Entry tags:

genre: dramedy, genre: fluff, pairing: jon/"stephen", series: fake news

Title: Five Times Stephen Misunderstood Jon, And How Jon Corrected Him (Or Didn't)
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Two.

For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.

And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.

Summary: Snippets that got cut from Expecting or The Thing With Feathers. They're big enough to be interesting without the larger stories, but too small to really survive on their own.

Oh, Five Things format, what would we do without you?



Five Times Stephen Misunderstood Jon, And How Jon Corrected Him (Or Didn't)


One.

Stephen spun in the chair on Jon's new set. "Do you realize," he said, "that I am the prettiest person ever to have sat at this desk?"

"I don't know," joked Jon. "We had Halle Berry on last week."

He wasn't expecting Stephen to take that one hard, but all of a sudden the other man was in full sulk mode. "Oh, sure, Halle Berry, yes, we know what you think about her. And now you're going to say you've booked Clooney next week too, just to rub salt in the wound."

"Stephen, what's with you? What do you have against Halle Berry and George Clooney, anyway?"

"I did see the Oscars, Jon!" snapped Stephen, folding his arms and glaring at the far wall.

Jon thought about this for a moment.

"Uh, Stephen," he said, "you do realize that thing in the opening, it was just a comedy bit, right?"

Stephen's shoulders, as seen from the back, remained tense; but at last he said, "So...?"

"Well, I didn't actually sleep with either of them."

All at once Stephen spun back around, grinning as if he had never started to pout. "Of course I knew that, Jon!" he exclaimed. "Say, have you invited Clooney to the new set yet? You should. Maybe he could give the place a little class."



Two.

"Say," said Jon, "is that grey hair?"

Stephen gasped. "You can tell?"

"Well, yeah. It's just a little, but..."

His friend was already out of his seat, pacing up and down. "I thought it was hidden so well! I was combing the dark hair over the grey and everything! What will it look like on TV? It'll destroy my whole image, all my youthful vigor, and, oh no, I'll have to get all new suits and ties to match..."

"Stephen, relax. It's not a big deal."

"Not a—! Not a big deal?! What is that supposed to mean? You think, just because you can pull off grey, and not only pull it off but make it look handsome and mature and distinguished, that everyone else gets the same freakish luck with aging hair? Is that how it is, Mr. Jon My-Hair-Never-Gets-Anything-But-Sexier Stewart?"

"No," said Jon meekly. "I was just going to say that your stylist can dye all the grey out in five minutes."

"Oh," said Stephen. "Oh, yeah, I guess she can."



Three.

Stephen had never heard Jon shout. He hadn't know that Jon could shout. Even now, after he'd had half an hour to process the idea, just thinking back on it sent little shockwaves through his body.

Why had it happened during a toss? Why couldn't it have happened at any other time, when he didn't have his very important show to do, when he could have gone straight over?

But that was neither here nor there. The Report was over, he was in the car, and minutes later he was running into the Daily Show studio—just in time, for there was Jon heading out of his office.

"Oh, you're here!" he exclaimed. "I was just about to come over and see you."

Stephen nodded. "Are you still—" he began.

"About that toss—" said Jon at the same time.

They stopped. Jon nodded for Stephen to continue.

"Yes," he said, trying to sound firm, "about the toss. You were very angry."

"Well, uh, yeah."

"But we only had sixty seconds. Not enough to properly address the issue."

"I agree."

"So I decided to come over and let you finish yelling."

"That's—wait, what?"

Stephen stood a little straighter. He was going to take this with dignity. "You can finish yelling at me. My schedule's clear for the rest of the day, so you can take your time."

"Oh, Stephen," said Jon softly. "I don't want to yell at you."

Stephen blinked. "What do you mean, you don't?"

"That's what I was coming over to tell you. I shouldn't have lost my temper in the first place, and I'm sorry, and I'll try not to do it again."

It was going to take Stephen a moment to adjust to this. He'd been so completely prepared for extensive shouting that he wasn't ready in the least for no shouting at all. "You don't want to yell at me," he repeated.

"That's right."

"Not even a little?"

"Not even a little."

"And you're not angry any more?"

"Nope."

"So you don't want to, just as a completely random example, push me around a little?"

Jon laughed. "No, Stephen."

"And you definitely don't want to..."

He trailed off; Jon looked curiously at him. "Don't want to what?"

March me back into your office, bend me over your desk, and force me to prove just how much I respect you, thought Stephen.

"Nothing," he said out loud. "Forget it."

"Sure." Jon smiled. "So, are we cool?"

"Yeah. Yeah. We're cool."



Four.

The rooms at the rehab center were basically like the ones at a hotel, except without the vibrant personality.

They were also, to Stephen's great dismay, without televisions, radio, or Internet access. True, the patients were kept too busy to watch TV most of the time, between the exercise and the meditation and the group therapy and nonsense like that; but he didn't have the faintest idea what was happening in the world—or, more importantly, what the world was saying about him.

When visiting hours arrived, Jon appeared at his door with a stack of newspapers, and Stephen could have kissed him. (He didn't, of course. That would be gay.)

Instead, he poured the papers out onto his bed. Jon had even clipped half a dozen articles from other papers, or printed them from the Internets, all on the subject of the WristStrong campaign; Stephen went for these first.

He was halfway through an article on the successful sale of his cast when Jon coughed. "There are only a few hours for visitors, you know..."

"Oh, I know," said Stephen. "But this news about me isn't going to read itself."

"You could always read it later," suggested Jon. "You could do...something else...now. Maybe take advantage of the fact that you have me here."

"Jon," said Stephen severely, "you know how I feel about facts. And besides, there is nothing more important than what other people are saying about me."

It occurred to him later, when he had finished the last of the papers, that maybe Jon had had something in mind that he would have enjoyed after all. But it was too late to ask; it was dark outside, and visiting hours were long over.



Five.

He ended up sprawled contentedly on the hotel bed, half in his Emmy suit and half in nothing at all.

"I don't want to ruin the mood, here," he said, "and it's not that I didn't appreciate that, because it was amazing. It really was. I've been looking forward to it for a long time, and, well, it was everything I wanted and more."

"But...?" prompted Stephen, who had somehow managed to do everything without so much as wrinkling his tux.

"But, um, I was talking about the leaf blower."