed, and godmother's perennial lover (those flowcharts had been a mess) — pointed a whisk at him. "Flattery will get you nowhere."
"Sorry. George talks very highly of you, is all."
The older woman raised an eyebrow in an uncannily Stephen-esque fashion. (Come to think of it, her whole bearing looked familiar. How many doppelgangers did Dad have?) "Did he mention that I'm in charge of his birthday cakes? That even if I disappear for the rest of the year, it's the one thing I always manage to do for him?"
"Okay, this is your territory, I get it. Could I maybe just do dishes, or something?"
"Wouldn't you rather be out talking with your friends?"
"They're not my friends; they're George's." Mostly from high school, though a few were actually college pals, who had apparently been flown in for the party on Stephen's dollar. They had all been friendly enough when introduced, but Seamus couldn't shake the feeling of being an interloper. "I saw you get out of there as fast as possible, and I figured you had the right idea."
Charlene studied him more closely. "You do look a bit old for that crowd," she allowed. "What brought you here in the first place?"
"George asked me to come. And, well, I was sort of hoping to talk to you."
"Me? Why?"
"It's...a long story."
Now Charlene was really staring him down, as if she could peel away any layers of insincerity and pare him to the core with her eyes alone.
"Can you separate eggs?" she said abruptly. "I don't mean 'do you think you can', but 'have you done it, to George's approval'?"
"What? —Oh! Sure have. Crème brûlée."
"Good." Pulling open a cupboard, Charlene retrieved a couple of bowls. "We'll need ten yolks, four whites, beaten till they're fluffy. If you're careful and thorough, that should give you plenty of time to talk."
§
Once the sun went down, the windows in the house were all thrown open, letting a warm evening breeze circle through the rooms. The fresh air was accompanied by a resounding chorus of insects, and an occasional boom from the fireworks someone was setting off nearby.
Most of the guests had gone home, leaving Seamus, the other three out-of-towners, George's parents (well, Jon and Stephen; Charlene and Jon's wife had been around at first, but made their excuses and slipped off a while back), and the dog to relax in the living room. Phoebe had somehow determined that she was going to park herself by Seamus' chair, and he gratefully scratched her head while hovering on the fringe of the conversation.
When Jon started to snore lightly on Stephen's shoulder, Stephen clapped his hands to bring the group to attention.
"It's about time for us to turn in," he announced. "You guys all remember where you're sleeping?"
Seamus and the others, who had been shown earlier which rooms to leave their bags in, murmured their assent.
"Good. Now, I don't want anyone moving around during the night. Especially you," he added, looking directly at Seamus before turning his formidable eyebrows on George. "You too, young man. Any sneaking back and forth will be caught, so don't even try it."
George folded his arms, matching his father glare for glare. "It's not like we'd be doing anything we haven't done before."
"Doesn't matter. You don't get to do it under this roof until you're married."
"Dad, you're not married."
"Yes, I am."
"Not to Other Dad, I mean."
"Facts!" pronounced Stephen dismissively, waving this bit of information away. "The only sense in which we're not married is the legal one. Until you have a certificate from the county clerk's office or a few years of picking up each other's dirty socks under your belt, you don't count."
"Fine," huffed George, then threw a glance over his shoulder at Seamus. "Well, Seamus? How about it?"
Seamus' heart skipped a beat. He froze, eyes wide, while the other guests in the room all simultaneously discovered very interesting patches of wall to focus on.
When he didn't get an answer, George looked back again, this time long enough to actually take in the reaction his words had triggered. "Seamus, it's okay," he said quickly. "I'm kidding."
"Right," stammered Seamus. "Could you excuse me for a minute?"
Giving Phoebe one last pat, he made a beeline for the door.
"Aw, hell," muttered George behind him. "'Scuse me, guys. Seamus? Seamus, wait!"
§
George could have tackled Seamus easily if he had sprinted, but he knew that would only seem smothering. So he kept a healthy distance behind, cursing himself all the while.
Why had he said that? He knew it was the kind of thing that set Seamus on edge. And it wasn't like he couldn't last a night without sex; the only reason he had said it was for a punch line, and a lousy one at that. It hadn't been worth this, at any rate.
Seamus disappeared into the guest room where his overnight bag had been stashed, not bothering to turn on the light. He left the door wide open, but George stopped at the threshold.
"Seamus, please, don't freak out," he implored into the gloom. "I was joking, I swear. Please, don't run away...."
His voice caught.
George didn't really think Seamus would ditch him altogether, but he would have to redouble his efforts to handle Seamus lightly for a while after this. Not that he wasn't willing—it was just that it could get so very exhausting. And if he slipped up again....
