ptahrrific | Fake News: The Parts Of Management They Don't Tell You About

Title: The Parts Of Management They Don't Tell You About
Rating: PG
Pairing: Tad/Bobby, with a side of "Stephen"/Tad
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: Being a manager on TCR has a world of challenges that you won't find on any other job. Fortunately, Tad and Bobby have each other to lean on.

The Parts Of Management They Don't Tell You About

The first time Bobby pulled an all-nighter was two weeks after the Report's premiere, when he finally realized that the difference between stagehand and stage manager included a far longer to-do list than anyone could deal with during normal working hours. He was on his fourth can of Mountain Dew when the door of his office opened.

"I'm sorry," said the man who had opened it. Bobby took him in at a glance. Thick glasses. Full lips. Tacky bow tie. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"No, no, it's okay," said Bobby, picking himself up off of the floor and gathering the scattered papers. "Sorry—who are you?"

"My name's Tad," said Tad. "I'm the new building manager."

"Oh. How new?"

"Stephen hired me about a week ago."

That was fast. Bobby wondered briefly if Tad was Stephen's brother-in-law. Or college roommate. Or had some really juicy blackmail material. Or maybe his predecessor had said something that Stephen had taken offense to in the last nine years, and Stephen had held onto the grudge long enough to fire her as soon as he had the chance.

"I was just curious," Tad was saying, "as to whether you would be staying in the building for much longer, because I would like to lock up...."

"Oh. Well, I'm gonna be here all night, so you can just leave me here."

"Are you sure?" asked Tad nervously.

"I'm sure. Come on, do you really think Stephen would let me get away with stealing anything?"

"Well, no," said Tad doubtfully. "But are you okay with being alone?"

Okay, he didn't have blackmail material. Or, if he did, that wasn't how he had gotten the job. He was way too nice.

"I'll be fine," said Bobby. "I've got my caffeine and Queen's Greatest Hits. I'm all set."

"All right," replied Tad. "Good night, um...."

"Bobby. The stage manager. Bobby."

"Good night, Bobby."

"See you later, Tad."

—

"Let me get this straight. You flew out to the auction, sat in the audience, joined in the bidding, and brought back a sign?"

Tad winced. "I couldn't actually afford any of the items on the budget Stephen gave me, but I couldn't come back empty-handed. So I took the sign. You think it'll make him happy?"

Bobby shrugged. "He'll probably forget the whole thing in a few weeks anyway. What I don't understand is why you went in the first place. How is this sort of thing in your job description?"

"I suppose it isn't. But all the other employees are necessary every day. Someone else can lock up; I am only indispensable when there's a major problem, such as the heater breaking down."

"Well—I guess you have a point—but that doesn't mean you have to go running off to deal with whatever crazy idea Stephen gets into his head."

Tad shrugged. "It's okay. I'm used to it."

"Did you two know each other before the show?" asked Bobby.

He sounded nonchalant enough, but Tad knew that wouldn't last long if the conversation continued. "We used to work together," he said simply, and changed the subject.

—

Bobby held the flashlight while Tad tried to make sense of the old and faded directions printed behind a row of gas pipes. "Hold down the button—that's probably this one—for thirty seconds. Light a match—where did I put the matches?"

Bobby handed him the matchbook.

"Oh, thank you." The building manager pulled one out, struck it, and held it over a thin copper pipe as he pressed a button. "I really do appreciate this. If we don't get this fixed by tomorrow, it's going to be freezing upstairs, and you know how picky Stephen is about temperature."

"Do you think, maybe," said Bobby, "you could talk about something other than Stephen?"

"I don't know what you—ow!" Tad dropped the match, shaking his hand. "The pilot isn't lighting. I don't think we're getting gas at all."

"Something other than your job, too," clarified Bobby. "Every time we talk, it ends up about work or about Stephen. I'm sick of Stephen taking over all my conversations."

"What else would you like to talk about?" asked Tad warily.

"I don't know. Anything. You. What else do you do?"

"Nothing, really."

"You must have some interests outside of work," said Bobby matter-of-factly. "Sports? Hobbies? TV shows?"

"I'm not a very exciting person," said Tad, standing up and walking around to the side of the heater.

