Entry tags:

story: why should i care?

Strangers With Candy/Fake News: Why Should I Care?, part 13
Title: Why Should I Care? (13/13+epilogue)
Series: Strangers With Candy, TCR
Pairings: Seamus/OMC; Chuck/Geoffrey; Jon/"Stephen"
Rating: R
Contents: More swearing; Jerri being Jerri
Beta: 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: Seamus never could have handled Chuck's revelation on his own, but these days he has George, Jerri, and Stephen to come to the rescue.


Previous chapters here.


Why Should I Care?
Part Thirteen


"Seamus? You're spacing on me again."

The preliminary scribblings on their calendar snap back into focus as Seamus shakes himself. "Sorry, what?"

"Dad's offered to help get you fitted for the tux," repeats George. "Set up an appointment with his personal tailor and everything."

"'Set up'? As in, the plans are already made?"

George points the tip of his pen at Seamus in an uncannily familiar manner. "Don't knock it. This is a major sign of acceptance. He doesn't take just anyone suit shopping."

Seamus tries to feel gratified, and gets the uncanny feeling that Stephen is glowering at him from halfway across the state.

"Also, I'm visiting Jerri tomorrow," George adds.

Seamus jumps. "What? I didn't say I was ready to talk to her!"

"You can stay home if you want. But if she's going to be at my wedding, I need to meet her at some point."

"Well, you can't go alone," declares Seamus. "She's a racist, homophobic, vicious, sex-crazed old bat. You won't last thirty seconds without backup."

George raises his eyebrows. "And we're inviting her?"

"Dad's worse," snaps Seamus.

He's terrified at the prospect of asking Jerri about this, of setting off the avalanche in his head again. It's not like he can't handle it on his own. All he has to do is completely refuse to think about it.

"Why should I care, anyway?" he continues, voice wavering at the edge of a precipice. "I shouldn't care. I should drop the man like a hot potato and move on. That's what any sensible person would do. So why can't I...?"

He trails off. George puts a hand on his arm.

"Why do I care?" he hisses, as if by keeping his voice hushed enough he can stop himself from noticing what he's saying.

"He's your father," says George softly. "And, yeah, you deserved a better one. But he's the one you got."

§

"So I finally get to meet the delicious caramel tart!" purrs Jerri, hovering around George like a particularly saggy vulture.

Seamus has had a sleepless night and a rough morning shift. George picked him up right after he clocked out; they could have taken a walk or something before going to Jerri's, but Seamus can't let himself put this off any longer, or he'll never manage to go through with it.

"That's my fiancé, you know," he snaps at their host, shoving her hand away from George as she shepherds them into the living room. "He's not a piece of meat."

It's the first time Seamus has been inside this house, and he's surprised by how clean it seems. There are a couple of suspicious burns on the carpet, and the air smells slightly musty, but the furniture is respectable (if a little old-fashioned), and the walls are decorated with tasteful paintings. He wonders briefly who did the decorating, and why Jerri has managed to keep their style mostly intact.

Seamus already knew what the outside of the place looked like, of course. It's right across the street from his old high school.

"I know that!" pouts Jerri. "It's not like I called him a hot side of Peking duck, is it?"

"More like salsa-flavored kimchi," puts in George. "Which is actually pretty tasty. You'd be surprised. Listen, Ms. Blank...."

The old crone bats her fake eyelashes at him. "You can call me Jerri."

"Damnit, Jerri, stop flirting!" bursts out Seamus. "I need to ask you something!"

Steepling her fingers, Jerri regards him coolly. "So ask."

Seamus takes several deep breaths, gripping the arm of the couch with one hand, fingers kneading the faded pattern of the cloth. The other hand finds George's and clings.

"It's about my father," he begins. "He's..."

Come to think of it, he isn't actually sure what to say. Dad fucks men, yeah, but he obviously slept with Mom at least once, and Seamus has no idea whether he enjoyed it or whether she was never anything more than a prop.

"He's not straight," he finishes lamely.

Jerri raises her eyebrows. "That's an awfully charitable way to put it."

Seamus catches his breath. "You knew."

"Oh, honey, don't be ridiculous. I knew the first time I laid eyes on that man that he was the faggiest fag who ever did fag."

George twitches at the words. Seamus gives his hand a reassuring squeeze, while his own crowded emotions play musical chairs.

There's something about hearing it confirmed — not just by Dad or his vapid boyfriend, but by somebody outside the snarl of lies and secrets that is Seamus' family — that brings a strange sort of calm to the avalanche in his head. The world he knew isn't crumbling. It never existed in the first place.

And while the real world is strange and unknown and terrifying, it isn't new. Jerri's been living in it all along.

