Sara (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scripted_sra) wrote2009-03-04 03:21 am
scripted_sra) wrote2009-03-04 03:21 am
FN (FPF)/HP/GO/OF | The Education And Edification... | PG | Jon/"Stephen"; Crowley/Aziraphale
Title: The Education And Edification Of One Dr. Stephen T. Colbert, D.F.A.
Fandom: Fake News (FPF)/Harry Potter/Good Omens/Original Fiction
Rating: PG
Pairing: Implied Jon/”Stephen”; Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: Sometimes, a dream is just a dream. This isn’t one of those times.
Word Count: 3,242
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.
Claimer: The OCs, on the other hand, actually do belong to me. They’re part of an original story I came up with.
A/N: Thanks for the beta, Abigail.
Stephen’s dreaming.
Were he awake, he’d dismiss the experience entirely. Dreams don’t mean anything; if they did, that’d imply he had a subconscious. Stephen Colbert has no subconscious and certainly no patience for implications.
He’s walking along a pathway. It’s surrounded by rich foliage, flowers, healthy green grass, trees; there are butterflies and bumblebees, and it’s a wonderfully pleasant place. He almost doesn’t want to come to the end of the path.
He does eventually, of course, because even paths in dreams sometimes have ends, and he arrives at a gate. It’s clearly not the sort of gate meant for keeping people out. It’s large, and ornate, and appears to be far more for show than for any actual gate-like duty.
Standing in front of the gate is an old man who looks remarkably like Albus Dumbledore, a character from the Harry Potter books. If asked, Stephen would just use this as proof that dreams don’t mean anything. If they did, why would he dream about a book?
“Hello, Stephen,” Dumbledore says pleasantly, holding out a tin of candies. “Lemon drop?”
Stephen shrugs and takes one, asking, “Where are we?”
“Just outside Heaven,” Dumbledore replies. “Though I believe you already knew that.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I had,” Stephen says indignantly. “Anyway, we can’t be. First of all, I’m not dead. Second of all, where are the guards?”
“But you’re dreaming,” Dumbledore answers. “One can visit anywhere in one’s dreams. And there are no guards. It is Heaven, after all.”
Stephen’s eyebrow raises, almost of its own accord. “No guards? But then anyone could get in!”
“I believe,” Dumbledore replies, smiling benignly, “that is the point.”
Stephen just frowns. “Am I allowed to look around?”
Dumbledore looks mildly surprised. “Why, of course you are. It is your dream, after all.”
Stephen nods, satisfied, until something occurs to him. “Hey, why are you here? If this is Heaven—you’re fictional. And gay.”
Dumbledore simply smiles at him again. “Perhaps you’ll see.” He disappears, leaving Stephen to mutter to himself about the trouble with fictional gay wizards.
*
Heaven is beautiful, as it turns out. Stephen follows another path through a park so vibrant that he can’t help but feel contented and calm. He’s sure there’s no place on Earth even remotely like it.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking when he spots the two men sitting on a bench, talking quietly but urgently to one another. He sits down a bench not far away, listening to their conversation.
“Oh, dear, this—this is most unusual,” says the blond man, who looked pressed and coiffed in every way. “She must know.”
The other man rolls his eyes, which is somehow apparent despite the fact that he’s wearing sunglasses. “She’s supposed to be omniscient, isn’t She? Of course She knows.”
“But She summoned us both—when was the last time a demon was allowed back into Heaven for a friendly chat and a spot of tea?”
“I don’t think a demon’s ever been allowed back, for any reason.”
“That’s why I’m worried.”
“Excuse me a second,” says the dark-haired man—the one in the sunglasses. He looks up suddenly, giving Stephen an unpleasant stare; again, this is apparent even in spite of the sunglasses. “If you’re going to eavesdrop, at least be subtle about it.”
Stephen jumps. “It’s not my fault you were whispering so loudly,” he says haughtily. “Besides, this is my dream. Dumbledore said so.”
The dark-haired man snorts. “Good old Dumbledore. Never likes to give you the whole story, does he? I, for one, approve of the underhandedness.”
“Well, now, don’t be so hasty,” says the blond man, frowning. “It’s not necessarily underhanded; usually it’s for a good and noble reason!”
“Doesn’t make it any less manipulative,” replies his companion. He looks over at Stephen again, sighing loudly. “He has a question.”
“Of course he does; it’s only natural. Let the poor dear ask, Crowley.”
“Whatever you say, angel. What do you want to know?”
“Why were you talking about demons earlier?” Stephen asks.
“Because,” Crowley hissed, “I’m a demon.”
Stephen jumps again, looking alarmed.
“Crowley!” the angel admonishes. “Don’t you dare! Not here.”
