I'd've Baked a Cake 2/14
Title: I'd've Baked a Cake
Author: SCWLC
Disclaimer: If I owned Stephen I'd keep him dressed in nothing but a loincloth for my personal amusement. Sadly, I don't. Nor do I own anything else you might recognise.
Rating: PG, this may change in time.
Summary: Stephen and Connor meet for the first time under unusual circumstances and it forges a very important friendship. AU
Notes: Bleh, I hate calculating relative school ages. If Connor's in year X, then Stephen's in year Y of university, unless this one has to be that age, in which case it goes the other way, but . . . feh, I tell you. I'm tempted to mess with time and pretend they're both whatever age I need them to be at any given time. Stupid time not being a little more relative and a little less linear. I've picked a title out of desperation, mostly thanks to Fred Penner. I hate titling.
******************************************
Torquay, Devon, 1992
Oddly enough, Stephen had discovered over their minimum ten letters that he rather liked Connor. Sure the other teenager was oddly naive and simplistic at times, but he could have a very biting sense of humour about the world around him, and in his desire to become a paleontologist had read a lot of books about dinosaurs and skeletal anatomy that he'd not only helped Stephen settle on a final project for his biology classes, he'd helped along the way with some references and helpful suggestions for approaching the topic.
It was fairly clear that Connor was maybe a year or two younger than Stephen, possibly a little learning disabled, which would account for the clearly irritating Olive Murphy badgering the poor lad. Connor was very unenthused about being 'special' and having his teacher point it out to the class. Stephen really couldn't blame him.
This was the last letter he had to read, he'd already said his farewells in the previous one and expected the same from Connor here.
Dear Stephen,
I hate to start like this, but you said something in your last letter about babysitting your cousin's kids. How old are you, Stephen? Because I think someone made a mistake in the offices with our letters. I guess I was so happy to be talking to someone who didn't treat me like I'm stupid because of my age, or like the other kids in my class at school who think I'm weird because I read, at all, I didn't think too hard about things.
Because I think you're a teenager, Stephen, and I'm not. I'm nine, and I was eight when we started writing. I don't I hope that, whatever happens you don't get angry with me, because it's not my fault we can still be friends get along. Either way, thank you for giving me someone who isn't stupid or annoying to talk to for the past couple months.
If you want to write to me still, I've written my address at the bottom of the letter, but you don't have to. If I'm wrong and misunderstood something, please tell me, because it'd be really nice to have a friend to talk to about books and things.
Sincerely,
Connor
Stephen stared. This was . . . it changed everything, not least of which, because it meant that, far from being learning disabled, Connor was clearly one of those effing genius children if he could sound like a teenager enough for Stephen to think he was one. Unless it was a practical joke.
That afternoon he went to the library, tracking down a telephone number from the address Connor had given him. He collected a passel of spare change and headed for a pay phone on a street corner. He didn't want to make a long distance call from home, because he didn't want his parents to get involved in this. They were both PhDs in separate fields, insisted on dinner conversation that was about politics and academics all the time, and when they saw the charges on the phone bill, they would be curious about all this, and possibly unhappy. Or they'd rush off to adopt Connor from his family and forget all about Stephen, who's grades tended to be merely in the high 80s, rather than the expected high 90s.
Plunking coin after coin into the slot, Stephen took a deep breath and dialled the number he'd found. The phone rang, once, twice, three times, "Temple residence," said a cheerful female voice on the other end.
"Er . . . hi," he said, suddenly unsure of what the hell he ought to be saying. "I'm . . . er . . . is Connor home?"
His nerves had got his voice pitched higher than usual, and that must have been enough to allay any worries from the woman, who shouted, "Conn! One of your school friends is on the phone for you!"
There was thumping and shuffling and the sounds of a receiver changing hands along with an admonition not to take too long. "Hello?" said a curious and young-sounding voice on the other end.
A deep breath. "Connor? It's Stephen. Hart. I just got your letter."
"Stephen?" Connor sounded utterly incredulous. "How'd you get our number?"
"They keep indices in the library of telephone numbers that are associated with addresses," he said. "It's like a sort of reverse telephone directory."
"Oh," Connor sounded intrigued. "I'll have to look at that the next time I'm at the library here. Maybe they have one." Then he paused a moment. "I was right, wasn't I?" His voice dropped to a whisper, making Stephen suspect Connor's parents were listening in. "You are a lot older than me."
"Yeah," he said. "I just . . . I called because . . . I guess I was worried it was some sort of weird prank. I really did think you were about fourteen or fifteen, maybe."
