Fake News (FPF) | Mirror, Mirror | PG-13 | Gen

[scripted_sra]

Title: Mirror, Mirror
Fandom: Fake News (FPF)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: None, shockingly.
Warning: It’s stylistic. Bear with me.
Summary: liberal!"Stephen" and conservative!"Stephen" are mirror images of one another.
Word Count: 1,028
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: I have written one other fic in a similar vein (quite awhile ago, in another fandom entirely) and I thought it was the perfect format for this one. Involves the liberalverse, in which sailorptah has a few things written (go check them out, for they are fabulous). She is evil and commands an army of nefarious ninja attack bunnies; therefore, this is all her fault. Thank you for the beta, Abigail. Oh, and in case you're wondering: hell yes this was a bitch to code.


“I have to look perfect,” he says to his mirror,

absently stroking at his beard and looking smugly at his unruly head of hair.

examining his clean-shaven face and looking critically at his perfectly-coiffed hair.

His reflection is the only person he can talk to, the only one who gets him, who allows him to be honest. It’s far too dangerous to trust anyone else, and he’s made an art of keeping people away by

pulling them too close, stepping gaily across their boundaries and sending them fleeing as fast as they can in the opposite direction.

erecting impenetrable barriers, lashing out at any who dare attempt to break them down, scaring them away before they even get started.

Other people don’t understand. They question why he acts this way, pretend as if they know better, as though he’s oblivious. Like

Jon! Spineless, middle-hugging, golden-mean-fallacy-loving coward, nowhere near bold enough to take a firm side, as though that’s something to be proud of.

Jon! Spineless, bleeding-heart, elitist-fact-loving coward, too wimp-willed to even shout back, as though being “reasonable” ever made any difference.

He knows Jon means well, knows that Jon cares, but Stephen also knows what he’s doing. He knows he can’t allow Jon to see any deeper than he already does; he can’t let him see how afraid he is, that he’s terrified of

snapping one day, of allowing his anger to swallow him whole, of being consumed by it, letting it run him, making him push things too far, making him violent, making him doubt himself.

losing his steam, of not being able to keep up the steady current of rage, of having to stop, slow down, being forced to think, to consider, making him wonder, making him doubt himself.

He can’t tell Jon what he needs; he can’t tell anyone. That secret is too shameful, too off-putting, too utterly mortifying. How would anyone react if they knew that he

wants to enforce the restrictions and boundaries he decries every day, to be in control, to dominate.

wants to be ruled by the restrictions and boundaries he claims he’s created, to be in someone else’s control, to submit.

Even if they didn’t react with disgust, with horror, or revulsion, what’s to stop him from taking it too far? He’d let it get out of hand, let on that he’s

drowning in greyscale.

trapped in the rigidity of black and white.

His reflection won’t judge him, at least, will give him the support he needs. He can get this out somewhere, in a way that’s safe. He knows it’s best this way, because after all, how horrible would it be if something changed, if he became someone new, someone who

never saw any nuance and missed the most important pieces of all?

saw nothing but nuance and missed the big picture entirely?

He looks again in the mirror, concentrating this time, because he needs to get on with the day, with his life. He needs to get ready, to start the illusion, and he’s expecting to see

a smile on his lips, the light in his eyes, knowing emotion is the key, that he’s better than everyone else (and he’ll tell them if they doubt it, because he’s worked hard to be elite, though of course it’s just so obvious).

his lips pursed into a firm line, his eyes expressing sternness, knowing that stoicism is the key, that he’s better than everyone else (not that he’d say so, because he’s a regular guy, but it’s just so obvious).

Instead he sees lines that shouldn’t be there, a weariness etched on his features. Why does he look tired, unsure, and possibly just the tiniest bit sad? It doesn’t make any sense. This isn’t the carefully crafted image he’s trying to show to others; this is something else entirely, something that exposes him for the

monster he is, with the bubbling anger simmering, surging abruptly and violently, waiting for the right moment to strike, to unleash itself, waiting for him to let it boil him alive.

sissy he is, with the near-freezing current of repressed emotion running through his veins, waiting for the right moment to seep out, to leak themselves, waiting for him to let it drown him entirely.

He knows that pretending isn’t exactly easy, but it’s necessary. He can’t show this kind of expression to the world, most certainly not; it gives far too much away. He won’t let it happen, not now, not ever. He’ll keep it in check if it kills him, and he thinks that is what it’s threatening to do, but he won’t let himself panic. The best response in this situation is

factiness, telling himself the facts of the matter, in a calm, disinterested tone, because surely that is the way to stop the churning of anger beneath the surface.

truthiness, telling himself over and over again that things are okay, because if he says it enough it will be, stopping any emotion bubbling up in its tracks.

Maybe the mirror isn’t helping him. Maybe he can’t trust his reflection after all. Instead of an ally, perhaps he’s a foe, someone who will betray his secrets, who will let slip that he’s living a lie, who will tell everyone that he doubts, sometimes, if he’s doing the right thing. Maybe his reflection is trying to trick him, trying to get him to confess.

He won't let it!

He won’t let it!

In an instant, the face in the mirror blurs, and maybe he’s seeing himself or a reflection of a self that has a resemblance but isn’t his—

because he would never use that much hair gel, or conform that rigidly to the ridiculous, constraining structures surrounding a man’s appearance.

because he would never let his hair get that wild, or refuse to shave for so long, because men were not supposed to run around looking like unwashed hippies.

—and then the mirror shatters. He manages to be surprised, even as the blood from his hand falls in perfect little droplets to the basin of the sink below, the bright red color contrasting sharply against the stark white of the porcelain.