“Fine, fine,” Crowley replies. “I’m not going to bite you. Aziraphale would get jealous.”
The angel—Aziraphale—turns red at this statement. “Crowley!”
“Huh?” Stephen asks, confused.
“Oh, good, a dense one,” Crowley says. “He’s mine.” Crowley wraps an arm around Aziraphale as if to prove this.
“You’re gay?” Stephen’s eyebrows threaten to jump off his head entirely. “But—but—he’s an angel. You’re a demon!”
“We noticed that a little while ago. Quite a shock, let me tell you,” Crowley mutters sarcastically.
“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale says kindly, giving Crowley a reproving look. “We’re aware.”
“This doesn’t make any sense. Why are you here?”
“She summoned us, of course,” says Aziraphale. “Normally we work on Earth.”
“Who’s She?” Stephen asks, frowning.
“God, you idiot.”
“Crowley, be nice.”
“God? God’s not a woman! God’s all Man!” Stephen says this firmly.
“Technically, She’s neither Man nor Woman,” Aziraphale explains gently. “She’s a divine entity; She can choose to emulate whichever gender She pleases. Currently, She’s chosen a female form.”
“This isn’t—this is wrong,” Stephen says adamantly, standing up. “I have to go—this is not how things are supposed to be.”
“Since when are things ever really like what they’re ‘supposed’ to be?” Crowley asks, eyebrow raising.
“Since always,” Stephen snaps. “Good bye.”
He walks away, pace hurried.
*
“Ah, Stephen, so nice to run into you again,” Dumbledore says, giving Stephen a pleasant smile.
“What? Yeah, whatever, sure,” he says, voice sullen.
“Is something the matter?”
“I just ran into two—two—sodomites—trying to tell me God is a woman! And one was a demon!”
“Crowley and Aziraphale, you mean? I’m not surprised you saw them. They’re truly meant for each other, you know, and She probably can’t resist giving them her formal blessing.”
“But—what? That doesn’t—one’s an angel and one’s a demon! And they’re both men!”
“Male-shaped beings, if you want to get technical,” says Dumbledore. “However, I understand what you mean. It’s one of the reasons you’re having this dream.”
“I—I don’t understand. This is starting to hurt my head. Dreams aren’t supposed to hurt.” This is said almost as an accusation.
“Good thing this is a little more than just a dream, then,” says Dumbledore, eyes twinkling. “You’ll see, Stephen. In time, you’ll see.”
Stephen glares, walking away from Dumbledore.
*
Stephen comes across a large meadow. At least half a dozen children are playing some sort of game in the middle; off to the side, however, a lone young girl sits, sprawled out in the grass, absorbed in a book. He winces at the thought of books getting to such an innocent child and walks over.
“Hey,” he says.
The girl looks up; she can’t be more than seven or eight. “Hi, Mister,” she says cheerfully. “I’m Emma. What’s your name? Did you want to read with me?”
“I’m Stephen,” he says. “And—I—no—I don’t like books.”
Emma looks curious. “Why not? Books are fun. You can read about every place in the whole world, and even places that don’t really exist.”
“They’re full of facts, so elitist, telling us what is and isn’t true,” Stephen says disdainfully. “I follow my gut.”
“Your tummy?” Emma asks.
“Well—yes, in a sense.”
Emma appears to think this over for a moment. “My tummy says reading’s fun,” she says. “And so does my head.”
Stephen sighs. Another young person lost to the evils of intellectualism. “I see. But wouldn’t you rather be playing with everyone else?”
Emma shrugs. “Maybe later. Right now, I want to read.”
“But you’re the only one reading.”
“So?”
“So? So that means you’re not fitting in! You’re not conforming!”
“What’s conforming?”
“Doing what everyone else is doing, no matter how much it makes you miserable.”
“Miserable’s like sad, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s silly. Why would you do something that makes you sad?”
“So people will like you and be your friends, of course.”
“That’s dumb.” Emma says this firmly. “Friends want you to be happy, not sad. That’s why my friends don’t care if I read. They know I like it.”
“I—huh?”
“I said my friends don’t care if I read. We’re friends. Like, Andy likes to play tag, but Amanda thinks hide and seek is better. So sometimes they play tag, and sometimes they play hide and seek, and then both of them are happy. See?”
“But—where’s the unrelenting, agonizing pressure to fit in and conform that dogs your every step, because you know you’re not like everyone else, and you know that you’ll always stick out and be neglected or teased, so you try to fit in because it’s better to be miserable than alone? Everyone endures that, right? That’s why conforming is the right thing to do.”