He jumped as Seamus' shadowed form appeared in the doorway: one hand leaning on the frame, the other clenched in front of him. "Joking how?"
George tried to figure this out, but after several false starts his brain gave it up. "I don't understand."
"Was it 'I could never seriously spend the rest of my life with someone like you' joking? Or 'marriage is so far in my future that I haven't given it serious thought' joking? Or 'I've thought about it, but if I bring it up in a serious context it'll make Seamus go postal' joking?"
He wasn't just making a fist. There was something clenched in his hand. George's eyes kept darting to it, but it was too dark to make out the shape.
"I don't...."
With a snort of impatience Seamus fumbled at the wall with his free hand. After a few seconds of scrabbling, the overhead lamp came on; George squinted against the sudden brilliance. Then Seamus opened his fist, and George found himself staring, uncomprehending, at a threadbare velvet box.
"Should I even ask?" said Seamus quietly. "Or will you just laugh?"
George felt the tumultuous future he had been envisioning shift on its axis, threatening to give way altogether to something he hadn't dared hope for.
"Would you mean it?" he stammered, the sudden vista of possibility leaving him dizzy.
Seamus shrugged, in a show of uncaring that fooled neither of them. "Wouldn't be holding Mom's ring right now if I didn't."
"Then ask," breathed George.
His vision seemed to be going fuzzy at the edges. The wind and the crickets and all the sounds of the night faded into so much white noise, until there was nothing else in the world but himself and the man down on one knee in front of him.
"George William Colbert," said Seamus, "will you marry me?"
"Seamus Charles Noblet," said George, giggling with delight even as his eyes brimmed over, "I thought you'd never ask."
Series: Strangers With Candy
Pairings: Seamus/OMC; Chuck/Geoffrey; Jon/"Stephen"
Rating: PG
Contents: Mild swearing, allusions to steamy stuff
Beta:
stellar_dustDisclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use.
Summary: In which Seamus keeps talking to parents; several Colberts point cooking utensils at him; and George (and America) have a birthday party.
Previous chapters here.
Why Should I Care?
Part Ten
"To be honest," admitted Seamus, "I wasn't even sure this would be a big deal to you."
Stephen, who had just taken a rather large bite of apple pie with cinnamon and ice cream, put his fingers apologetically to his closed lips and nodded for Seamus to continue.
"Well, you and Jon — you're both married to other people." The Internet hadn't been real clear about the details, and everyone seemed to have their own theory (some of which had been written up in uncomfortably graphic detail), but that much at least had come through. "But you live in the same house, and George treats you as his parents. You're having this long-term affair right out in the—"
Stephen cut him off with a warning noise and a fork aimed at his face.
Though he was starting to understand that this was just the man's style, Seamus snapped his mouth shut and waited patiently for Stephen to finish chewing.
"Not an affair," declared Stephen at last. "George hasn't told you?"
"He hasn't talked about it, no."
"Makes sense. He's sick of explaining it. We have a complicated arrangement — come over some time and I'll break out the flowcharts. And, yes, there are more than two people involved, but that doesn't mean any of us are cheating."
"If you say so," said Seamus doubtfully.
"No," snapped Stephen. "Not 'if I say so'. There are rules, we've all agreed to them, and we're faithful to them. Which means we're being faithful to each other."
He leaned forward, voice going low as he pinned Seamus with his gaze.
"I know about cheating, young man. I used to be something of an expert at it. My first wife has never really forgiven me — the only reason she puts up with me these days is for the sake of our kids — and I don't blame her. But what I'm doing now is completely different. And if you ever get confused about that difference as regards George, Sweetness and I will be happy to come by and explain it to you."
"Penny for your thoughts?"
Seamus shook himself out of his reverie. He had been methodically removing the remaining beads from the torso of the green dress (there was no way he was going to be able to repair the decimated beadwork any time soon, and besides, he had some ideas involving ribbon that would look a lot less tacky), and lost all track of time in the process. "What?"
"Am I bidding too low?" asked George. "Name your price, then."
Dropping another bead in the soup can commandeered for the purpose, Seamus couldn't help but smile as the younger man settled next to him on the couch.
He sobered quickly. "Hey, George? Would it be okay if I asked you some questions?"
"Like what?"
Seamus kept his gaze resolutely on the tiny loop of snipped thread the bead had left, picking at it with a pair of tweezers. "Like...what was it like growing up with all those extra parents? Did you ever wish you just had a normal mom and dad? What about the fame? You were in the freakin' Time 100 when you weren't even a year old, not that anyone would recognize you from that photo now, but still! And what the hell are you, anyway? I mean race-wise, but I'll take religion-wise too. Do you think there's anything up there besides clouds, stars, and a space station with your family name printed on the side?"