Connor laughed a little. "I just thought I'd finally found someone my age who wasn't stupid."
"Connor Jacob Temple!" came the female voice in the background, "I don't want to hear you talking like that again! Do you understand?"
"Yes, mum," Connor said. Stephen could almost hear an eyeroll. "Look, if you don't want to exchange letters any more, that's fine. I just . . . there aren't many people who'll talk to me about anything. Especially Doctor Who," he added mischievously. "I did take your advice and . . . er . . ." his voice dropped to a whisper again, "Cultivated Carl MacDonald. We've got ahold of tapes and tapes and tapes and we're watching them on his parents' player."
"Which episodes?" Stephen asked, curiously. Connor hadn't know who Who was, but at Stephen's urging had managed to find a single copy of a tape in his local library and had seen the one episode. The next letter had been filled with enthusiasm, and Stephen admitted to himself that it was nice to talk to someone about the show who wouldn't go on about
how Tom Baker or whomever was so much better.
Connor eagerly told him and Stephen good-naturedly grumbled about how Connor had got ahold of rare episodes and soon found himself teasing Connor the way his older brother would tease him. They lost track of time, and suddenly the phone was informing him he needed to add more change to continue his call.
"Stephen?" Connor asked.
Stephen cursed, then heard Connor laugh in delight. "Sorry, I'm on a pay phone because I didn't want my parents to get angry over the phone bill. You know, I think I will write," he said over the irritating voice on the line, just before it hung up on him due to lack of funds.
***************************
Miller's Field, 1997
Connor knew he seemed a tad ridiculous as he waited anxiously for Stephen's latest letter. He'd never told his mum and dad that Stephen was eight years older than he was, just letting them think he was another boy his own age. As time passed, though, Stephen had become more important. He was a window to a world away from a world that got harder for Connor every year.
The garage had gone under, a new one from a big chain appearing a few towns over, and no one wanted to go to the small local one any more. Harry Temple had been forced to take a factory job, something that had hurt his pride and he took it all out on the son who didn't like football or rugby, who saved up his birthday money, money from a part time job at the post office and what little his parents gave him for a computer that was fancier than anything anyone else in town had. He didn't understand the hours of work it took Connor to learn to use it and program it and play it like a fine instrument, and what he'd tolerated before, he couldn't take now.
Connor curled up in his bedroom, away from his father's uncertain temper and his mother's attempts to make it sound like it was okay for her youngest to feel the back of his father's hand from time to time. He just had to hang on a little longer, and then he'd be able to leave. A couple years wasn't so long. College would get him out of Miller's Field and from there it'd be an easy step to university. And even if he didn't make it to uni, at least he'd be out.
Dear Connor,
It's a little nerve wracking these days, trying to find myself a professor to attach myself to so that I can get a doctorate. I can't believe I let you convince me to go into biochemistry and theoretical biological sciences. I do think I've found someone. I have an interview in a few days, anyhow. It's a woman, Dr. Helen Cutter. She's a little unorthodox, but at least that means there's less competition that way. I dread to imagine what it must be like to set your sights on someone like Dr. Cuthbert.
Are you looking forward to year 9? I know you were planning on getting to college after, just in case, which is utterly ridiculous, because you're quite smart enough not to need that sort of fallback, but I've been looking around, and there are a few colleges about that would make a decent stepping stone to uni.
Enough of that, I know I hated it when everyone insisted on giving me helpful advice right before university and I can't imagine you want me harping on it any more than I wanted my older brother doing it to me. I recalled you'd missed the Doctor Who television film last year, and it took me months, but I've found a copy. I'll mail it to you once I've had a chance to watch it one more time.
Hopefully --
But Connor didn't find out what Stephen was hoping, because a heavy hand landed hard on his cheek, sending him sprawling. "Of course I find you up here, instead of helping your mum or working or doing anything useful."
"It's just a letter from Stephen, Dad," Connor protested, scrambling backwards. His father was weaving on his feet, pissed and pissed off.
Continuing as though Connor hadn't said anything, Harry Temple continued, "Bloody faffing about on that stupid computer of yours, as though your bloody internet and dinosaurs were something important. Why can't you be more like your brother? Dependable, normal, you're not even interested in girls."
"They're not interested in me," Connor muttered rebelliously. He was interested in girls, but no one wanted to go out with the dinosaur nut who'd never outgrown t-rexes like a normal person.