Emma looks up at Stephen, eyes wide. She’s silent for a moment, looking like she’s thinking hard about something. “Mr. Stephen?” she eventually asks, voice quiet.
“Yes?”
“Can I be your friend? I promise you can do whatever you like and it’ll be okay. I’ll always be your friend, no matter what.”
A lump forms in Stephen’s throat. “I’d like that, Emma.”
Emma smiles, and it brightens up her entire face. Stephen can’t help but smile back.
*
“How do you walk in these?”
Stephen hears the incredulous question before he sees the two young women: one is wearing an absurd amount of black; the other, an absurd amount of pink. He assumes the woman who spoke is the one in black, tottering uneasily in a pair of pink high-heels.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” replies the other, sluggishly moving in a pair of enormous combat boots. “I feel like I’ve been dipped in cement.”
“I feel like I’m walking on stilts.”
The two women fall to the ground almost simultaneously, laughing. “Well, I think I’m sticking with my heels.”
“I’m staying with the boots,” says the other. The two of them quickly trade shoes, and stand up. The one in black looks up, grinning, and notices Stephen. “Oh, hi,” she says pleasantly. “Who are you?”
“Stephen Colbert,” he says, puffing up a little. Neither woman shows the slightest hint of recognition.
“I’m sorry,” the one in black says apologetically. “There are so many people on Earth—it’s all I can do to memorize the names of the people I have to talk to in the immediate future.”
“Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m Death,” she replies. “This is Lucifer.”
“Lucy,” she says. “You know I hate being called Lucifer.”
“Death? Lucifer?” Stephen looks alarmed. “The Devil? Why are you in Heaven? And why are you a woman?”
“The Boss and I have weekly meetings, duh,” says Lucy, twirling a few strands of her blonde hair. “And we’re not sure, exactly; the Lucifer line doesn’t have a lot of women in it. I’m the first female Devil in the history of existence.” She says this proudly, almost smugly.
“What do you mean, the Lucifer line?”
Lucy chuckles. “What, you think I’m the only one? I have hundreds of siblings.”
“I—”
Suddenly, something beeps. Death sighs, checking something that looks suspiciously like a PDA or BlackBerry. “Well, duty calls. I’m glad I ran into you, Luc. We’ll have to get drinks sometime this week—it’s been too long.”
“Agreed,” says Lucy.
“It was nice meeting you, Stephen,” Death says to him, smiling. “Hopefully we don’t meet again for a long time.” Stephen looks vaguely frightened by the suggestion that they’re going to meet again and Death smiles sympathetically. “Lots of humans are frightened by me. It’s all right.”
“I’m not frightened!” Stephen says quickly—too quickly, which is obvious.
“Of course you’re not,” Death says, humoring him. “Good bye!” She disappears.
Lucy sighs, glancing at her watch. “I actually have to get going too. I have an organization to run, after all. Plus, a PTA meeting later. God, if you think Hell is bad, try spending an hour with overly-invested, stubborn, my-way-is-the-only-way parents.” She makes a face.
“What—you have a kid?”
“Yep. Believe me, it was a shock to me, too, when I first found out,” she says, smiling and shaking her head. “I was terrified. But it’s totally worth it, you know?”
“I—yes, of course.”
Lucy nods at him. “Well, it was nice meeting you. Ciao!” She disappears as well, leaving Stephen very, very bewildered.
“I don’t understand.” He says this quietly, feeling lost.
*
He’s approaching a modest-sized log cabin. Knocking on the door, a round, pink-faced, cheerful, middle-aged woman answers. “Oh, good, Stephen—you’re right on time.”
“On time for what?” Stephen asks, confused.
“Dinner, of course. Call me Anna. Now go get washed up. It’s almost done.”
Stephen feels compelled to listen to this woman, though he doesn’t know why. After he’s sufficiently cleaned, he’s just about to sit down at the table in the dining room when her voice calls out: “Can you be a dear and set the table, please?”
“But isn’t that your job?”
Anna’s voice is patient as she replies, “It’s anybody’s job, Stephen.”
“But you’re a woman.”
“Yes?”
“Shouldn’t you do that?”
“I’m in the middle of cooking, dear. It’d be a great help if you could set the table for me.”
Stephen gets the feeling that she’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t set the table, and that, for whatever reason, is unacceptable. He gets up, heading into the kitchen. “Where are the dishes?” he asks, but he doesn’t need to. He already knows they’re in the second cupboard next to the refrigerator.
“Thank you, Stephen.”
Stephen sets the table, and not ten minutes later, dinner is served.
“How was your day?”
“Bad,” Stephen says, shaking his head. “It was too confusing.”
“That makes it bad?”
“Well, of course. Things were different than they should’ve been. I didn’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was different!”
