Fake News (FPF) | Boys Will Be Boys | PG | Jon/"Stephen"
Title: Boys Will Be Boys (Even When They Feel Like Girls)
Fandom: Fake News (FPF)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Jon/“Stephen”
Warning: Really stupid, dogmatic, rigid gender roles.
Summary: Stephen grows up a little confused.
Word Count: 1,387
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use. References to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
A/N: Finally! God, this took forever to materialize. Stupid brain. Anyway, my mind is weird. It took a cracky idea from this thread and turned it into angst. What the hell, brain. Also, let’s see how many of you will catch the stealth!crossover. =P Thanks for the beta, Abigail.
He sees a little boy, no older than seven, proudly holding up a drawing of four crude stick figures; one is bigger than the other three, and wearing an apron. “I’m gonna be a mommy!” the boy is saying happily, broad smile slowly fading as his classmates start laughing, even his teacher allowing herself a derisive chuckle.
“That’s stupid,” crows another boy, one sitting in the back row, and the teacher merely rolls her eyes. “Boys can’t be mommies!”
“…w-why not?” he’s asking, voice cracking, clearly on the verge of tears.
“It’s only for girls!” says another classmate, and the laughter continues.
“Steeephen’s a giiirl,” sing-songs the first boy, and most of the class joins in, until the teacher finally puts a stop to it. Time doesn’t seem to be a fixed construct, though, because now he’s watching as the boy’s classmates taunt him as he walks home from school, pushing him to the ground and laughing before they run away.
The little boy sits in the dirt for a few minutes, angrily tearing up his drawing as he wipes away his tears.
He’s just learned his first lesson about the Difference between boys and girls.
* * *
He’s watching the toy kitchen set collect dust in the attic, clearly outgrown by its intended recipient, when all of a sudden, the hatch opens, and the same little boy appears, now nine or ten.
He goes straight for the set, playing with it like he’s done it countless times before. There’s a box next to it, out of which he takes an apron, clumsily tying it around himself before serving an imaginary dinner to some imaginary guests, the simplicity making him happy. It seems peaceful.
“Stephen Tyrone Colbert!” bellows a voice from below, ten minutes later, interrupting the serene domesticity. “Get your ass down here!”
The little boy’s face pales, and he quickly removes the apron, hastily stuffing it back in the box before leaving the attic.
He can hear bits of shouted conversation, something about how he’s Supposed To Behave, but he tries not to listen too hard.
* * *
The boy, not much older than when he last saw him, is now sitting in front of a vanity-it has to be an older sister’s-clutching a set of pearls. He seems to be debating whether or not to put them on, as though this is a line he’s approached before but never crossed.
He’s got on a skirt, though it looks like it’s backwards, and the heels on his feet are at least three sizes too big. With one last glance at the door, the boy puts on the pearls, almost holding his breath as he does so.
He seems to think-know, know-that he’s doing something wrong, because he keeps shooting anxious looks at the door. At the same time, though, there’s a look on his face when he glances into the mirror that speaks of contentment.
A door slams shut a floor down, then, and the boy is spurred into a flurry of activity, taking off the skirt and heels with the practiced ease of someone who has gotten used to it.
He hesitates just a second with the pearls, though, sparing one last glance in the vanity mirror before taking them off and putting them back where they-belong.
* * *
He can feel the stifling heat beating down as he watches him-now twelve or thirteen-in the outfield, looking utterly miserable as he covers his face with his mitt in an effort to ward off mosquitoes.
Time seems to be in fast-forward at this point, as an hour-long game passes before his eyes in the span of just a few minutes. He watches the boy hate every second of it-and he isn’t any good, either.
The kid bounds off to the stands as soon as the game ends, and is greeted by a woman who is obviously his mother, as well as an older sibling. There’s a disappointed look growing on his face as his mom says, “Your father wanted to come, dear. He’s just so busy. But he’s proud of you.”
He nods glumly, putting on a cheerful face for his mom, and then he’s seen later, listening to someone who seems far away, talking endlessly about how Masculine and Appropriate sports are for a growing boy. Said growing boy sits patiently and says nothing, even as it’s obvious his mind is elsewhere.
* * *
It’s dark. He can barely see a thing, though he can easily hear two distinct breathing patterns. It seems like they’re in a closet, and after a minute, his eyes adjust.
The boy has to be two years older, this time, now accompanied by another boy, about the same age.
“It was probably an accident,” he’s saying, and the other boy just nods. “The game isn’t supposed to work like this.” He goes silent after that, and that silence reigns, heavy and awkward in the air.
“I hate those guys,” says the other boy abruptly. “I wish I hadn’t come to this stupid party.”
“Yeah,” he replies, slowly, after a minute of hesitation. “Me too.” He thinks that’s the first time he’s ever admitted something like that out loud.