When George didn't answer, Seamus dared to look up. To his great relief, the younger man didn't look angry or irritated. Surprised, maybe. And...shy?
"You really want to know all that?" he asked at last.
"Well, yeah," huffed Seamus. He wanted to snip off another bead, but knew by now not to reach for scissors when this kind of frustration hit. "I asked, didn't I?"
"Tell you what," said George. "I'll answer anything you ask, on one condition."
Uh-oh. "What is it?"
"You put the sewing away this weekend and take me to Good Time Island. I haven't had a decent night of clubbing in months."
Seamus almost laughed with relief. "Is that all? And here I was afraid you were going to make me wash your car, or something."
George perked up. "Would you do that too?"
"Not a chance. Besides, it's charity car-wash season. Go find some cute activists in skimpy swimsuits who'll give the money to a good cause."
"Deal." He kept his tone light, but a shade of nervousness came back into his eyes. "So...which question should I answer first? You want to start with my by-the-numbers ethnic background, or should I skip straight to what I think about God?"
"Could you maybe start with your parents?"
"Sure thing." George hopped to his feet. "We're gonna need flowcharts, though. Hang on while I grab some paper."
When Mom opened the box, it took her a second to realize what she was seeing. (Seamus had said he was bringing a surprise, but he had been hinting that it was a straight-A report card.)
Then her gaze swung from the white satin to the door of her room. "When did you—?"
"Took it out last Thanksgiving," said Seamus. "I've had it ever since."
His mother swallowed hard. "You shouldn't have done that," she said, voice shaking too much to be intimidating. "Did you take it out? Did you—"
"It's okay," interrupted Seamus. "It's a maternity gown. I know."
Hanging her head, Mom kneaded the fabric in her hands.
"I knew I should've just thrown the damn thing away," she muttered at last. "All it did was remind me that I married that bastard in the first place."
"Mom, stop it. You're not exactly an angel yourself, you know."
His mother looked ready to snap a retort to this; but in the end she just sucked in a breath through clenched teeth and let it out with a hiss.
"Besides, you must have loved him at some point," Seamus pointed out. "Or you wouldn't have kept the dress." And I hope to God it's not the only thing you've hung on to.
"Still a waste of closet space," said Mom darkly. "It's a torn-up wreck. All the other snooping you've done, you must have noticed that."
Seamus actually grinned. "You haven't taken it out yet."
Every inch of the Colbert house was decorated with red, white, and blue bunting. Flags hung in the windows, flew at the door, and sprouted up all over the lawn like some bizarre new breed of crocus.
It was America's 251st birthday, and George's 20th.
"Hey again," said Seamus, slipping into the kitchen. "Anything I can do in here?"
"Probably not. I'm making spekkoek."
"Okay, never heard of it," admitted Seamus. "But everything I know about cooking, I learned from George. And I hear he was taught by the best."
Charlene — George's Aunt Cholly, who was more technically his stepmother, first cousin once removed, and godmother's perennial lover (those flowcharts had been a mess) — pointed a whisk at him. "Flattery will get you nowhere."
"Sorry. George talks very highly of you, is all."
The older woman raised an eyebrow in an uncannily Stephen-esque fashion. (Come to think of it, her whole bearing looked familiar. How many doppelgangers did Dad have?) "Did he mention that I'm in charge of his birthday cakes? That even if I disappear for the rest of the year, it's the one thing I always manage to do for him?"
"Okay, this is your territory, I get it. Could I maybe just do dishes, or something?"
"Wouldn't you rather be out talking with your friends?"
"They're not my friends; they're George's." Mostly from high school, though a few were actually college pals, who had apparently been flown in for the party on Stephen's dollar. They had all been friendly enough when introduced, but Seamus couldn't shake the feeling of being an interloper. "I saw you get out of there as fast as possible, and I figured you had the right idea."
Charlene studied him more closely. "You do look a bit old for that crowd," she allowed. "What brought you here in the first place?"
"George asked me to come. And, well, I was sort of hoping to talk to you."
"Me? Why?"
"It's...a long story."
Now Charlene was really staring him down, as if she could peel away any layers of insincerity and pare him to the core with her eyes alone.
"Can you separate eggs?" she said abruptly. "I don't mean 'do you think you can', but 'have you done it, to George's approval'?"
"What? —Oh! Sure have. Crème brûlée."
"Good." Pulling open a cupboard, Charlene retrieved a couple of bowls. "We'll need ten yolks, four whites, beaten till they're fluffy. If you're careful and thorough, that should give you plenty of time to talk."