“Yes, I know. I simply don’t understand why this means you had a bad day.”
“Because things are supposed to be one way, not weird and confusing.”
“How are things supposed to be?”
“Right. Gay, fictional wizards shouldn’t be in Heaven, angels and demons shouldn’t be together, God isn’t a woman, and neither is the Devil! Death should be scarier, and—and who is teaching our kids that they shouldn’t conform?” He fumed, his frustration manifesting as anger—like usual.
“Why does any of that matter, dear?”
“What?”
“I’m just wondering why any of that really matters.”
“I—because it does.”
Anna simply smiles serenely. “How have you been before this day, then?”
Her smile makes him feel like he should tell the truth. “Not—not so good.” He gulps.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What’s been wrong?”
“Well, Evie and I—she’s moved out. I—” He stops, unsure why he’s telling this woman something he’s barely even acknowledged to himself. “I think she wants a divorce.”
“A marriage dissolving is always a sad event.”
“It’s more than that! It’s a sin. I’m Catholic—I can’t—” He slumps, looking down at his plate; the food is delicious, but he’s only been able to bring himself to eat a couple bites. “She’s miserable, and it’s my fault.”
“I’m sure you didn’t mean to make her miserable, Stephen. You’re just a little misguided.”
“So you think I should get a divorce?” He finds that her opinion really matters to him.
“I think that would be the best for both of you, as well as your children, yes.”
“I guess.”
“At least you’ll have Jon to help you through it.”
Stephen winces, remembering how upset and pained Jon had been when his own divorce happened two years ago. He’d hated seeing it, and spent much of the time confused, constantly wondering why he couldn’t resist the urge to do everything in his power to make him smile again. “I know.”
“Something wrong?”
“It’s just—Jon was so sad when it happened to him. It—hurt, seeing that. It hurt me. I don’t want him to hurt because of me.”
“When people we deeply care about hurt, sometimes, so do we. It can’t be helped.”
There’s something in the tone of her voice that alarms Stephen, and he says quickly, “He’s my friend. Of course I care about him.”
“I wasn’t accusing you of anything, Stephen.”
“Yes you were,” he snaps. “You were making it sound like—like more than that—like I love him, or am in love with him. I’m not. Just because I’m happiest when I’m with him, and I love seeing him smile, and when he laughs I feel good—that does not mean I’m in love with him. I’m not. I’m straight.”
Anna just smiles, eyes kind, her gaze catching Stephen’s.
“You think you know,” he says, suddenly angry. “You think you can just understand everything about me even though I don’t—you think you can just—you can’t.”
“It’s okay, Stephen.”
“It’s not.” The anger is gone as quickly as it came; his voice is quiet, almost drained. “It’s not okay.”
“Yes, it is. I think you know that deep down.”
Stephen stands up. “I have to go.”
“Of course, but take some dessert with you. Apple pie—it’s my favorite recipe.”
*
He runs into Dumbledore on his way out of Heaven. “Hello, again.”
“Hi,” Stephen says, quiet. He can’t stop thinking, thinking new things. It’s confusing, worrying, and dangerous, and he can’t stop.
“I hope you had a nice time.”
Stephen really looks at Dumbledore for the first time. “Why didn’t you tell me, warn me? You knew—don’t pretend you didn’t.”
“There are some things, Stephen, that need to be shown, not told.”
“I hate this,” Stephen says. “It’s like there’s no right answer, or more than one. It feels wrong.”
Dumbledore smiles, eyes twinkling brighter than ever. “It’ll feel right eventually.”
Stephen sighs, shaking his head and walking through the gate.
*
Stephen’s waking up.
He stretches, yawning as he sits up in bed.
The moment he opens his eyes, the memories of his dream come flooding back to him, rushing in at once, almost overwhelming him. He shuts his eyes tight, shaking his head.
It’s just a dream, he rationalizes. Dreams don’t mean anything.
He reaches blindly at the nightstand, grabbing for his glasses; instead, his hand hits a container. Opening his eyes again, he looks over. Sitting on his nightstand, next to his glasses, is a clear Tupperware container. Inside it is a piece of apple pie. There’s a note attached.
Putting on his glasses, Stephen reads:
Have a taste. Once you have one bite, I promise you’ll want more.
Anna
Picking up the container, Stephen heads into the kitchen. He opens the container, looking in, and for a moment, considers simply throwing it away.
But then his mind brings up images, unbidden: Dumbledore, twinkling merrily; Aziraphale and Crowley and the easy way Crowley wrapped his arm around the angel; Emma, with her book and her bright, infectious smile; Death and Lucy, and their easy camaraderie; and finally Anna, with her rosy cheeks and serene, calm smile that promised everything would be okay.
