ptahrrific: Jon and Stephen, "Believe in the me who believes in you" (fake news)
Erin Ptah ([personal profile] ptahrrific) wrote2013-08-28 05:52 pm

Fake News | Jon/"Stephen", Olivia, Wyatt | through PG-13 | Prompt Ficlets 4

A sequence of TDS/TCR ficlets written for prompts at [community profile] punditfic and [livejournal.com profile] fakenews_fanfic.

Blanket Disclaimer: #NotIntendedToBeAFactualStatement. Characters belong to the Report. Names of real people are used in a fictitious context, and all dialogue, actions, and content are products of the author's imagination only.


Title: Worldly Pleasures
Rating: PG-13
Cast: Jon/"Stephen"
Prompt: courtesy the Homolust Challenge Generator: "A racist monk + a clumsy stripper in a lab. They are frenemies. It must involve spanking."


There are, broadly speaking, three kinds of ways people look at Jon when he's on stage. The open, enthusiastic cheer of someone who's here to enjoy themselves and comfortable with that. The furtive, desperate hunger of someone who doesn't think they're supposed to be here, but couldn't keep denying themselves everything. And the amusement, from good-natured to jeering, of people who think it's hilarious when he trips over his own heels.

The man in the robe with the shaved head isn't doing any of the above. His eyes are dark and intense and don't seem to blink enough behind those rimless glasses, and Jon isn't scared, exactly, but he's definitely sifting through words like skinhead and serial killer and aren't the bouncers supposed to flag guys who stare like that?

Jon toes off his heels (slowly, sexily, flexing his ankles, for the customers who are into that sort of thing) and struts to the edge of the stage. May as well confront this now — with lots of witnesses around, not to mention security people. Make the guy feel that he's not going to get away with anything.

The man does a deer-in-headlights freeze as Jon sashays in his direction. The other customers laugh, cheer; there are a couple of wolf-whistles. Jon bats his eyelashes winningly and sits himself right in the guy's lap — or tries to — he gets the angle wrong and almost falls, and the customer unfreezes enough to grab him around the waist, keeping him balanced.

"Uh, thanks," says Jon. Not his sexiest line, but hey, Mom raised a boy with good manners. "And hello, um..." Up close like this, he finally notices the crucifix hanging around the guy's neck. "...Brother?"

"Hi," pants Brother Creepy.

Jon runs a couple fingers up the back of his neck and the curve of his head. "Kinda far from the cloister, aren't you? How'd that happen?"

Whatever daze Brother Creepy has been in all this time, he snaps out of it. "Well, it's a long story," he says, pleasant as anything, "but I think it all started on the morning of none of your business."

Jon's taken aback for a second, then shrugs. "Fair enough."

"And I gotta say, so far, worldly pleasures? Not all they're cracked up to be. Are all tempters of the flesh as clumsy as you, or is it just a, you know..." His hands are still on Jon's hips, so he settles for nodding in the general direction of Jon's bone structure. "...Semitic thing?"

Jon rolls his eyes. "Hey, I will have you know that I am plenty suave when I'm wearing normal clothes. If the ridiculous outfit wasn't part of the job, I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole." And then, because he's starting to get some murmurs of dissatisfaction from the audience, he does a sultry writhe in Brother Racist's arms and nibbles on the man's ear. "Gotta pay off those student loans somehow."

"Mguh," says the ex-monk. "Other ear. Other one. That one's deaf."

No problem. Jon arches his back and switches sides. "You didn't miss anything. A line about student loans, that's all."

Brother Half-Deaf is breathing hard again, though he's managing to be articulate this time around. "You're...a man of learning?"

"Third semester in a local psych grad program," croons Jon. "You'd love it. School's named after a saint and everything."

"Hngh."

"You got a name, by the way?"

"S-Stephen."

Speaking of named after saints. Jon runs his hands one last time over the guy's chest; the fine gold chain of the crucifix catches on his fingers. "Well, Stephen...the lab's empty this time of night," he murmurs. "And I've got a key. You want an introduction to a couple other worldly pleasures...by which I mean, science...stick around until after my shift, and I'll take you out for a private show."



Postscript.

"Okay, seriously," said Jon, "the next time you say something offensive about non-WASPs -- or WASCs, I guess -- I'm smacking you."

Brother Stephen's breath caught in his throat. He searched Jon's eyes for a second, then said, very deliberately, "If the people who control the media are all like you, no wonder we weren't allowed to have a TV in the monastery."

Jon facepalmed. "You know, you could have just asked."