They share a look, and right when he thinks something is about to happen, the closet door swings open. “Time for the lovebirds to get out here,” calls a mocking voice, and both boys seem to choke back audible sighs.
“Very funny, guys,” says the boy, playing up a bravado that he knows the kid doesn’t really feel, but will get used to faking, and doesn’t spare another glance for the other boy the rest of the night.
* * *
The view from the car is incredible, and both the boy-nearly a man at this point-and the girl inside seem to be enamored with it. He supposes that’s because they don’t want to be enamored with each other.
She seems to be bolder than he is, and speaks first. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” she says, “but I don’t want to kiss you.”
He sighs heavily in relief. “Really?” he asks. “Because-yeah, no offense-I don’t want to kiss you, either.”
They break out into nearly identical grins. “Thank god,” she mutters, and looks out at the night sky again. “How long should we sit here, then? So it looks right?”
He contemplates this. “Half an hour?”
She shrugs. “Okay.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes. “This is nice,” she says eventually. “Better than I was expecting.”
“Me too,” he admits, smiling just slightly.
She idly drums her fingers along the armrest. “What are your plans after high school?”
“Oh,” he says, caught off guard by the question. “College, I guess. I don’t really know what I want to be yet.”
That’s a lie, he notes.
“What about you?”
“I want to be a doctor,” she says. “No-not a nurse,” she cuts him off, answering the question he’d been about to ask.
Instead, he turns to her, face a picture of confusion, and says, “Is that-allowed?”
She sighs, then shakes her head, fixing him with a determined look. “I don’t care.”
He nods, no less confused, but maybe a bit-hopeful.
* * *
He’s aware of someone holding his hand, and a soft voice telling him to open his eyes, to retain his memory. He tries to ignore this-he forgot those memories for a reason-but finds he can’t in the end. Before long he’s taking in the sight of the psychiatrist, a brown-hared, thin man with a mustache and a calm, mild-mannered demeanor. Jon is next to him on the couch, the one holding his hand, and he squeezes as he glares at the shrink.
“What’d you do that for?” he snaps.
His psychiatrist smiles sadly and says, “You repressed those memories for a reason. Now that we know the what, we can move on to the why. That was only step one, though-it’s going to get worse before it gets better. Are you ready?”
Stephen frowns and glances to Jon, who’s giving him a reassuring look. He focuses his attention back on his doctor and slowly-slowly!-he nods.
He wants to know more.
Fandom: Fake News (FPF)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Jon/“Stephen”
Warning: Really stupid, dogmatic, rigid gender roles.
Summary: Stephen grows up a little confused.
Word Count: 1,387
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use. References to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
A/N: Finally! God, this took forever to materialize. Stupid brain. Anyway, my mind is weird. It took a cracky idea from this thread and turned it into angst. What the hell, brain. Also, let’s see how many of you will catch the stealth!crossover. =P Thanks for the beta, Abigail.
He sees a little boy, no older than seven, proudly holding up a drawing of four crude stick figures; one is bigger than the other three, and wearing an apron. “I’m gonna be a mommy!” the boy is saying happily, broad smile slowly fading as his classmates start laughing, even his teacher allowing herself a derisive chuckle.
“That’s stupid,” crows another boy, one sitting in the back row, and the teacher merely rolls her eyes. “Boys can’t be mommies!”
“…w-why not?” he’s asking, voice cracking, clearly on the verge of tears.
“It’s only for girls!” says another classmate, and the laughter continues.
“Steeephen’s a giiirl,” sing-songs the first boy, and most of the class joins in, until the teacher finally puts a stop to it. Time doesn’t seem to be a fixed construct, though, because now he’s watching as the boy’s classmates taunt him as he walks home from school, pushing him to the ground and laughing before they run away.
The little boy sits in the dirt for a few minutes, angrily tearing up his drawing as he wipes away his tears.
He’s just learned his first lesson about the Difference between boys and girls.
* * *
He’s watching the toy kitchen set collect dust in the attic, clearly outgrown by its intended recipient, when all of a sudden, the hatch opens, and the same little boy appears, now nine or ten.
He goes straight for the set, playing with it like he’s done it countless times before. There’s a box next to it, out of which he takes an apron, clumsily tying it around himself before serving an imaginary dinner to some imaginary guests, the simplicity making him happy. It seems peaceful.
“Stephen Tyrone Colbert!” bellows a voice from below, ten minutes later, interrupting the serene domesticity. “Get your ass down here!”
The little boy’s face pales, and he quickly removes the apron, hastily stuffing it back in the box before leaving the attic.
He can hear bits of shouted conversation, something about how he’s Supposed To Behave, but he tries not to listen too hard.