Finding a clean fork, Stephen takes a bite.
Up beyond everything, past nothing, and to the left of over-the-rainbow, a cheerful middle-aged woman watches this and smiles.
Fandom: Fake News (FPF)/Harry Potter/Good Omens/Original Fiction
Rating: PG
Pairing: Implied Jon/”Stephen”; Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: Sometimes, a dream is just a dream. This isn’t one of those times.
Word Count: 3,242
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.
Claimer: The OCs, on the other hand, actually do belong to me. They’re part of an original story I came up with.
A/N: Thanks for the beta, Abigail.
Stephen’s dreaming.
Were he awake, he’d dismiss the experience entirely. Dreams don’t mean anything; if they did, that’d imply he had a subconscious. Stephen Colbert has no subconscious and certainly no patience for implications.
He’s walking along a pathway. It’s surrounded by rich foliage, flowers, healthy green grass, trees; there are butterflies and bumblebees, and it’s a wonderfully pleasant place. He almost doesn’t want to come to the end of the path.
He does eventually, of course, because even paths in dreams sometimes have ends, and he arrives at a gate. It’s clearly not the sort of gate meant for keeping people out. It’s large, and ornate, and appears to be far more for show than for any actual gate-like duty.
Standing in front of the gate is an old man who looks remarkably like Albus Dumbledore, a character from the Harry Potter books. If asked, Stephen would just use this as proof that dreams don’t mean anything. If they did, why would he dream about a book?
“Hello, Stephen,” Dumbledore says pleasantly, holding out a tin of candies. “Lemon drop?”
Stephen shrugs and takes one, asking, “Where are we?”
“Just outside Heaven,” Dumbledore replies. “Though I believe you already knew that.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I had,” Stephen says indignantly. “Anyway, we can’t be. First of all, I’m not dead. Second of all, where are the guards?”
“But you’re dreaming,” Dumbledore answers. “One can visit anywhere in one’s dreams. And there are no guards. It is Heaven, after all.”
Stephen’s eyebrow raises, almost of its own accord. “No guards? But then anyone could get in!”
“I believe,” Dumbledore replies, smiling benignly, “that is the point.”
Stephen just frowns. “Am I allowed to look around?”
Dumbledore looks mildly surprised. “Why, of course you are. It is your dream, after all.”
Stephen nods, satisfied, until something occurs to him. “Hey, why are you here? If this is Heaven—you’re fictional. And gay.”
Dumbledore simply smiles at him again. “Perhaps you’ll see.” He disappears, leaving Stephen to mutter to himself about the trouble with fictional gay wizards.
Heaven is beautiful, as it turns out. Stephen follows another path through a park so vibrant that he can’t help but feel contented and calm. He’s sure there’s no place on Earth even remotely like it.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking when he spots the two men sitting on a bench, talking quietly but urgently to one another. He sits down a bench not far away, listening to their conversation.
“Oh, dear, this—this is most unusual,” says the blond man, who looked pressed and coiffed in every way. “She must know.”
The other man rolls his eyes, which is somehow apparent despite the fact that he’s wearing sunglasses. “She’s supposed to be omniscient, isn’t She? Of course She knows.”
“But She summoned us both—when was the last time a demon was allowed back into Heaven for a friendly chat and a spot of tea?”
“I don’t think a demon’s ever been allowed back, for any reason.”
“That’s why I’m worried.”
“Excuse me a second,” says the dark-haired man—the one in the sunglasses. He looks up suddenly, giving Stephen an unpleasant stare; again, this is apparent even in spite of the sunglasses. “If you’re going to eavesdrop, at least be subtle about it.”
Stephen jumps. “It’s not my fault you were whispering so loudly,” he says haughtily. “Besides, this is my dream. Dumbledore said so.”
The dark-haired man snorts. “Good old Dumbledore. Never likes to give you the whole story, does he? I, for one, approve of the underhandedness.”
“Well, now, don’t be so hasty,” says the blond man, frowning. “It’s not necessarily underhanded; usually it’s for a good and noble reason!”
“Doesn’t make it any less manipulative,” replies his companion. He looks over at Stephen again, sighing loudly. “He has a question.”
“Of course he does; it’s only natural. Let the poor dear ask, Crowley.”
“Whatever you say, angel. What do you want to know?”
“Why were you talking about demons earlier?” Stephen asks.
“Because,” Crowley hissed, “I’m a demon.”
Stephen jumps again, looking alarmed.
“Crowley!” the angel admonishes. “Don’t you dare! Not here.”
“Fine, fine,” Crowley replies. “I’m not going to bite you. Aziraphale would get jealous.”
