Title: Creative Non-fiction (1/?)

Author: maritess342

Spoilers: a sideways reference to the concept of episode 5x11, GI Jeff

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, and everything belongs to the brilliant writers, crew, animators, and cast of Community.

Author's Notes: Angsty! But with some eventually J/A shippiness at the end (promise!)

The lying started the night he realized his father had walked out on them for good.

Jeffrey had heard the fights, the yelling, and the knockdown, dragged out screaming matches that had occasionally formed the night rituals at the Winger house. After supper, Mom would bathe him, dress him in pajamas, and send him to bed with a story and a kiss. Then, for what seemed like forever, there was quiet, peace and dark. Sometimes the night ended there, and Jeffrey would succumb to the warm, dark, illusory comfort of sleep between his GI Joe bed sheets. But sometimes, a 'snick' of a lock, a creak of an opening door, and the heavy 'thump-thump' of his father's unsteady boots tripping over the threshold would herald the oncoming storm of words between his mother and father.

On those nights, Jeffrey sought refuge in words, spinning stories and made-up truths into tales of heroism and valor, much like the stories he'd seen in cartoons. On those nights, he learned that if he tried hard enough, if he just made up stories and told them to himself in his room, he could ignore everything around him, he could be anyone and do anything, and he didn't have to be a scared young boy listening to his mom and dad fight on yet another night.

The fighting got worse, much worse, until one day, he heard his father's boots clomp angrily out of the house. Six months of silence followed- six months when the lock didn't turn, the door didn't open, and the boots of his father didn't cross over his house's threshold. It was after those six months of unbroken silence that Jeffrey realized the storm of words would never come again, and the sad quiet that would eventually make up his teenaged years began.

Before, he could drown the storm of his parents' angry words with secret story-telling. But now, young Jeffrey found that nothing filled the sad stillness of an empty home. The nightly ritual of supper, bath and pajamas stayed the same, but with his father gone, his mother had no heart for a story and a kiss, and young Jeffrey took notice.

Jeffrey's mother had just put him to bed when he squirmed nervously.

"Um, mom?" he asked.

"Yes, Jeffrey?" Jeffrey paused.

"What's black and white and red all over?"

Jeffrey's mom smiled. "I don't know, Jeffrey, what?"

Jeffrey snickered. "A blushing zebra."

Jeffrey quirked up his eyebrows expectantly.

Jeffrey's mother chuckled. "That's a good one, Jeffrey."

"Thanks, mom," he smiled. His mother turned to leave, and Jeffrey squirmed again. "Hey, mom?"

Jeffrey's mom turned back around.

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Banana."

"Banana who?"

Jeffrey bit back a grin. "

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Banana."

Jeffrey's mother laughed lightly. "Banana who?"

Jeffrey giggled. "Knock knock."

Jeffrey's mother sat on the bed. "Who's there?" she asked. Jeffrey's mother arched her eyebrows and mirrored her son's expectant expression.

"Orange."

"Orange who?" asked his mother indulgently.

Jeffrey paused. "Orangen't you glad I didn't say banana?"

Jeffrey's mother broke out into a wide smile. "Yes, I am glad," she said. "I'm glad my son is such a good joke teller," she said as she leaned down to kiss Jeffrey on the forehead. "But I also hope my son will get to sleep soon."

"I will, I promise," agreed Jeffrey. Jeffrey's fingers fisted and twisted his GI Joe sheets into wrinkles. "Hey, mom?"

"Yes, Jeffrey?" she asked. "How come . . . how come you don't tell me stories anymore?" he asked.

Jeffrey's mother sighed, and her shoulders drooped. "That's an interesting question, Jeffrey. Why do you ask?"

As Jeffrey's small hands worried the top of his flat sheet, the faces of the GI Joe heroes disappeared and reappeared from between his palms. "Well, I mean, long time ago, dad used to tuck me in with a story. And then, well, you started tucking me in with a story. But now . . . there's no more stories."

"I'm sorry, Jeffrey, your father had so many stories, and he loved to tell them. The stories I told you, I learned from him. But since he's . . . I've told all the stories I know, and I've run out of stories, Jeffrey. I'm sorry," she said. "But I love you, a lot. That hasn't changed, and never will," she said as she put her hand over his hands on top of his blanket. "I will always be here for you, story or no story. Do you understand?" Jeffrey nodded his head slowly. Jeffrey's mom leaned down, closed her eyes, and kissed her son on his forehead. Leaning back, she ran her hand over his brow, and the tips of her fingers ruffled his hair. "Time for bed, okay, Jeffrey?"

"Yes, mom," he replied. Jeffrey's mom leaned over to his nightstand and turned out the lights. She rose from his bed, and walked the dozen steps from her son to the door of the room. Jeffrey watched as she opened the door, and he saw his mother, in shadow, bathed in the light from the hallway. She paused in the doorway. "You don't mind, Jeffrey, that I don't tell the stories anymore?"

Jeffrey's heart squeezed painfully. The stories told by his father and mother had filled his dreams with adventure. A story about a pirate would fill his sleep with hours of thrill-laden, parrot-wearing fun, and a story about camels would cause his sleeping mind to be bathed in oceans of hot desert sand. Without the stories, Jeffrey faced the long, dark, quiet night alone with only his memories of the cartoons of daytime TV to fill the void.

He was about to answer when he took in the still-drooped shoulders of his mother as they were framed by the light of the door. In that moment, Jeff screwed up all of the courage in his young heart and made his first grown up decision. "No, mom, it's okay if there are no more stories," he replied softly. As he watched his mother's head bob up and down, a small piece of something inside the upper left quadrant of his ribcage shattered into pieces.

"Good night, Jeffrey," his mother called out.

"Good night, mom," he replied. Jeffrey's mother turned and nearly closed the door, leaving a sliver of space and light in the open crack.

Jeffrey closed his eyes and wondered if a lie was the same thing as a story.