Entry tags:

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

Title: COMFORT ME.
Rating: PG
Series: The Colbert Report
Disclaimer: This is a work of parody. The Colbert Report characters are not mine.

Wanted to make a blue period drawing out of this idea (as egged on by infraredphaeton), but I couldn't get the pose to come together. So here are two loose sketches instead, accompanied by two ficlets. Takes place right after the election special.



The Version On The Desk

Even with the big map up on the wall, laying out the win in red and blue, I almost couldn't believe it. I would get caught up in my writing and it would feel like the world hadn't changed at all, and then it would all come back in a rush and I would find myself grinning.

Next to me at the desk, Stephen let out a fake sniffle.

I ignored it for the moment, though I tried to tamp down on my joy just a little. For my best frenemy's sake.

He sniffed again, louder and faker. I kept writing. Sooner or later I would give in, of course, but I was at least trying to teach Stephen not to drop in unannounced. I kept my eyes on the paper as I heard him getting up...

...and then it hit me, as a pair of Brooks Brothers-clad knees obscured my writing, that he might take the silence as an invitation to take drastic measures. So he had chosen the same tactic as a put-out cat: planting his butt on whatever it was that I had the audacity to pay attention to besides him.

"Jon," he announced, grabbing me by the lapels and hauling me upwards.

"Y-yes, Stephen?"

He glared down at me, teeth clenched. "I'm distraught."

"I couldn't tell."

"COMFORT ME."

(I had the mad urge to scratch behind his ears.)







The Version On The Couch



The couch bounced under the weight of Jon's sudden landing. "Uh—Stephen?"

He looked almost like one of the cushions, all pale and plushy. I kind of wanted to curl up on top of him and snuggle against him and shake it off, Col-bert, shake it off! "JON," I said angrily. Anger was an acceptable emotion. Much more acceptable than cuddly.

"Yes?"

"I'm distraught," I growled. This was maybe not the manliest of emotions, but right now, with that big stupid map all splattered with blue, I had an excuse!

"I couldn't tell," said Jon.

Jon is a bit of an idiot sometimes. He's all right, though. You just have to tell him, in clear, firm tones, what to do.

So I said: "COMFORT ME."

(It helps if you're loud.)

"Uh, sure," said Jon. "What do you want me to do?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't need you to do it, now would I?"

"I guess not," admitted Jon, properly abashed. "Let me think . . . ."

I gave him my sternest glare, just to make sure he had proper motivation.

"How about this," he said. "Your party has been in power for the past eight years."

"Turnabout is fair play, is that it? Don't gloat at me, Stewart."

"I wasn't, just listen! They've been in power, they've expanded executive authority, they've started wars and passed laws and set precedents and made changes. Right?"

"Yes! And that's all going to change now!"

"Is it really? Eight years' worth of dama—uh, of setting policy, and you really think the Democrats—with their stunning track record of action so far—will be able to fix, er, undo it all any time soon? It would take two or three terms plus a sea change in the judiciary to wipe out everything you like from the current administration."

I thought about it. (I know, I know, I try not to encourage thinking, but this was a special occasion.) And damned if he wasn't right.

"Thanks, Jon," I said, feeling better already, as I disentangled my legs from his.

"Great," muttered Jon. "Now I'm depressed."

"Don't be such a bleeding-heart liberal," I ordered. "You'll get over it."

With that, I tried to give him a hearty, manly slap on the back. But since he was still sitting against the couch, it kind of turned into a hug.

(That's the only reason. Really. Shut up.)