The angel—Aziraphale—turns red at this statement. “Crowley!”
“Huh?” Stephen asks, confused.
“Oh, good, a dense one,” Crowley says. “He’s mine.” Crowley wraps an arm around Aziraphale as if to prove this.
“You’re gay?” Stephen’s eyebrows threaten to jump off his head entirely. “But—but—he’s an angel. You’re a demon!”
“We noticed that a little while ago. Quite a shock, let me tell you,” Crowley mutters sarcastically.
“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale says kindly, giving Crowley a reproving look. “We’re aware.”
“This doesn’t make any sense. Why are you here?”
“She summoned us, of course,” says Aziraphale. “Normally we work on Earth.”
“Who’s She?” Stephen asks, frowning.
“God, you idiot.”
“Crowley, be nice.”
“God? God’s not a woman! God’s all Man!” Stephen says this firmly.
“Technically, She’s neither Man nor Woman,” Aziraphale explains gently. “She’s a divine entity; She can choose to emulate whichever gender She pleases. Currently, She’s chosen a female form.”
“This isn’t—this is wrong,” Stephen says adamantly, standing up. “I have to go—this is not how things are supposed to be.”
“Since when are things ever really like what they’re ‘supposed’ to be?” Crowley asks, eyebrow raising.
“Since always,” Stephen snaps. “Good bye.”
He walks away, pace hurried.
“Ah, Stephen, so nice to run into you again,” Dumbledore says, giving Stephen a pleasant smile.
“What? Yeah, whatever, sure,” he says, voice sullen.
“Is something the matter?”
“I just ran into two—two—sodomites—trying to tell me God is a woman! And one was a demon!”
“Crowley and Aziraphale, you mean? I’m not surprised you saw them. They’re truly meant for each other, you know, and She probably can’t resist giving them her formal blessing.”
“But—what? That doesn’t—one’s an angel and one’s a demon! And they’re both men!”
“Male-shaped beings, if you want to get technical,” says Dumbledore. “However, I understand what you mean. It’s one of the reasons you’re having this dream.”
“I—I don’t understand. This is starting to hurt my head. Dreams aren’t supposed to hurt.” This is said almost as an accusation.
“Good thing this is a little more than just a dream, then,” says Dumbledore, eyes twinkling. “You’ll see, Stephen. In time, you’ll see.”
Stephen glares, walking away from Dumbledore.
Stephen comes across a large meadow. At least half a dozen children are playing some sort of game in the middle; off to the side, however, a lone young girl sits, sprawled out in the grass, absorbed in a book. He winces at the thought of books getting to such an innocent child and walks over.
“Hey,” he says.
The girl looks up; she can’t be more than seven or eight. “Hi, Mister,” she says cheerfully. “I’m Emma. What’s your name? Did you want to read with me?”
“I’m Stephen,” he says. “And—I—no—I don’t like books.”
Emma looks curious. “Why not? Books are fun. You can read about every place in the whole world, and even places that don’t really exist.”
“They’re full of facts, so elitist, telling us what is and isn’t true,” Stephen says disdainfully. “I follow my gut.”
“Your tummy?” Emma asks.
“Well—yes, in a sense.”
Emma appears to think this over for a moment. “My tummy says reading’s fun,” she says. “And so does my head.”
Stephen sighs. Another young person lost to the evils of intellectualism. “I see. But wouldn’t you rather be playing with everyone else?”
Emma shrugs. “Maybe later. Right now, I want to read.”
“But you’re the only one reading.”
“So?”
“So? So that means you’re not fitting in! You’re not conforming!”
“What’s conforming?”
“Doing what everyone else is doing, no matter how much it makes you miserable.”
“Miserable’s like sad, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s silly. Why would you do something that makes you sad?”
“So people will like you and be your friends, of course.”
“That’s dumb.” Emma says this firmly. “Friends want you to be happy, not sad. That’s why my friends don’t care if I read. They know I like it.”
“I—huh?”
“I said my friends don’t care if I read. We’re friends. Like, Andy likes to play tag, but Amanda thinks hide and seek is better. So sometimes they play tag, and sometimes they play hide and seek, and then both of them are happy. See?”
“But—where’s the unrelenting, agonizing pressure to fit in and conform that dogs your every step, because you know you’re not like everyone else, and you know that you’ll always stick out and be neglected or teased, so you try to fit in because it’s better to be miserable than alone? Everyone endures that, right? That’s why conforming is the right thing to do.”
Emma looks up at Stephen, eyes wide. She’s silent for a moment, looking like she’s thinking hard about something. “Mr. Stephen?” she eventually asks, voice quiet.
“Yes?”
“Can I be your friend? I promise you can do whatever you like and it’ll be okay. I’ll always be your friend, no matter what.”