"If you weren't prancing around like a bloody ponce with your fancy words and all, they might be," his dad said repressively. "The least you could do is get a real job, not that silliness over at the post office."
"Uncle Farley might object to that," Connor said dryly, speaking of his uncle who worked at a central branch post office. It was the wrong thing to say, and the sight of his father's apoplectic rage made him almost grateful that he went spinning into his desk headfirst, first thing.
When he woke up, he hurt in places he hadn't known he had. His mother was leaning over him, her face concerned. For one moment, he thought she might finally take his side, might do something. "Well, if you hadn't cheeked him, you wouldn't be in these straits now, would you?" she said sharply. "Oh, get into bed and I'll bring you some ice." She swept off, and Connor crawled into his bed, stifling tears. He wasn't ashamed, but all it would do is bring down more of his father's rage on his head.
He was hurting so much he felt ill at suppertime, and he faked sleep, just hoping no one would try shaking him awake. His father made a disgusted sound, but left him alone.
Staring around his room, Connor's eyes fell on Stephen's letter, now torn up on the floor.
With a sudden sense of resolve, he dragged himself to his feet, collected his laptop computer he'd saved a year for, discs and discs of data that he'd slowly been turning into a dinosaur database, starting two years before, thought regretfully of the last few exams he'd be missing, but he'd knew that, even with a zero grade on them, he'd passed all his classes.
Everything was a fog of red-tinged pain, his left leg stabbing him with every step, his right ribs' ache increasing with every breath, he was fairly certain he had a massive bruise on his face and he forced himself to not think about it, because the more he thought about it, the more it hurt. Instead he limped his way to the train station, his rucksack a painful weight on his shoulders, and spent money he'd been saving up for something that wasn't a train ticket, on a series of tickets that would get him to his destination.
The trains he had to switch over on, from one to the next, were torment. He couldn't move quickly and was terrified he wouldn't make it and be stranded halfway with no money. It was two in the morning when he got where he was going, pounding on the door of the flat, praying this wasn't the stupidest thing he'd ever done.
A shirtless man, half-closed blue eyes and messy light brown hair answered the door. "It's two in the fucking morning, this had better be . . . Connor?"
"Hey, Stephen," he said. Then for the second time in twenty-four hours, Connor passed out, collapsing on Stephen's doorstep.
Part 1
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Author: SCWLC
Disclaimer: If I owned Stephen I'd keep him dressed in nothing but a loincloth for my personal amusement. Sadly, I don't. Nor do I own anything else you might recognise.
Rating: PG, this may change in time.
Summary: Stephen and Connor meet for the first time under unusual circumstances and it forges a very important friendship. AU
Notes: Bleh, I hate calculating relative school ages. If Connor's in year X, then Stephen's in year Y of university, unless this one has to be that age, in which case it goes the other way, but . . . feh, I tell you. I'm tempted to mess with time and pretend they're both whatever age I need them to be at any given time. Stupid time not being a little more relative and a little less linear. I've picked a title out of desperation, mostly thanks to Fred Penner. I hate titling.
******************************************
Torquay, Devon, 1992
Oddly enough, Stephen had discovered over their minimum ten letters that he rather liked Connor. Sure the other teenager was oddly naive and simplistic at times, but he could have a very biting sense of humour about the world around him, and in his desire to become a paleontologist had read a lot of books about dinosaurs and skeletal anatomy that he'd not only helped Stephen settle on a final project for his biology classes, he'd helped along the way with some references and helpful suggestions for approaching the topic.
It was fairly clear that Connor was maybe a year or two younger than Stephen, possibly a little learning disabled, which would account for the clearly irritating Olive Murphy badgering the poor lad. Connor was very unenthused about being 'special' and having his teacher point it out to the class. Stephen really couldn't blame him.
This was the last letter he had to read, he'd already said his farewells in the previous one and expected the same from Connor here.
Dear Stephen,
I hate to start like this, but you said something in your last letter about babysitting your cousin's kids. How old are you, Stephen? Because I think someone made a mistake in the offices with our letters. I guess I was so happy to be talking to someone who didn't treat me like I'm stupid because of my age, or like the other kids in my class at school who think I'm weird because I read, at all, I didn't think too hard about things.
Because I think you're a teenager, Stephen, and I'm not. I'm nine, and I was eight when we started writing. I don't I hope that, whatever happens you don't get angry with me, because it's not my fault we can still be friends get along. Either way, thank you for giving me someone who isn't stupid or annoying to talk to for the past couple months.