Title: The Heist
Rating: G
Cast: Olivia, Wyatt
Prompt: from They Fight Crime: "He's a lonely dishevelled master criminal fleeing from a secret government programme. She's a virginal antique-collecting hooker with someone else's memories. They fight crime!"


"So," said Wyatt, by way of making conversation, "were you just not a hooker for very long, or...?"

"Shouldn't we not be making any noise right now?" whispered Olivia. Unscrewing bits of the skylight in the museum rotunda was already making enough of a racket. (The screws squeaked.)

"Which of us was the master criminal before they got nabbed by the Program?" said Wyatt pointedly. "Don't worry so much. As long as you follow my lead, we're gonna get your set of vintage pie plates back, I promise."

"Okay, okay." Olivia tried to scratch her leg through the skintight faux-leather catsuit. (It sounded cooler than it looked. Hers didn't fit right, and the harness didn't match at all, while Wyatt's matching one was just kind of scruffy.) "What they did to me was a memory thing, all right? I've got two sets. One where I was a lonely virgin growing up in Oklahoma, one where I was a high-priced call girl on the streets of Tokyo. No idea which one is mine."

"Ah." Wyatt pried off the wide hexagonal glass plate, attached his grappling hook, then frowned. "So, uh. Are you sure the plates are yours?"

"Nope," said Olivia. "Why? You gonna bail on me over that, Cenac?"

Frankly, Wyatt would have agreed to steal the Mona Lisa if it would get Olivia to keep hanging out with him. Not only was she a pretty cool person, but they hadn't exactly let him have a social life in the Program, which was a serious bummer. "Nah. Just curious."

He dropped a smoke grenade into the rotunda. It bounced off the central display case far below (some kind of fancy silverware; the pie plates, as they had scoped out earlier, were on the wall), and poofed out into the room. Only four lasers? This was going to be a piece of cake. (Or a piece of, well, you know.)

"So what did they do to you in the Program?" asked Olivia conversationally.

"Don't think I can really talk about it yet," admitted Wyatt, testing the grip of the zipline on his harness. Yeah, he was good to descend. "Let's just say it involved puppets."




Title: One-sentence Easter fic
Rating: PG-13
Cast: Jon, "Stephen"
Prompt: It's bunny day!


When Stephen shakes him awake in the morning wearing a cheap rabbit-ear headband and announces that it's time to hunt for eggs, Jon thinks he's being ridiculous; when Stephen immediately follows this up by sticking his hand down Jon's pajama pants, Jon reflects that, hey, just because it's really stupid doesn't mean he can't roll with it.




Title: Stephen's Worst Nightmare
Rating: G
Cast: Jon, "Stephen"
Prompt: Nightmares. From [personal profile] politicette: "Stephen" had a bad dream that all his hair fell out.


It's about four in the morning, and Jon really shouldn't try to answer his phone, but he's too groggy to remember that he can send it to voicemail. "H'lo?"

There's no greeting on the other end, just a wet sniffle.

Jon rubs his eyes and squints at the phone screen. Sure enough. "Stephen? Is something wrong?"

"Jon, I," gulps Stephen, and pauses for another sniff. "I'm s-so sorry."

Well, great. Now Jon is imagining all kinds of apocalyptic scenarios. (Stephen standing alone outside their building as the fire trucks race in, having just blown up his apartment, leaving Jon's to cave in above it....) "Wha'd you do?"

"I will never..." Stephen shudders with feeling. "...never ever make f-fun of your hair loss ever again!"

Jon rolls over on the pillow and closes his eyes. "Uh, thanks."

"I didn't know!" wails Stephen in his ear. "I didn't understand how t-traumatic it must be! You were s-so strong, putting up with my unknowing cruelty, never once complaining!"

"Uh-huh." Not once, no. Jon had gently asked Stephen to knock it off at least three or four times. Not that he couldn't take a joke about it, but there was gentle ribbing and then there was Stephen.

"Well, now I understand!" cries Stephen. "And I promise you, Jon Stewart, I have learned from this trauma! I will be a better friend from now on!"

"Mmhmm," agrees Jon. Given the time, he can't tell if Stephen actually did something to his own hair, or is just having trouble distinguishing between nightmares and reality again. Either way, he can deal with it better in the morning. "Listen, I forgive you, 'kay? So go back t'sleep."

Stephen takes a couple of squeaky breaths. "You're so g-generous," he sniffles. "Thank you, Jon. Good night."

"G'night," agrees Jon, and is asleep again almost before the call ends.

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