"You don't have to be exciting to talk about yourself. Watch: I like soccer. In my spare time, I build things. You know, shelves and stuff. I've seen every episode of The West Wing. Now you try."

"Ah, here's the problem," said Tad, flicking a switch. "The gas line was switched off," he added, as he returned to his kneeling position before the open panel in the old furnace's side.

"If you don't want to talk to me, you can just say so."

"It's not that," said Tad quickly. "I'm honestly not interesting. That's all. Really."

He lit another match and held it out. This time, in the heart of the furnace, a blue flame sprang to life.

—

When they cut to commercial, a gaggle of interns descended with towels and bottles of water for Stephen, Tad, and Amy Sedaris, all understandably disheveled from their display. Stephen was whisked off to makeup to get him back together in time for the fourth-act wrap-up, and Sedaris was escorted to the green room by a couple of speechless stagehands, leaving Tad alone until Bobby pulled him aside.

"That was fantastic!" he exclaimed. "Seriously, you were amazing! I've never even heard of—what did you call it? Tumbling? Tumblecizing? And you could do that, all on the spot! That was incredible!"

It was a good thing he was already flushed from the exertion, because otherwise Tad knew he would be blushing. "It's not as hard as it looks," he said. "It's really just a lot of jumping around."

"Don't be ridiculous. I've never seen anything like it! And you think you're not interesting."

Tad took a gulp from his water bottle to mask the fact that he had no idea how to react to this. "I—well, um, thank you."

"You know, when Stephen said 'tumbling', my first thought was that it was some kind of weird new metaphor for gay sex. You sure showed me, huh?"

"Um," said Tad.

He tried desperately to think up some kind of clever response to this. Nothing came.

"Wait," said Bobby. "Don't tell me you have—?"

Well, there was no getting out of it now. Tad sighed and focused on the wall. "Yeah."

The freakout was inevitable. The only question now was whether it would happen quickly and to his face, or, worse, whether it would be denied, at which point they would begin the long-drawn-out process of seeing it come out in the awkwardness, the discomfort, the way their conversations would get halting and cursory and then start to disappear....

"With Stephen? Seriously? I mean, I know he's hot, but wouldn't the homophobia kinda get you down after a while?"

Tad did a double-take. Then, because it didn't seem to make much difference, he did another.

"Um," he said again. "What?"

"Wait, was this a one-night stand, or is it ongoing? Can I ask?"

"It's kind of on-and-off," stammered Tad. "Did you just say he's hot?"

"Why are you surprised by that? You're the one who slept with him. Oh—sixty seconds to air. Gotta go. See you after the show."

—

Between wrap-up, cleanup, and Stephen's insistence on having in his post-show snack a brand of muffin that was only sold at a deli ten blocks away, it was more than an hour before Tad finally opened Bobby's door. "Hello?"

"Come on in."

He did, closing the door behind him. "I don't want you to think I only got this job because I slept with Stephen. Jon Stewart had to check my references, and he doesn't know."

Bobby's privately held theory was that, if Stewart would give Stephen an entire TV show, he wouldn't be above giving the man his choice of building manager.

But he didn't bring this up, because Tad was, after all, good at his job. Even the parts that were definitely not in the contract.

"And that isn't why I slept with him, either," added Tad. "We've been, I guess you might say, on-and-off, since way back when."

Bobby nodded.

"You're probably wondering why," said Tad. "Because you're right. The homophobia does get to me. But he doesn't talk about that in bed. And, well, he's definitely hot. And he can—but you probably don't want to hear the details."

"Depends on how good they are."

Tad gaped.

"No, but seriously, though," added Bobby quickly, "it's your life. It's personal. If you don't want to talk about it, don't."

"Thanks," said Tad.

"Don't mention it."

He twirled a pen in his hands. Tad leaned against the door.

"Baseball," said Tad suddenly.

"Sorry?"

"You wanted to know if I like any sports. I used to play Little League. My parents took us to Cubs games. We always got peanuts. I don't even like peanuts, but I still buy them when I go to games, because it's tradition. I like baseball."

—

"No, it isn't a problem with the pipes," said Tad. "It's just clogged. Pass me the plunger."