If you want to write to me still, I've written my address at the bottom of the letter, but you don't have to. If I'm wrong and misunderstood something, please tell me, because it'd be really nice to have a friend to talk to about books and things.
Sincerely,
Connor
Stephen stared. This was . . . it changed everything, not least of which, because it meant that, far from being learning disabled, Connor was clearly one of those effing genius children if he could sound like a teenager enough for Stephen to think he was one. Unless it was a practical joke.
That afternoon he went to the library, tracking down a telephone number from the address Connor had given him. He collected a passel of spare change and headed for a pay phone on a street corner. He didn't want to make a long distance call from home, because he didn't want his parents to get involved in this. They were both PhDs in separate fields, insisted on dinner conversation that was about politics and academics all the time, and when they saw the charges on the phone bill, they would be curious about all this, and possibly unhappy. Or they'd rush off to adopt Connor from his family and forget all about Stephen, who's grades tended to be merely in the high 80s, rather than the expected high 90s.
Plunking coin after coin into the slot, Stephen took a deep breath and dialled the number he'd found. The phone rang, once, twice, three times, "Temple residence," said a cheerful female voice on the other end.
"Er . . . hi," he said, suddenly unsure of what the hell he ought to be saying. "I'm . . . er . . . is Connor home?"
His nerves had got his voice pitched higher than usual, and that must have been enough to allay any worries from the woman, who shouted, "Conn! One of your school friends is on the phone for you!"
There was thumping and shuffling and the sounds of a receiver changing hands along with an admonition not to take too long. "Hello?" said a curious and young-sounding voice on the other end.
A deep breath. "Connor? It's Stephen. Hart. I just got your letter."
"Stephen?" Connor sounded utterly incredulous. "How'd you get our number?"
"They keep indices in the library of telephone numbers that are associated with addresses," he said. "It's like a sort of reverse telephone directory."
"Oh," Connor sounded intrigued. "I'll have to look at that the next time I'm at the library here. Maybe they have one." Then he paused a moment. "I was right, wasn't I?" His voice dropped to a whisper, making Stephen suspect Connor's parents were listening in. "You are a lot older than me."
"Yeah," he said. "I just . . . I called because . . . I guess I was worried it was some sort of weird prank. I really did think you were about fourteen or fifteen, maybe."
Connor laughed a little. "I just thought I'd finally found someone my age who wasn't stupid."
"Connor Jacob Temple!" came the female voice in the background, "I don't want to hear you talking like that again! Do you understand?"
"Yes, mum," Connor said. Stephen could almost hear an eyeroll. "Look, if you don't want to exchange letters any more, that's fine. I just . . . there aren't many people who'll talk to me about anything. Especially Doctor Who," he added mischievously. "I did take your advice and . . . er . . ." his voice dropped to a whisper again, "Cultivated Carl MacDonald. We've got ahold of tapes and tapes and tapes and we're watching them on his parents' player."
"Which episodes?" Stephen asked, curiously. Connor hadn't know who Who was, but at Stephen's urging had managed to find a single copy of a tape in his local library and had seen the one episode. The next letter had been filled with enthusiasm, and Stephen admitted to himself that it was nice to talk to someone about the show who wouldn't go on about
how Tom Baker or whomever was so much better.
Connor eagerly told him and Stephen good-naturedly grumbled about how Connor had got ahold of rare episodes and soon found himself teasing Connor the way his older brother would tease him. They lost track of time, and suddenly the phone was informing him he needed to add more change to continue his call.
"Stephen?" Connor asked.
Stephen cursed, then heard Connor laugh in delight. "Sorry, I'm on a pay phone because I didn't want my parents to get angry over the phone bill. You know, I think I will write," he said over the irritating voice on the line, just before it hung up on him due to lack of funds.
***************************
Miller's Field, 1997
Connor knew he seemed a tad ridiculous as he waited anxiously for Stephen's latest letter. He'd never told his mum and dad that Stephen was eight years older than he was, just letting them think he was another boy his own age. As time passed, though, Stephen had become more important. He was a window to a world away from a world that got harder for Connor every year.
The garage had gone under, a new one from a big chain appearing a few towns over, and no one wanted to go to the small local one any more. Harry Temple had been forced to take a factory job, something that had hurt his pride and he took it all out on the son who didn't like football or rugby, who saved up his birthday money, money from a part time job at the post office and what little his parents gave him for a computer that was fancier than anything anyone else in town had. He didn't understand the hours of work it took Connor to learn to use it and program it and play it like a fine instrument, and what he'd tolerated before, he couldn't take now.
