Sticks and Stones
Aug. 16th, 2006 12:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stellarmeadowTITLE: Sticks and Stones
AUTHOR: Stellar Meadow
RATING: PG
STYLE: angst
STARRING DURAN: John, Simon
SUMMARY: John muses over some of the prices of fame.
NOTES: A piece of inspiration that hit at work this morning. Thanks to several people who I won't mention lest they get blamed for the encouragement on it!
DISCLAIMER: If you think this is real, I'd like you to say hello to my little friend, reality. I don't believe you've met....
John glanced at the tabloid one last time before carefully ripping the page out and balling it up. He tossed it across the room, aiming for the waste bin, but it missed. With a frustrated growl, he grabbed his lighter as he stood, crossing the room to pick up the paper by the bin.
He pulled at the balled up mess, straightening it into some semblance of a sheet again, looking at the pictures and the story one more time before flicking the lighter on and holding it to the corner of the page. The flames ate their way up the paper, devouring the words, then the pictures, and he watched a shot of him clinging to Simon's arm, grinning madly, turn into black ash. He took a perverse pleasure in the flames disintegrating both the wedding picture and the tabloid reporter's name at about the same time.
The flames licked at his fingers finally, and he dropped the rest in the empty waste bin and watched it die, leaving nothing but blackened bits of what used to be cheap paper, and an acrid smell that was still better than the stench of that rag they laughingly called a 'newspaper.'
Real newspapers dealt in facts, but apparently they thought all they needed to do was give themselves the title and that was enough. Rumors, innuendo and outright lies--that was what this rag dealt in.
Not that it mattered. People would believe it anyway.
He'd call his lawyers about a lawsuit in the morning. He had to; this kind of slander couldn't go unanswered, and only a lawsuit would even have a hope of convincing anyone the words printed in black and white were lies. People were so quick to believe everything they read. As if any of them really knew him. Hell, he didn't even know himself.
He sat back down and closed his eyes, but the headline danced in reverse image on his eyelids. "Rockstar Marriage a Sham! Caught in Gay Affair?"
His eyes blinked open, but he could still see it. The second part had been in somewhat smaller type, but it didn't diminish the impact. The article, of course, merely raised the question of the possibility that conceivably he and Simon had perhaps maybe been more than friends at some time without any sort of proof or without actually accusing them, but it wasn't as if any of the reporters camped outside his house had read that far.
And if anyone knew there was no proof he did. God knows he'd tried hard enough to change that. He'd nearly succeeded too, but then there'd been Yasmin, and no hope for him.
At least not for the present. Though the chances now were slim, thanks to that stupid bitch of a 'reporter'--fiction writer more like, and not a very good one at that. He hoped she enjoyed her paycheck and her attention while she got it, because once his lawyers were finished with her, she'd be just another unemployable hack. He'd make damn sure of that.
The phone rang, and he ran over to get it before it woke anyone up. He was ready for a fight and the unlucky reporter who had tracked down his number would be a good target. "What?"
"Well, now, is that any way to talk to your lover?"
"Oh, funny, Charlie. You think this is a joke?"
Simon's laughter tickled John's ear, even through the phone. "As a matter of fact," he said, far too cheerily, "I do."
"Well, I'm glad it's given you a laugh. You didn't have to explain it to Amanda."
"What's to explain?"
"With her? Everything."
He felt the pause before Simon spoke again. "Who cares what some fish wrapper says?" he said, softly, seriously. "It never bothered us before, Johnny."
"We didn't have any responsibility then."
"It's not Amanda you're worried about explaining this to."
Nail on the head, as usual. "Aren't you worried about what to say if your girls ask about this?"
"Are you serious? We discussed it over breakfast. Had a right laugh and told Amber to do the same to anyone who said a word at school."
"You really think she's going to be able to blow it off like that?"
"She has perfected her mother's disdainful glare to an art form."
John held out the phone and stared at it for a second before putting it back to his ear. "How can you take this so carelessly?"
"People are going to say what they're going to say," Simon said. "You know that. You always did."
"It's different now."
"How? The people who know us are all that matters. And they know better."
John sighed. "Maybe on your end."
"If they don't know better, then they don't know you."
Maybe they know me better than you do, he thought. "You have more faith than I do," he said aloud.
"No, I just care less about what people think."
"I don't care--"
"Yes, you do." Simon's voice held a hint of something now that John didn't recognize. "Go to bed, Johnny. Don't worry about it anymore tonight."
"Easy for you to say."
