Work Text:
The heat of an early August afternoon in 1983 hangs heavy over Springfield, Oregon, thick with the scent of pine needles and the distant, metallic tang of the local mill. Inside the Simpson residence, the air is slightly cooler but no less dense, saturated with the savory, onion-heavy aroma of Jasper’s "special return-home goulash." Jasper Beardsley, sixty-five and moving with a deliberate, rhythmic grace, stands over the stove. He is humming a tune that feels like a ghost—something by The Ink Spots he hasn't heard on the radio in decades, a melody from a 1930s dance hall that exists now only in the back of his mind.
A sudden, sharp cry of pain shatters the domestic hum. It’s a guttural shout, ragged and familiar, tearing through the thin drywall from the living room. Jasper doesn't hesitate. He turns the burner down to a low simmer—safety first, even in a crisis—and wipes his hands on a flour-dusted apron. He moves toward the source of the sound, his heart thumping against his ribs.
In the living room, the light filters through yellowed lace curtains, illuminating dust motes and the worn, stained pink couch. Abraham Simpson, sixty-one years old and usually the picture of stubborn resilience, is doubled over on the floor. He’s crouching in the shadow of the sofa, his fingers digging into the shag carpet. His face is pale, a sheen of cold sweat matting his thinning hair. Jasper’s eyes drop instinctively. There, on the side of Abe’s trousers, is a darkening blotch of crimson. It’s a small, cruel betrayal of the body—a reminder of the plumbing that didn't change when the spirit did. Jasper lets out a soft, sympathetic sigh, his features softening from alarm into a weary, practiced tenderness.
"C'mon, baby," Jasper coos, his voice a low rumble as he reaches down. He places a steady hand on Abe’s shoulder, feeling the tension radiating through the fabric of his shirt. "Let's get you to the bathroom, and we'll fix everyth—"
"D'oh!" Abe grouses, his voice cracking with a mixture of agony and humiliation. He jerks his arm away, shaking Jasper off with a frantic, weak energy. "I am sixty-goddamn-one-years-old, Jasper! Sixty-one! If anything, I should be going through fucking menopause by now! It's been months—I thought the Vitamin T finally killed it off for good."
He tries to stand, but he hisses as a cramp ripples through his abdomen, forcing him back down. "I'm a total wreck, Jas! Look at me. Just divorce me and fuck off already. I’m a lousy husband to you, a lousy father to that boy at camp, and just... the worst possible attempt at being a man ever conceived."
Jasper doesn't flinch at the vitriol. He’s heard it before, usually on the days when the dysphoria and the physical pain conspire to rot Abe’s self-esteem. He kneels on the carpet, ignoring the protest of his own aging knees, and forces Abe to look at him.
"You are a wonderful man, Abraham," Jasper says firmly, emphasizing the name Abe had claimed for himself back in the early thirties, long before the world knew what to call someone like him. "I love you. Mona loves you—wherever the hell she is this week. And your son loves you. He doesn't see a 'wreck.' He sees his Dad."
Abe scoffs, but his eyes are moist. "Mona... yeah. Did you see that postcard today? The Swiss Alps. She's eating chocolate and dodging the law while I'm here bleeding through my pants in Oregon."
"She sent the Swiss chocolate for Homer, didn't she?" Jasper reminds him, gently hooking an arm under Abe’s to help him hoist upward. "And she sent that box of tea for your nerves. She’s doing what she thinks is right, but we’re the ones here for the boy. And speaking of that boy... he’s going to come running in through that ratty old screen door any minute. He’s been gone two months, Abe. He’s going to want to ramble to you and Jada until your ears fall off about camp and those two boys he mentioned in the letters. What were their names again?"
Abe leans into Jasper, finally allowing himself to be supported. He takes a shaky breath, the pain subsiding into a dull, heavy throb. "Lenny and Carl," he sighs begrudgingly. He knows what Jasper is doing—distracting him, anchoring him back to the reality of his life as a father—and he hates that it works so well. "One's a talker, the other's a thinker. Sounds like a couple of troublemakers if you ask me."
"Sounds like friends," Jasper counters with a small smile.
With slow, hitching steps, the two men navigate the hallway. Jasper is a pillar of patience. This is a dance they have performed since they were fifteen and nineteen, respectively—long before the mastectomy in Qatar, long before the legal marriage to Mona and the pagan ceremonies that truly bound them together in '42 and '72. Jasper has been the keeper of Abe’s secrets and the healer of his hidden wounds for nearly half a century.