Once the sun went down, the windows in the house were all thrown open, letting a warm evening breeze circle through the rooms. The fresh air was accompanied by a resounding chorus of insects, and an occasional boom from the fireworks someone was setting off nearby.
Most of the guests had gone home, leaving Seamus, the other three out-of-towners, George's parents (well, Jon and Stephen; Charlene and Jon's wife had been around at first, but made their excuses and slipped off a while back), and the dog to relax in the living room. Phoebe had somehow determined that she was going to park herself by Seamus' chair, and he gratefully scratched her head while hovering on the fringe of the conversation.
When Jon started to snore lightly on Stephen's shoulder, Stephen clapped his hands to bring the group to attention.
"It's about time for us to turn in," he announced. "You guys all remember where you're sleeping?"
Seamus and the others, who had been shown earlier which rooms to leave their bags in, murmured their assent.
"Good. Now, I don't want anyone moving around during the night. Especially you," he added, looking directly at Seamus before turning his formidable eyebrows on George. "You too, young man. Any sneaking back and forth will be caught, so don't even try it."
George folded his arms, matching his father glare for glare. "It's not like we'd be doing anything we haven't done before."
"Doesn't matter. You don't get to do it under this roof until you're married."
"Dad, you're not married."
"Yes, I am."
"Not to Other Dad, I mean."
"Facts!" pronounced Stephen dismissively, waving this bit of information away. "The only sense in which we're not married is the legal one. Until you have a certificate from the county clerk's office or a few years of picking up each other's dirty socks under your belt, you don't count."
"Fine," huffed George, then threw a glance over his shoulder at Seamus. "Well, Seamus? How about it?"
Seamus' heart skipped a beat. He froze, eyes wide, while the other guests in the room all simultaneously discovered very interesting patches of wall to focus on.
When he didn't get an answer, George looked back again, this time long enough to actually take in the reaction his words had triggered. "Seamus, it's okay," he said quickly. "I'm kidding."
"Right," stammered Seamus. "Could you excuse me for a minute?"
Giving Phoebe one last pat, he made a beeline for the door.
"Aw, hell," muttered George behind him. "'Scuse me, guys. Seamus? Seamus, wait!"
George could have tackled Seamus easily if he had sprinted, but he knew that would only seem smothering. So he kept a healthy distance behind, cursing himself all the while.
Why had he said that? He knew it was the kind of thing that set Seamus on edge. And it wasn't like he couldn't last a night without sex; the only reason he had said it was for a punch line, and a lousy one at that. It hadn't been worth this, at any rate.
Seamus disappeared into the guest room where his overnight bag had been stashed, not bothering to turn on the light. He left the door wide open, but George stopped at the threshold.
"Seamus, please, don't freak out," he implored into the gloom. "I was joking, I swear. Please, don't run away...."
His voice caught.
George didn't really think Seamus would ditch him altogether, but he would have to redouble his efforts to handle Seamus lightly for a while after this. Not that he wasn't willing—it was just that it could get so very exhausting. And if he slipped up again....
He jumped as Seamus' shadowed form appeared in the doorway: one hand leaning on the frame, the other clenched in front of him. "Joking how?"
George tried to figure this out, but after several false starts his brain gave it up. "I don't understand."
"Was it 'I could never seriously spend the rest of my life with someone like you' joking? Or 'marriage is so far in my future that I haven't given it serious thought' joking? Or 'I've thought about it, but if I bring it up in a serious context it'll make Seamus go postal' joking?"
He wasn't just making a fist. There was something clenched in his hand. George's eyes kept darting to it, but it was too dark to make out the shape.
"I don't...."
With a snort of impatience Seamus fumbled at the wall with his free hand. After a few seconds of scrabbling, the overhead lamp came on; George squinted against the sudden brilliance. Then Seamus opened his fist, and George found himself staring, uncomprehending, at a threadbare velvet box.
"Should I even ask?" said Seamus quietly. "Or will you just laugh?"
George felt the tumultuous future he had been envisioning shift on its axis, threatening to give way altogether to something he hadn't dared hope for.
"Would you mean it?" he stammered, the sudden vista of possibility leaving him dizzy.
Seamus shrugged, in a show of uncaring that fooled neither of them. "Wouldn't be holding Mom's ring right now if I didn't."
"Then ask," breathed George.
His vision seemed to be going fuzzy at the edges. The wind and the crickets and all the sounds of the night faded into so much white noise, until there was nothing else in the world but himself and the man down on one knee in front of him.
"George William Colbert," said Seamus, "will you marry me?"
"Seamus Charles Noblet," said George, giggling with delight even as his eyes brimmed over, "I thought you'd never ask."