Spoilers! Unpolished, unposted 4verse scene!
Part one (of three) is not finished yet, but I know what happens in the interim.
And no, I won't tell you how Jon got upset in the first place, except, I do believe Anderson said something stupid.
“Joan?” Anderson called tentatively.
“Drop the fucking drag name already,” came the miserable snarl from one of the back stalls. Anderson sighed. He slid to the floor, sitting with his back against the barrier between the stall Jon occupied and the next.
“I wish you’d talk to me, Jon,” he murmured. After a silent pause, the door swung softly open.
Anderson knelt in front of Jon, who sat on the seat, head in his hands. Anderson placed a comforting palm on one of Jon’s knees, gently feeling the rough oval of his kneecap. Finally, Jon spoke, his voice shuddering.
“I feel like the clock just struck midnight,” Jon admitted. “And my carriage is a fucking pumpkin and I’m a fat, pathetic, queer, aging insomniac divorcee again.”
Anderson wanted to hug Jon, to cradle and comfort him so badly he could feel the physical hurt of it pushing in his chest. But he knew that pity, now, like this, just might break him.
So instead he looked Jon over, then remarked lightly,
“Well, you have ruined your makeup. But that can be remedied.” Jon hiccupped in subdued laughter.
“But seriously, Jon.” Anderson grasped one of his hands, gazing up earnestly into his eyes.
“You can’t pull a Cinderella on us.”
“Why not?” Jon muttered.
“You don’t have enough shoes for all of us,” Anderson exclaimed, as if it were obvious. Jon chuckled a little harder at that.
“There. That’s better,” Anderson murmured. “Jon, darling, we love you. Whatever you wear, or want to wear. We’ll love you when you’re a pudgy insomniac octogenarian, okay?” John went still.
“What if I wanted it to be permanent?” he asked softly.
“What?” Anderson asked, bewildered.
“What if I want to be Joan. For real. Take estrogen, get surgery, lots of paperwork. Become a woman.”
Anderson took a very slow breath.
“Do you? Want to, I mean?”
“Answer the question,” Jon snapped.
“Yes, Yes I would love you, because it would still be you and I will always love you,” he snapped back, struggling to reign in his sudden anger.
“But would you want me,” Jon pushed.
“I would try,” Anderson told him harshly. “I would try, and I would fail, just like Stephen tried for years to want the woman he was in love with. But if that’s really who you are, you should do it. It would be as wrong - more so, really - for you to deny your gender for Stephen and me as it was for him to deny his sexuality for Evie.”
Anderson closed his eyes, then continued weakly,
“We’d still have each other, at least. And you’d still have Keith. And we would love you. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes,” Jon whispered.
“Good. Now answer mine,” Anderson demanded viciously. He knew he was being cruel, but he needed to know. “Is that what you want?”
“No.”
All the air tumbled out of Anderson in a rush.
“Oh thank God.” His head fell forward in relief, and he rested his cheek against Jon’s leg. When his breathing calmed, he ventured,
“What’s the problem, them?”
“The problem is that I don’t want you playing a role to humor me, so I can prance around in a dress while my lover lies to me, about how sexy and pretty I am,” Jon hissed, voice dripping with scorn. He shoved Anderson away from him.
Anderson gaped.
“Jon, no. I’m not…I don’t think of it like that - my brain has, I don’t know, separate categories. Trans is female, drag is male, even if I say ‘she’ in both cases. I want you as Joan, I swear I do. Jon, when I’m around Joan, I can fool myself into thinking, ‘wow, it’s true. I just never met the right woman.’ And I’m fooling myself, because really it’s you I want to spend the rest of my life with, but for a little while I feel like…Fuck. Normal is such a banal word, it doesn’t cover what I mean. I feel like I belong, like I’m connected to a whole culture, a whole huge central part of humanity that I wasn’t really part of before. And I get it sometimes, in the family the four of have built, or whenever I get to spend time with your kids, or Stephen’s, but there’s something so much more visceral about just seeing a woman and thinking, ‘I want to grow old with her.’ It…it means so much to me, Jon.”
“Yeah?” Jon asked, his voice cracking.
“Yeah.” Anderson stood and took Jon's hand. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up. And then," he tugged her upright and drew her against him for a sweet, fierce kiss, "I'm going to take you home and make love to you."