Connor curled up in his bedroom, away from his father's uncertain temper and his mother's attempts to make it sound like it was okay for her youngest to feel the back of his father's hand from time to time. He just had to hang on a little longer, and then he'd be able to leave. A couple years wasn't so long. College would get him out of Miller's Field and from there it'd be an easy step to university. And even if he didn't make it to uni, at least he'd be out.
Dear Connor,
It's a little nerve wracking these days, trying to find myself a professor to attach myself to so that I can get a doctorate. I can't believe I let you convince me to go into biochemistry and theoretical biological sciences. I do think I've found someone. I have an interview in a few days, anyhow. It's a woman, Dr. Helen Cutter. She's a little unorthodox, but at least that means there's less competition that way. I dread to imagine what it must be like to set your sights on someone like Dr. Cuthbert.
Are you looking forward to year 9? I know you were planning on getting to college after, just in case, which is utterly ridiculous, because you're quite smart enough not to need that sort of fallback, but I've been looking around, and there are a few colleges about that would make a decent stepping stone to uni.
Enough of that, I know I hated it when everyone insisted on giving me helpful advice right before university and I can't imagine you want me harping on it any more than I wanted my older brother doing it to me. I recalled you'd missed the Doctor Who television film last year, and it took me months, but I've found a copy. I'll mail it to you once I've had a chance to watch it one more time.
Hopefully --
But Connor didn't find out what Stephen was hoping, because a heavy hand landed hard on his cheek, sending him sprawling. "Of course I find you up here, instead of helping your mum or working or doing anything useful."
"It's just a letter from Stephen, Dad," Connor protested, scrambling backwards. His father was weaving on his feet, pissed and pissed off.
Continuing as though Connor hadn't said anything, Harry Temple continued, "Bloody faffing about on that stupid computer of yours, as though your bloody internet and dinosaurs were something important. Why can't you be more like your brother? Dependable, normal, you're not even interested in girls."
"They're not interested in me," Connor muttered rebelliously. He was interested in girls, but no one wanted to go out with the dinosaur nut who'd never outgrown t-rexes like a normal person.
"If you weren't prancing around like a bloody ponce with your fancy words and all, they might be," his dad said repressively. "The least you could do is get a real job, not that silliness over at the post office."
"Uncle Farley might object to that," Connor said dryly, speaking of his uncle who worked at a central branch post office. It was the wrong thing to say, and the sight of his father's apoplectic rage made him almost grateful that he went spinning into his desk headfirst, first thing.
When he woke up, he hurt in places he hadn't known he had. His mother was leaning over him, her face concerned. For one moment, he thought she might finally take his side, might do something. "Well, if you hadn't cheeked him, you wouldn't be in these straits now, would you?" she said sharply. "Oh, get into bed and I'll bring you some ice." She swept off, and Connor crawled into his bed, stifling tears. He wasn't ashamed, but all it would do is bring down more of his father's rage on his head.
He was hurting so much he felt ill at suppertime, and he faked sleep, just hoping no one would try shaking him awake. His father made a disgusted sound, but left him alone.
Staring around his room, Connor's eyes fell on Stephen's letter, now torn up on the floor.
With a sudden sense of resolve, he dragged himself to his feet, collected his laptop computer he'd saved a year for, discs and discs of data that he'd slowly been turning into a dinosaur database, starting two years before, thought regretfully of the last few exams he'd be missing, but he'd knew that, even with a zero grade on them, he'd passed all his classes.
Everything was a fog of red-tinged pain, his left leg stabbing him with every step, his right ribs' ache increasing with every breath, he was fairly certain he had a massive bruise on his face and he forced himself to not think about it, because the more he thought about it, the more it hurt. Instead he limped his way to the train station, his rucksack a painful weight on his shoulders, and spent money he'd been saving up for something that wasn't a train ticket, on a series of tickets that would get him to his destination.
The trains he had to switch over on, from one to the next, were torment. He couldn't move quickly and was terrified he wouldn't make it and be stranded halfway with no money. It was two in the morning when he got where he was going, pounding on the door of the flat, praying this wasn't the stupidest thing he'd ever done.
A shirtless man, half-closed blue eyes and messy light brown hair answered the door. "It's two in the fucking morning, this had better be . . . Connor?"
"Hey, Stephen," he said. Then for the second time in twenty-four hours, Connor passed out, collapsing on Stephen's doorstep.
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