His laughter sounded again. "There's nothing you can do tonight. Get up in the morning and call your barristers."
"Won't you have already talked to them?"
"Yes, but they'll want your side of the story, I'm sure."
"So it's not important, but you're calling the lawyers anyway?"
Simon's sigh seemed to echo across the line. "I'm not calling them because it's important to me."
"See? It does matter to the girls."
"I'm not calling them for the girls. Or for Yasmin."
"But--"
"Go to bed, John. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
John took a deep breath. "All right. Goodnight."
"Sweet dreams...baby."
John heard a kissing noise, and Simon's chuckles as he rang off. He should've been annoyed, but he couldn't manage it. He thought maybe he could even sleep now--as Simon had said, there was nothing he could do. Well, he could stay up a few more hours and call the barristers in London, but he rather thought that might be best done with at least a little sleep. Besides, this way Simon got to tell them everything first, and he could just follow along after.
"Daddy?"
He looked up to see his daughter standing in the doorway to the living room. "What's wrong, baby?"
"I couldn't sleep with all those people outside," she said, stumbling her way across the room as only a three-year-old can, stuffed rabbit's ear in hand, the rest of said rabbit dragging along behind her. "Make them go away."
Said with all the power of a child who still thinks her father can move mountains. "They'll go away soon," he said, pulling her up onto the couch and into his lap. "Let's sit here a while where we can't hear them, okay?"
"Okay." He'd chosen this room to sit in precisely because he couldn't hear the noise of the vultures milling about outside with their cameras and tape recorders, waiting for him to emerge. It hadn't occurred to him that his daughter's room was at the front of the house and they might wake her.
He felt a surge of renewed anger at them, even as he held her closer to his chest, listening as she fell asleep again, baby-soft breath warm and comforting against his neck. She was so sweet and innocent, and he wondered if anyone at that rag had even given her a moment's thought when they'd set out to do a hatchet job on him.
He doubted it. They probably ate their young.
He felt her warmth seeping through him, calming him, reminding him of what mattered. Of the people who mattered. Simon was right--they'd either laugh it off, or they didn't know either of them very well at all.
And that went for family as well as friends, he thought, remembering the earlier argument with his wife.
Which was something else to worry about in the morning, after a little sleep. He leaned back into the corner of the couch, careful not to wake his little girl, and closed his eyes to try to sleep.
---
END
AUTHOR: Stellar Meadow
RATING: PG
STYLE: angst
STARRING DURAN: John, Simon
SUMMARY: John muses over some of the prices of fame.
NOTES: A piece of inspiration that hit at work this morning. Thanks to several people who I won't mention lest they get blamed for the encouragement on it!
DISCLAIMER: If you think this is real, I'd like you to say hello to my little friend, reality. I don't believe you've met....
John glanced at the tabloid one last time before carefully ripping the page out and balling it up. He tossed it across the room, aiming for the waste bin, but it missed. With a frustrated growl, he grabbed his lighter as he stood, crossing the room to pick up the paper by the bin.
He pulled at the balled up mess, straightening it into some semblance of a sheet again, looking at the pictures and the story one more time before flicking the lighter on and holding it to the corner of the page. The flames ate their way up the paper, devouring the words, then the pictures, and he watched a shot of him clinging to Simon's arm, grinning madly, turn into black ash. He took a perverse pleasure in the flames disintegrating both the wedding picture and the tabloid reporter's name at about the same time.
The flames licked at his fingers finally, and he dropped the rest in the empty waste bin and watched it die, leaving nothing but blackened bits of what used to be cheap paper, and an acrid smell that was still better than the stench of that rag they laughingly called a 'newspaper.'
Real newspapers dealt in facts, but apparently they thought all they needed to do was give themselves the title and that was enough. Rumors, innuendo and outright lies--that was what this rag dealt in.
Not that it mattered. People would believe it anyway.
He'd call his lawyers about a lawsuit in the morning. He had to; this kind of slander couldn't go unanswered, and only a lawsuit would even have a hope of convincing anyone the words printed in black and white were lies. People were so quick to believe everything they read. As if any of them really knew him. Hell, he didn't even know himself.
He sat back down and closed his eyes, but the headline danced in reverse image on his eyelids. "Rockstar Marriage a Sham! Caught in Gay Affair?"
His eyes blinked open, but he could still see it. The second part had been in somewhat smaller type, but it didn't diminish the impact. The article, of course, merely raised the question of the possibility that conceivably he and Simon had perhaps maybe been more than friends at some time without any sort of proof or without actually accusing them, but it wasn't as if any of the reporters camped outside his house had read that far.