And no, I won't tell you how Jon got upset in the first place, except, I do believe Anderson said something stupid.
“Joan?” Anderson called tentatively.
“Drop the fucking drag name already,” came the miserable snarl from one of the back stalls. Anderson sighed. He slid to the floor, sitting with his back against the barrier between the stall Jon occupied and the next.
“I wish you’d talk to me, Jon,” he murmured. After a silent pause, the door swung softly open.
Anderson knelt in front of Jon, who sat on the seat, head in his hands. Anderson placed a comforting palm on one of Jon’s knees, gently feeling the rough oval of his kneecap. Finally, Jon spoke, his voice shuddering.
“I feel like the clock just struck midnight,” Jon admitted. “And my carriage is a fucking pumpkin and I’m a fat, pathetic, queer, aging insomniac divorcee again.”
Anderson wanted to hug Jon, to cradle and comfort him so badly he could feel the physical hurt of it pushing in his chest. But he knew that pity, now, like this, just might break him.
So instead he looked Jon over, then remarked lightly,
“Well, you have ruined your makeup. But that can be remedied.” Jon hiccupped in subdued laughter.
“But seriously, Jon.” Anderson grasped one of his hands, gazing up earnestly into his eyes.
“You can’t pull a Cinderella on us.”
“Why not?” Jon muttered.
“You don’t have enough shoes for all of us,” Anderson exclaimed, as if it were obvious. Jon chuckled a little harder at that.
“There. That’s better,” Anderson murmured. “Jon, darling, we love you. Whatever you wear, or want to wear. We’ll love you when you’re a pudgy insomniac octogenarian, okay?” John went still.
“What if I wanted it to be permanent?” he asked softly.
“What?” Anderson asked, bewildered.
“What if I want to be Joan. For real. Take estrogen, get surgery, lots of paperwork. Become a woman.”
Anderson took a very slow breath.
“Do you? Want to, I mean?”
“Answer the question,” Jon snapped.
“Yes, Yes I would love you, because it would still be you and I will always love you,” he snapped back, struggling to reign in his sudden anger.
“But would you want me,” Jon pushed.
“I would try,” Anderson told him harshly. “I would try, and I would fail, just like Stephen tried for years to want the woman he was in love with. But if that’s really who you are, you should do it. It would be as wrong - more so, really - for you to deny your gender for Stephen and me as it was for him to deny his sexuality for Evie.”
Anderson closed his eyes, then continued weakly,
“We’d still have each other, at least. And you’d still have Keith. And we would love you. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes,” Jon whispered.
“Good. Now answer mine,” Anderson demanded viciously. He knew he was being cruel, but he needed to know. “Is that what you want?”
“No.”
All the air tumbled out of Anderson in a rush.
“Oh thank God.” His head fell forward in relief, and he rested his cheek against Jon’s leg. When his breathing calmed, he ventured,
“What’s the problem, them?”
“The problem is that I don’t want you playing a role to humor me, so I can prance around in a dress while my lover lies to me, about how sexy and pretty I am,” Jon hissed, voice dripping with scorn. He shoved Anderson away from him.
Anderson gaped.
“Jon, no. I’m not…I don’t think of it like that - my brain has, I don’t know, separate categories. Trans is female, drag is male, even if I say ‘she’ in both cases. I want you as Joan, I swear I do. Jon, when I’m around Joan, I can fool myself into thinking, ‘wow, it’s true. I just never met the right woman.’ And I’m fooling myself, because really it’s you I want to spend the rest of my life with, but for a little while I feel like…Fuck. Normal is such a banal word, it doesn’t cover what I mean. I feel like I belong, like I’m connected to a whole culture, a whole huge central part of humanity that I wasn’t really part of before. And I get it sometimes, in the family the four of have built, or whenever I get to spend time with your kids, or Stephen’s, but there’s something so much more visceral about just seeing a woman and thinking, ‘I want to grow old with her.’ It…it means so much to me, Jon.”
“Yeah?” Jon asked, his voice cracking.
“Yeah.” Anderson stood and took Jon's hand. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up. And then," he tugged her upright and drew her against him for a sweet, fierce kiss, "I'm going to take you home and make love to you."