Bobby handed it to him; Tad braced one foot against the seat of the nearly-overflowing toilet (what had Stephen stuffed down there?) and plunged.

"I play the bassoon," he said.

"The—bassoon?"

"And the guitar." Tad lifted the plunger and shoved again. "But every disaffected teenage boy plays guitar." Shove. "So I play the bassoon." Shove. "Used to be able to play the oboe, too, but I've probably forgotten that by now." Shove. "But I still have my bassoon. I get it out every six months or so, just to make sure I remember what to do." Shove. "I start out rusty, but it always comes back."

"I'd like to hear you play some time," said Bobby.

There was a loud thwuck from the toilet, and the excess water began to drain. Tad leaned forward and pressed the handle. With a whoosh, the whole mess was sucked away.

"See? I was right," said Tad. "It was clogged. No big deal."

—

"But then they get the girl to stick her hand in a bowl of ice water, and she puts it in and just holds it there, and that's how they figure out she has this condition where she can't feel pain. She would have other kids punch her to demonstrate, which is how she ended up with all the internal bleeding."

"Wow," said Bobby. "And that's a real thing?"

"All the conditions on House are real. And they're even mostly accurate. They're just rare, which is why House never figures it out until after the last commercial break."

"And it's never lupus," added Bobby. "Right?"

"Now you're catching on."

They both grinned; then Tad glanced at the clock on Bobby's wall. "Oh, it's late. I should let you finish your work."

"Well, actually, I finished a while ago."

"You have? Then I've been keeping you here? I'm sorry! I'll let you go home."

"I don't mind. Really. I'm having fun."

"So am I—but we should get some sleep. Stephen's planning one of his 'special events' for tomorrow, and the more alert we are, the less likely it is that something will be set on fire."

"You have a point there."

Tad stood up. "See you tomorrow?"

"Sure. 'Night, Tad."

"'Night, Bobby."

—

It was only a small fire, barely big enough to leave scorch marks; most of the actual work was in cleaning up the foam from the fire extinguisher, and that was just a matter of washing it down the drain.

"So House wakes up in a hospital bed," Tad said as he mopped, "and there's Wilson, standing next to him...."

"You know, we don't always have to have these conversations when there's an emergency or we're staying late," remarked Bobby.

"Sorry," said Tad quickly. "If I'm boring you—"

"No, that's not what I mean. They're interesting, but they're too short. You want to come over for dinner tomorrow, have some time to really talk?"

Tad slipped on the puddle left by the mop and fell to the ground with a thud.

"I'm fine!" he croaked. "Tomorrow night, you say?"

—

After a lot of grunting and heaving and panting and sweating, they finally got the cabinet into place.

"When you asked me over," said Tad, stepping back and surveying the new layout of the tiny room, "I didn't realize you wanted help moving furniture."

"That...wasn't my main motivation," admitted Bobby. "But I finished building this two months ago, and it's been sitting in the corner ever since, and I was getting tired of that."

"Wait, you built this?"

"Yeah."

"You're kidding. You ever done this professionally?"

"I'm not that good. It's just a hobby."

Tad looked the tall, finished cabinet up and down with new appreciation. Then he said, "Er, what was your main motivation for asking me over?"

"Well," said Bobby. "I was actually kind of hoping we could, uh, tumble."

"That's probably not going to work," said Tad, turning around to take in the diminutive scope of the apartment. "You need a nice big space with a mat, like a gym, to practice in, or you'll crash into everything in reach...."

"That's great," interrupted Bobby, "but I really meant 'tumble' in the 'euphemism for gay sex' sort of way."

"Oh," said Tad. "Well."

"Or," said Bobby quickly, "you could finish telling me your theory about House and Wilson."

"There's not much else to tell," said Tad. "Basically, I think they should stop dithering and do this, already."

And he pulled Bobby into a kiss.

—

"You realize, of course," said Tad, breaking the comfortable (if rather sticky) post-coital silence, "that Stephen can never find out about this."

"Yeah, I know," agreed Bobby. His head was tucked against the crook of Tad's neck; when he talked, stubble brushed against Tad's skin. "But if he does? We'll manage."

Fake News: The Parts Of Management They Don't Tell You About

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