And if anyone knew there was no proof he did. God knows he'd tried hard enough to change that. He'd nearly succeeded too, but then there'd been Yasmin, and no hope for him.
At least not for the present. Though the chances now were slim, thanks to that stupid bitch of a 'reporter'--fiction writer more like, and not a very good one at that. He hoped she enjoyed her paycheck and her attention while she got it, because once his lawyers were finished with her, she'd be just another unemployable hack. He'd make damn sure of that.
The phone rang, and he ran over to get it before it woke anyone up. He was ready for a fight and the unlucky reporter who had tracked down his number would be a good target. "What?"
"Well, now, is that any way to talk to your lover?"
"Oh, funny, Charlie. You think this is a joke?"
Simon's laughter tickled John's ear, even through the phone. "As a matter of fact," he said, far too cheerily, "I do."
"Well, I'm glad it's given you a laugh. You didn't have to explain it to Amanda."
"What's to explain?"
"With her? Everything."
He felt the pause before Simon spoke again. "Who cares what some fish wrapper says?" he said, softly, seriously. "It never bothered us before, Johnny."
"We didn't have any responsibility then."
"It's not Amanda you're worried about explaining this to."
Nail on the head, as usual. "Aren't you worried about what to say if your girls ask about this?"
"Are you serious? We discussed it over breakfast. Had a right laugh and told Amber to do the same to anyone who said a word at school."
"You really think she's going to be able to blow it off like that?"
"She has perfected her mother's disdainful glare to an art form."
John held out the phone and stared at it for a second before putting it back to his ear. "How can you take this so carelessly?"
"People are going to say what they're going to say," Simon said. "You know that. You always did."
"It's different now."
"How? The people who know us are all that matters. And they know better."
John sighed. "Maybe on your end."
"If they don't know better, then they don't know you."
Maybe they know me better than you do, he thought. "You have more faith than I do," he said aloud.
"No, I just care less about what people think."
"I don't care--"
"Yes, you do." Simon's voice held a hint of something now that John didn't recognize. "Go to bed, Johnny. Don't worry about it anymore tonight."
"Easy for you to say."
His laughter sounded again. "There's nothing you can do tonight. Get up in the morning and call your barristers."
"Won't you have already talked to them?"
"Yes, but they'll want your side of the story, I'm sure."
"So it's not important, but you're calling the lawyers anyway?"
Simon's sigh seemed to echo across the line. "I'm not calling them because it's important to me."
"See? It does matter to the girls."
"I'm not calling them for the girls. Or for Yasmin."
"But--"
"Go to bed, John. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
John took a deep breath. "All right. Goodnight."
"Sweet dreams...baby."
John heard a kissing noise, and Simon's chuckles as he rang off. He should've been annoyed, but he couldn't manage it. He thought maybe he could even sleep now--as Simon had said, there was nothing he could do. Well, he could stay up a few more hours and call the barristers in London, but he rather thought that might be best done with at least a little sleep. Besides, this way Simon got to tell them everything first, and he could just follow along after.
"Daddy?"
He looked up to see his daughter standing in the doorway to the living room. "What's wrong, baby?"
"I couldn't sleep with all those people outside," she said, stumbling her way across the room as only a three-year-old can, stuffed rabbit's ear in hand, the rest of said rabbit dragging along behind her. "Make them go away."
Said with all the power of a child who still thinks her father can move mountains. "They'll go away soon," he said, pulling her up onto the couch and into his lap. "Let's sit here a while where we can't hear them, okay?"
"Okay." He'd chosen this room to sit in precisely because he couldn't hear the noise of the vultures milling about outside with their cameras and tape recorders, waiting for him to emerge. It hadn't occurred to him that his daughter's room was at the front of the house and they might wake her.
He felt a surge of renewed anger at them, even as he held her closer to his chest, listening as she fell asleep again, baby-soft breath warm and comforting against his neck. She was so sweet and innocent, and he wondered if anyone at that rag had even given her a moment's thought when they'd set out to do a hatchet job on him.
He doubted it. They probably ate their young.
He felt her warmth seeping through him, calming him, reminding him of what mattered. Of the people who mattered. Simon was right--they'd either laugh it off, or they didn't know either of them very well at all.
And that went for family as well as friends, he thought, remembering the earlier argument with his wife.
Which was something else to worry about in the morning, after a little sleep. He leaned back into the corner of the couch, careful not to wake his little girl, and closed his eyes to try to sleep.
---
END