A lump forms in Stephen’s throat. “I’d like that, Emma.”
Emma smiles, and it brightens up her entire face. Stephen can’t help but smile back.
“How do you walk in these?”
Stephen hears the incredulous question before he sees the two young women: one is wearing an absurd amount of black; the other, an absurd amount of pink. He assumes the woman who spoke is the one in black, tottering uneasily in a pair of pink high-heels.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” replies the other, sluggishly moving in a pair of enormous combat boots. “I feel like I’ve been dipped in cement.”
“I feel like I’m walking on stilts.”
The two women fall to the ground almost simultaneously, laughing. “Well, I think I’m sticking with my heels.”
“I’m staying with the boots,” says the other. The two of them quickly trade shoes, and stand up. The one in black looks up, grinning, and notices Stephen. “Oh, hi,” she says pleasantly. “Who are you?”
“Stephen Colbert,” he says, puffing up a little. Neither woman shows the slightest hint of recognition.
“I’m sorry,” the one in black says apologetically. “There are so many people on Earth—it’s all I can do to memorize the names of the people I have to talk to in the immediate future.”
“Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m Death,” she replies. “This is Lucifer.”
“Lucy,” she says. “You know I hate being called Lucifer.”
“Death? Lucifer?” Stephen looks alarmed. “The Devil? Why are you in Heaven? And why are you a woman?”
“The Boss and I have weekly meetings, duh,” says Lucy, twirling a few strands of her blonde hair. “And we’re not sure, exactly; the Lucifer line doesn’t have a lot of women in it. I’m the first female Devil in the history of existence.” She says this proudly, almost smugly.
“What do you mean, the Lucifer line?”
Lucy chuckles. “What, you think I’m the only one? I have hundreds of siblings.”
“I—”
Suddenly, something beeps. Death sighs, checking something that looks suspiciously like a PDA or BlackBerry. “Well, duty calls. I’m glad I ran into you, Luc. We’ll have to get drinks sometime this week—it’s been too long.”
“Agreed,” says Lucy.
“It was nice meeting you, Stephen,” Death says to him, smiling. “Hopefully we don’t meet again for a long time.” Stephen looks vaguely frightened by the suggestion that they’re going to meet again and Death smiles sympathetically. “Lots of humans are frightened by me. It’s all right.”
“I’m not frightened!” Stephen says quickly—too quickly, which is obvious.
“Of course you’re not,” Death says, humoring him. “Good bye!” She disappears.
Lucy sighs, glancing at her watch. “I actually have to get going too. I have an organization to run, after all. Plus, a PTA meeting later. God, if you think Hell is bad, try spending an hour with overly-invested, stubborn, my-way-is-the-only-way parents.” She makes a face.
“What—you have a kid?”
“Yep. Believe me, it was a shock to me, too, when I first found out,” she says, smiling and shaking her head. “I was terrified. But it’s totally worth it, you know?”
“I—yes, of course.”
Lucy nods at him. “Well, it was nice meeting you. Ciao!” She disappears as well, leaving Stephen very, very bewildered.
“I don’t understand.” He says this quietly, feeling lost.
He’s approaching a modest-sized log cabin. Knocking on the door, a round, pink-faced, cheerful, middle-aged woman answers. “Oh, good, Stephen—you’re right on time.”
“On time for what?” Stephen asks, confused.
“Dinner, of course. Call me Anna. Now go get washed up. It’s almost done.”
Stephen feels compelled to listen to this woman, though he doesn’t know why. After he’s sufficiently cleaned, he’s just about to sit down at the table in the dining room when her voice calls out: “Can you be a dear and set the table, please?”
“But isn’t that your job?”
Anna’s voice is patient as she replies, “It’s anybody’s job, Stephen.”
“But you’re a woman.”
“Yes?”
“Shouldn’t you do that?”
“I’m in the middle of cooking, dear. It’d be a great help if you could set the table for me.”
Stephen gets the feeling that she’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t set the table, and that, for whatever reason, is unacceptable. He gets up, heading into the kitchen. “Where are the dishes?” he asks, but he doesn’t need to. He already knows they’re in the second cupboard next to the refrigerator.
“Thank you, Stephen.”
Stephen sets the table, and not ten minutes later, dinner is served.
“How was your day?”
“Bad,” Stephen says, shaking his head. “It was too confusing.”
“That makes it bad?”
“Well, of course. Things were different than they should’ve been. I didn’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was different!”
“Yes, I know. I simply don’t understand why this means you had a bad day.”
“Because things are supposed to be one way, not weird and confusing.”
“How are things supposed to be?”