* * *
The boy, not much older than when he last saw him, is now sitting in front of a vanity-it has to be an older sister’s-clutching a set of pearls. He seems to be debating whether or not to put them on, as though this is a line he’s approached before but never crossed.
He’s got on a skirt, though it looks like it’s backwards, and the heels on his feet are at least three sizes too big. With one last glance at the door, the boy puts on the pearls, almost holding his breath as he does so.
He seems to think-know, know-that he’s doing something wrong, because he keeps shooting anxious looks at the door. At the same time, though, there’s a look on his face when he glances into the mirror that speaks of contentment.
A door slams shut a floor down, then, and the boy is spurred into a flurry of activity, taking off the skirt and heels with the practiced ease of someone who has gotten used to it.
He hesitates just a second with the pearls, though, sparing one last glance in the vanity mirror before taking them off and putting them back where they-belong.
* * *
He can feel the stifling heat beating down as he watches him-now twelve or thirteen-in the outfield, looking utterly miserable as he covers his face with his mitt in an effort to ward off mosquitoes.
Time seems to be in fast-forward at this point, as an hour-long game passes before his eyes in the span of just a few minutes. He watches the boy hate every second of it-and he isn’t any good, either.
The kid bounds off to the stands as soon as the game ends, and is greeted by a woman who is obviously his mother, as well as an older sibling. There’s a disappointed look growing on his face as his mom says, “Your father wanted to come, dear. He’s just so busy. But he’s proud of you.”
He nods glumly, putting on a cheerful face for his mom, and then he’s seen later, listening to someone who seems far away, talking endlessly about how Masculine and Appropriate sports are for a growing boy. Said growing boy sits patiently and says nothing, even as it’s obvious his mind is elsewhere.
* * *
It’s dark. He can barely see a thing, though he can easily hear two distinct breathing patterns. It seems like they’re in a closet, and after a minute, his eyes adjust.
The boy has to be two years older, this time, now accompanied by another boy, about the same age.
“It was probably an accident,” he’s saying, and the other boy just nods. “The game isn’t supposed to work like this.” He goes silent after that, and that silence reigns, heavy and awkward in the air.
“I hate those guys,” says the other boy abruptly. “I wish I hadn’t come to this stupid party.”
“Yeah,” he replies, slowly, after a minute of hesitation. “Me too.” He thinks that’s the first time he’s ever admitted something like that out loud.
They share a look, and right when he thinks something is about to happen, the closet door swings open. “Time for the lovebirds to get out here,” calls a mocking voice, and both boys seem to choke back audible sighs.
“Very funny, guys,” says the boy, playing up a bravado that he knows the kid doesn’t really feel, but will get used to faking, and doesn’t spare another glance for the other boy the rest of the night.
* * *
The view from the car is incredible, and both the boy-nearly a man at this point-and the girl inside seem to be enamored with it. He supposes that’s because they don’t want to be enamored with each other.
She seems to be bolder than he is, and speaks first. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” she says, “but I don’t want to kiss you.”
He sighs heavily in relief. “Really?” he asks. “Because-yeah, no offense-I don’t want to kiss you, either.”
They break out into nearly identical grins. “Thank god,” she mutters, and looks out at the night sky again. “How long should we sit here, then? So it looks right?”
He contemplates this. “Half an hour?”
She shrugs. “Okay.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes. “This is nice,” she says eventually. “Better than I was expecting.”
“Me too,” he admits, smiling just slightly.
She idly drums her fingers along the armrest. “What are your plans after high school?”
“Oh,” he says, caught off guard by the question. “College, I guess. I don’t really know what I want to be yet.”
That’s a lie, he notes.
“What about you?”
“I want to be a doctor,” she says. “No-not a nurse,” she cuts him off, answering the question he’d been about to ask.
Instead, he turns to her, face a picture of confusion, and says, “Is that-allowed?”
She sighs, then shakes her head, fixing him with a determined look. “I don’t care.”
He nods, no less confused, but maybe a bit-hopeful.
* * *
He’s aware of someone holding his hand, and a soft voice telling him to open his eyes, to retain his memory. He tries to ignore this-he forgot those memories for a reason-but finds he can’t in the end. Before long he’s taking in the sight of the psychiatrist, a brown-hared, thin man with a mustache and a calm, mild-mannered demeanor. Jon is next to him on the couch, the one holding his hand, and he squeezes as he glares at the shrink.
“What’d you do that for?” he snaps.
His psychiatrist smiles sadly and says, “You repressed those memories for a reason. Now that we know the what, we can move on to the why. That was only step one, though-it’s going to get worse before it gets better. Are you ready?”
Stephen frowns and glances to Jon, who’s giving him a reassuring look. He focuses his attention back on his doctor and slowly-slowly!-he nods.
He wants to know more.