Inside the small bathroom by the staircase, Jasper helps Abe through the clinical, intimate business of cleaning up. It’s a task devoid of ego; Jasper handles the supplies and the soiled laundry with a reverence that makes the "unmanly" reality feel like just another part of being alive. Abe doesn't get regular periods anymore—the testosterone has seen to that—but when they do strike, they arrive with a vengeful intensity that leaves him shattered.
Once Abe is cleaned up and changed into fresh clothes, Jasper leads him to the kitchen. He settles Abe into a chair at the linoleum table and produces a heavy, warm heating pack, pressing it gently against Abe’s midsection.
"Stay there," Jasper commands softly. "Drink your water. The goulash is almost done."
Abe sits, his hands resting over the heating pack. The kitchen is warm, filled with the comforting sounds of Jasper clinking a wooden spoon against the side of a pot. For a moment, the house is quiet. The trauma of the last hour begins to recede, replaced by the nervous anticipation of a parent waiting for a child’s return.
The silence doesn't last. The sound of the gravel driveway crunching under heavy tires signals the arrival of the camp bus. Moments later, the screen door doesn't just open—it explodes. Ten-year-old Homer Simpson bursts through the frame like a tropical storm. He is a whirlwind of grass stains, sun-faded denim, and pure, unadulterated energy. His backpack is half-unzipped, trailing a literal path of crumpled Bit-O-Honey wrappers and various "art projects" made of popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue across the floor.
"I'M BA-A-ACK!" Homer bellows, his voice cracking with the onset of puberty but retaining that high-pitched, childish enthusiasm.
Jasper is halfway around the kitchen island to greet him when Homer hits him like a linebacker. Sticky, grime-coated hands grip Jasper’s clean shirt.
"Jada! I missed you!" Homer shouts, burying his face in Jasper's apron. The nickname—the clumsy, affectionate portmanteau of Jasper and Dad the boy had invented when he was five—always makes Jasper’s heart skip a beat.
"Whoa—okay, kid, hygiene! Let's talk about soap," Jasper laughs, though he’s grinning ear to ear as he pries the boy off his chest.
Homer doesn't stop moving. He whirls around toward the table, his eyes wide and vibrating. "Dad? Jada? Did you see the bus? It had a flat tire in Eugene, and we had to wait for an hour, and Lenny tried to eat a ladybug! Did'ja miss me?”
"Like a toothache," Jasper mutters under his breath, but his hand is already buried in Homer’s messy hair, ruffling it with deep affection.
Abe watches from the table, his heart swelling in a way that makes him forget the cramps. "Sit down, Homer. Tell us about the camp. You mentioned these boys, Lenny and Carl?"
Homer pulls out a chair with a screech of metal on linoleum and flops into it. "Lenny’s my best friend now! He’s got two sisters, and they both hit him, but he doesn't care. And Carl’s also my best friend, he’s the smartest guy I ever met. He knows how to make a whistle out of a blade of grass! But Moe says—"
Abe blinks, his brow furrowing. He tries to recall the letters. "Who’s Moe? I don't remember a Moe in the postcards."
"Counselor," Homer says dismissively, as if it were common knowledge. "He’s cool. He’s got this car, and he lets us sit in it if we don't touch the radio. He’s not like those other teenagers who just want to talk about girls all the time. He says they’re all..." Homer stops, his face scrunching up as he tries to retrieve a complex word from his memory. "...sex... ob... ob-sessed?"
The kitchen goes deathly quiet. Jasper stops stirring the goulash, his spoon frozen in mid-air. He slowly raises his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, weary breath. Abe stares at his son, then looks toward the empty hallway as if expecting Mona to materialize and handle this. He realizes with a jolt that he is the one in the hot seat. The heating pack on his lap feels like a coal.
"Sex obsessed, huh?" Abe repeats, his voice flat. He looks at Jasper, who offers absolutely no help, merely staring into the depths of the goulash.
"Yeah!" Homer chirps, looking between his two fathers with an oblivious, expectant grin. "What’s it mean, Dad? Jada?"
Abe shifts in his seat, his abdomen twinging. He looks at his son’s innocent, expectant face—the face of the boy who just spent two months in the woods and came back smelling like sugar and dirt. It’s going to be a very long afternoon in Springfield.