“Right. Gay, fictional wizards shouldn’t be in Heaven, angels and demons shouldn’t be together, God isn’t a woman, and neither is the Devil! Death should be scarier, and—and who is teaching our kids that they shouldn’t conform?” He fumed, his frustration manifesting as anger—like usual.
“Why does any of that matter, dear?”
“What?”
“I’m just wondering why any of that really matters.”
“I—because it does.”
Anna simply smiles serenely. “How have you been before this day, then?”
Her smile makes him feel like he should tell the truth. “Not—not so good.” He gulps.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What’s been wrong?”
“Well, Evie and I—she’s moved out. I—” He stops, unsure why he’s telling this woman something he’s barely even acknowledged to himself. “I think she wants a divorce.”
“A marriage dissolving is always a sad event.”
“It’s more than that! It’s a sin. I’m Catholic—I can’t—” He slumps, looking down at his plate; the food is delicious, but he’s only been able to bring himself to eat a couple bites. “She’s miserable, and it’s my fault.”
“I’m sure you didn’t mean to make her miserable, Stephen. You’re just a little misguided.”
“So you think I should get a divorce?” He finds that her opinion really matters to him.
“I think that would be the best for both of you, as well as your children, yes.”
“I guess.”
“At least you’ll have Jon to help you through it.”
Stephen winces, remembering how upset and pained Jon had been when his own divorce happened two years ago. He’d hated seeing it, and spent much of the time confused, constantly wondering why he couldn’t resist the urge to do everything in his power to make him smile again. “I know.”
“Something wrong?”
“It’s just—Jon was so sad when it happened to him. It—hurt, seeing that. It hurt me. I don’t want him to hurt because of me.”
“When people we deeply care about hurt, sometimes, so do we. It can’t be helped.”
There’s something in the tone of her voice that alarms Stephen, and he says quickly, “He’s my friend. Of course I care about him.”
“I wasn’t accusing you of anything, Stephen.”
“Yes you were,” he snaps. “You were making it sound like—like more than that—like I love him, or am in love with him. I’m not. Just because I’m happiest when I’m with him, and I love seeing him smile, and when he laughs I feel good—that does not mean I’m in love with him. I’m not. I’m straight.”
Anna just smiles, eyes kind, her gaze catching Stephen’s.
“You think you know,” he says, suddenly angry. “You think you can just understand everything about me even though I don’t—you think you can just—you can’t.”
“It’s okay, Stephen.”
“It’s not.” The anger is gone as quickly as it came; his voice is quiet, almost drained. “It’s not okay.”
“Yes, it is. I think you know that deep down.”
Stephen stands up. “I have to go.”
“Of course, but take some dessert with you. Apple pie—it’s my favorite recipe.”
He runs into Dumbledore on his way out of Heaven. “Hello, again.”
“Hi,” Stephen says, quiet. He can’t stop thinking, thinking new things. It’s confusing, worrying, and dangerous, and he can’t stop.
“I hope you had a nice time.”
Stephen really looks at Dumbledore for the first time. “Why didn’t you tell me, warn me? You knew—don’t pretend you didn’t.”
“There are some things, Stephen, that need to be shown, not told.”
“I hate this,” Stephen says. “It’s like there’s no right answer, or more than one. It feels wrong.”
Dumbledore smiles, eyes twinkling brighter than ever. “It’ll feel right eventually.”
Stephen sighs, shaking his head and walking through the gate.
Stephen’s waking up.
He stretches, yawning as he sits up in bed.
The moment he opens his eyes, the memories of his dream come flooding back to him, rushing in at once, almost overwhelming him. He shuts his eyes tight, shaking his head.
It’s just a dream, he rationalizes. Dreams don’t mean anything.
He reaches blindly at the nightstand, grabbing for his glasses; instead, his hand hits a container. Opening his eyes again, he looks over. Sitting on his nightstand, next to his glasses, is a clear Tupperware container. Inside it is a piece of apple pie. There’s a note attached.
Putting on his glasses, Stephen reads:
Have a taste. Once you have one bite, I promise you’ll want more.
Anna
Picking up the container, Stephen heads into the kitchen. He opens the container, looking in, and for a moment, considers simply throwing it away.
But then his mind brings up images, unbidden: Dumbledore, twinkling merrily; Aziraphale and Crowley and the easy way Crowley wrapped his arm around the angel; Emma, with her book and her bright, infectious smile; Death and Lucy, and their easy camaraderie; and finally Anna, with her rosy cheeks and serene, calm smile that promised everything would be okay.
Finding a clean fork, Stephen takes a bite.
Up beyond everything, past nothing, and to the left of over-the-rainbow, a cheerful middle-aged woman watches this and smiles.