There are a thousand things Seamus wants to ask about, but there's no sense in pussyfooting around the big one. "Geoffrey Jellineck," he stammers. "You knew they were together?"

Jerri's gargoyle features contort into a wistful smile. "Ah, those two," she sighs. "I don't think I ever saw Mr. Noblet happier than when he and Mr. Jellineck were goofing off together. Like the day they kicked that kid out of his wheelchair and pushed each other in it all down the hall. Good times!"

The scene is almost impossible to picture. The part about Dad stealing a wheelchair is, unfortunately, completely believable. But the idea of Dad happy? And not while alone with his dolls, either, but in the company of another human being?

Seamus swallows. "Can you tell me more?"

Jerri smiles, crinkling her face like a sheet of old paper. "Seamus, honey, I thought you'd never ask."


§

All the time Seamus has spent complaining to Jerri about Dad, and this is the first time he's let her do the talking. He stops her only once, to make sure there's nowhere George needs to be, then listens to the next story as the afternoon wears on.

Around dinnertime, George searches the cupboards and finds two cans of beans, a rubber duck, and half a loaf of bread that seems to have turned blue. He announces that he's ordering a pizza. Nobody objects.

While Jerri is attempting to negotiate with the delivery girl over providing some of the payment in the form of sexual favors, Seamus settles back against the couch and wraps his arms around George, pulling the younger man close.

"I don't know what to think," he admits under his breath.

"You don't have to decide right away," says George quietly. "It's a lot to take in. Just sit with it for a while."

Seamus tries.


§

"I have to decide soon, don't I."

It pops out in the middle of the second wardrobe session, while Seamus is studying his triple reflection in the folding mirror. Something hasn't been sitting right with him the whole time, and it can't be the masterfully tailored tux.

"Not at all," says Stephen. "You can change your mind any time. These guys will keep altering right up until the night before."

(There's something immensely soothing about the alteration process: the rhythm of the fitting, the slow progression of pinning and measuring that gets the tuxedo closer and closer to a perfect fit. It's almost tempting to ask for unnecessary changes, just to keep getting that feeling.)

"Wasn't talking about the suit," says Seamus, turning around to study the planes of the fabric from all angles.

"Something else?" prompts Stephen after a moment.

Seamus stretches his arms, testing the way the sleeves fall. "Whether to send my dad an invitation or a restraining order," he says briskly.

He doesn't elaborate, and Stephen doesn't ask him to, while he takes a couple of experimental paces.

There's no tightness or bagginess in odd places, no awkwardly pinching seams. The flow as he walks is completely natural. So why is he still uncomfortable?

"I went to my oldest son's wedding on a leash," says Stephen abruptly.

The image startles Seamus out of his irritated reverie. "You...what?"

"Not literally," continues Stephen, taking a few steps closer. He's standing at a conversational distance behind Seamus now. "I mean, I was there under very strict conditions. I wasn't allowed to say anything that wasn't on a pre-approved list of phrases. 'It's nice to meet you', 'The bride looks lovely', that sort of thing."

"Uh, wow." Seamus blinks a few times. "That's one way to do it, I guess."

Stephen nods. "There are others. If you want your father to attend, and he's willing to support you, you can work something out."

"And what if I don't want him attending?" asks Seamus testily. "What if all I want to do is get away from him completely?"

"You don't have to invite him," replies Stephen. "You don't have to speak to him for the rest of your life if you don't want to. But you can't get away from the fact that you're his son. All you can do is choose how you deal with it."

Seamus' eyes flick between the faces of the interlocking reflections before him. From the way their figures get multiplied off into infinity, it almost feels like Dad might be standing somewhere among them in place of one of the Stephens. Or, hell, in place of one of the angry-looking men wearing a tuxedo of exactly the sort Dad would have chosen if he had any taste in suits....

"I can't do this!"

The words are out almost before he realizes what they mean.

He's halfway across the room, shrugging off the tuxedo jacket, before Stephen gets over being stunned enough to call after him: "What? What are you talking about?"

"Can't wear this," says Seamus, half to himself, as he ducks into the small changing room where his regular clothes are stashed, "can't do this...."

He sheds the rest of the outfit as quickly as he can, while outside Stephen's footsteps pound across the room and a hand slams against the door. "Damnit, Seamus, you walk out now, you don't come back!" he shouts. "You only get one chance to break my son's heart!"

"I'm not!" calls Seamus as he hops into his jeans and tugs them upwards. "Wedding's — still on — just not — like this—"

He yanks on his shirt and unlocks the door, opening it to find Stephen about a hair's breadth from throttling him. Seamus is younger and stronger and should have all the advantages, but say one wrong word about George and he'll probably spend the rest of his life eating through a straw.

Still breathless from the high-speed change, he says, "Does your tailor do gowns?"