Entry tags:

genre: fluff, illustrated, pairing: "stephen"/repression, pairing: jon'n'"stephen", series: fake news

Title: A Good Night's Sleep
Rating: PG (language)
Series: TDS/TCR
Disclaimer: This is a work of parody. Although reference is made to real persons and places, the dialog, actions, and content are products of the author's imagination only.

Summary: TDS goes on a road trip, and nobody wants to room with Stephen. Jon, who ends up stuck with him, finds out why.

Half ficlet, half comic; part fluff, part drama; all cute, all chibi, and all flag pajamas.





A Good Night's Sleep


Jon's leg twitched.

He was in an unfamiliar bed, on his first night in an unfamiliar city, and tomorrow he had to be awake enough to do his show on an unfamiliar stage, so naturally his body had no intention of allowing him to sleep. Every time he felt like he might be on the verge of actually drifting off, his leg muscles rebelled.

His mind was no help either. Oh, he was trying to use the unexpected free time to get some extra planning done, but his brain kept going back over the conversations that had led to Stephen's presence in the bed across from him.

"We could draw straws," he had suggested, trying to be placating. "Or pull names from a hat. Something completely random...."

"Well, you can count my name out," Chuck had replied instantly. "I'm not taking any chances."

Rob was right behind him: "Dibs on Ed as my roommate! No take-backs!"

"It can't be that bad," Jon had vainly protested, as the rest of the cast and crew scrambled to pair up with anyone but Stephen.

"If you really believe that," DJ had challenged, "why don't you just room with him?" And that, as they say, was that.

Jon had ordered himself not to let that kind of talk get to him. Sure enough, the worst that had happened so far was that Stephen had declared Jon's sleepwear insufficiently patriotic, and proceeded to turn a critical glare on the ensemble whenever he thought Jon wasn't looking.

And still Jon's mind insisted on worrying.

Get a grip, he told it firmly. He's out like a light. He isn't even snoring. What could possibly be so bad about this?

Right on cue, Stephen let out a moan.

I don't know, his brain replied, but you're probably about to find out.

Jon held his breath. For a moment, all was still; then another moan came from Stephen's bed, followed by a mumbled string of nonsense syllables, the unintelligible grammelot of the sleeptalker.

Okay, so he's a somniloquist. No big deal.

And for lack of anything better to do, Jon listened.


—


There was a rhythm to the not-quite-speech: a sense that it had a meaning just out of reach, like a conversation heard through the wall from the apartment next door. At first Jon tried to pick up patterns; then he stopped thinking about it and just let the feel of it roll over his ears. The effect was soothing. Hypnotic.

He had almost drifted off, for real this time, when a sharp and instantly recognizable syllable cut through the fog: "No!"

Jon groaned. So close.

Stephen, from the sound of it, was still fast asleep, his speech having settled back into meaningless patter. But it was a little faster now, a bit higher pitched, his breaths coming more rapidly....

Another "No!" broke in, and then a stream of them: "No, no, no, no, no—" and then another word: "Please!"

Worried now, Jon rolled out of bed and crossed the floor. "Stephen?"



No response.

Jon knelt next to the mattress. "Stephen. Hey, Stephen. Wake up. You're having a—"

One of Stephen's hands shot out and clutched a fistful of Jon's shirt.

"Ste—"

"Please," murmured Stephen, clear as day, "don't leave me."



"What...?"

"Don't," repeated Stephen, eyes still tightly shut, "please ... don't leave me alone...."

"I won't," said Jon, as soothingly as he could. "I'm going to be right in the other bed, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

And he tried to gently remove Stephen's hand.

"No!" The other man's grip tightened. Jon gave up on gentleness, but it was too late; it would have taken a crowbar to pry Stephen's fingers free now. "Stay, stay, please stay, please don't leave me again, please—"

"All right, all right!" exclaimed Jon, backing down out of reflex, even though Stephen probably didn't understand who he was talking to. "I'll stay with you. Don't worry. I'll ... here, scoot over just a little...."

He lifted the sheet and maneuvered himself onto the mattress beside Stephen—who, rather than allow Jon to push him aside, pulled them together, burying his face in the grey cotton of Jon's shirt.

"Or we could do this," conceded Jon. "I can work with that."

And he allowed Stephen to cuddle closer. Since there was no other place to put his arm, he wrapped it around Stephen's shoulders. It was surprisingly comforting. Like holding a stuffed animal, if Jon had ever known a giant, flag-patterned stuffed animal that wouldn't shut up.

"I should warn you," he said, softly now because Stephen's good ear was less than a foot from his lips, "I've got a bad case of the jimmy-legs tonight. If they bother you, just let me know and I'll leave."

"Stay," murmured Stephen.

Was he awake after all? "Hey," said Jon experimentally, "isn't that a bear?"

Stephen breathed softly against his shirt and made no reply.

"Just checking," said Jon, and closed his eyes.

His legs didn't twitch again all night.



—

The dawn sunlight was pouring into the room when Stephen's eyes drifted open.

They were Stephen's eyes, but it wasn't Stephen Colbert behind them. He wasn't afraid enough for that. He was warm, comfortable, well-rested yet still pleasantly half-asleep; and he was leaning against a reassuringly masculine chest while wrapped in someone's arms.

And so he was little Steve Col-bert all over again, the boy who wasn't brave enough to face his nightmares alone, but who didn't have to, because he could crawl into bed with his father or a sympathetic older brother and be kept safe.



And now morning had come. He had been safe all night long.

It was okay.

Except that it wasn't.

It wasn't, because his father had pronounced him a big boy who could sleep on his own at the age of six, and his brothers had started laughing at his fears soon afterwards, and anyway this wasn't somebody in his family, which meant he was cuddling up to some other man in a way that had to be mentioned somewhere in Leviticus, probably in the context of who you were supposed to stone—

The fear rushed in like a wave of cold seawater. Fear, as they say, leads to anger. And anger is the foundation of Stephen Colbert.

Stephen grabbed a corner of the sheet to hold it in place, drew back the rest of his limbs, and shoved as hard as he could.


—




Jon tore his eyes away, focused on a speck of dust dancing in the sunbeam around him.

"I guess I misjudged the situation," he said slowly. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again. But, listen, if you're not comfortable rooming with me, we can find someone else to—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" exclaimed Stephen. "That's what this is about? You're trying to weasel out of being my roommate?"

"I, uh...."

"Don't you play your little games with me, Jon Stewart! I'm on to you! You'll stay in this room for the whole trip, and you'll like it!"

"Um, okay."

"Except right now you have to be outside. I'm not having you in here while I get dressed."

And thus was Jon shoved into the hallway, with barely any clothing on himself, but with a deeper appreciation of what was so difficult about rooming with Stephen. Even if you managed to get a good night's sleep, you would still need another one to recover.