Entry tags:

story: the thing with feathers

Title: The Thing With Feathers, Chapter 5
Fandom: The Daily Show/The Colbert Report
Rating: PG
Words: ~1600
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.

Notes: The coolest thing about this story so far is how much people are predicting what's going to happen next. In this chapter, some of you will find that you were dead-on.

For the full table of contents, click here.

The Thing With Feathers
Chapter 5


(here.)


"Oh, hey Jon. Is Stephen with you?"

"I was just going to ask -- has he called you?"

"He called a couple hours ago, said he was tired and taking a short nap before he headed home, and I haven't heard from him since. Is he okay?"

And there it was, before Jon was at all prepared: the question he had no idea how to answer. Well, he had two options. He could try to explain to Stephen's wife that her husband seemed to be stuck in-character; or he could lie.

"He's fine."

Lying it was, then.

"It turned out he was more tired than he realized. The, ah, wrist medication's left him sort of woozy. That's all."

"Oh, good! Can I talk to him?"

"Um. He's asleep right now, actually. He's going to just crash here for the night."

"All by himself?"

"A couple of us are still here. We'll keep an eye on him."

"Oh, good! Make sure he doesn't start working when he wakes up; he needs his down time, especially now. And if anything changes for the worse, call the hospital immediately."

"Of course. And I'll call you next, don't worry."

"That was my next order," she said with a laugh. "I can see he's in good hands. I'll drive up tomorrow morning with his toothbrush and a change of clothes."

"Good idea," said Jon quickly -- because it would have been a good idea, if he were telling the truth.

"Thanks, Jon. I really appreciate this."

"Any time."

They bade each other good night and hung up, and Jon sighed. It was probably a good thing that "Stephen" had only pretended to make the phone call; he wasn't sure he wanted "Stephen" talking to Stephen's wife. But now they only had until tomorrow morning to sort this out.

"Stephen" would not have lasted long in Stephen's shoes anyway, he reminded himself. Even if they came up with some story about a Borat-esque "total immersion in the character", which the news and maybe the crew would buy, it wouldn't explain why he was no longer being himself with his family.

But now they had a hard-and-fast deadline for a solution, before they had any idea what the actual problem was.

Time to get back to investigating it, then. Jon stuck the phone in his pocket and knocked on the door. "Stephen? Can I come in?"


---------------------
---------------------
(there.)


Stephen's left arm fell to his side, the cast like a lead weight; his right hand was still gripping Jon's shoulder, pressing it against the wall, and when he tried to let go the room started to spin beneath him.

"What do you mean, I don't have kids?" he choked.

(This makes perfect sense, whispered a voice in the back of his head...)

"I'm sorry," said Jon; "I knew, and I never told you I knew, I let you think you were getting away with pretending you had them..."

"You've met them! I talk about them all the time! You know them!"

"Stephen, I've never met them. You talk about them, but you're not consistent, their names change, their ages change, it's obvious they're not real..."

"Why would I lie about something like that?" demanded Stephen, ignoring the whisper in his mind that said You know the answer.

"I don't know, Stephen! It's been so long, you've been doing it since your wife left, I've stopped wondering about it -- I swear, we never thought any less of you for it -- ah!"

He gasped as Stephen wrenched the hand from his shoulder and began to pace the front room, not going anywhere in particular, just walking for the sake of moving.

Everyone is in character, said the whisper in his head, and there was nothing for him to do but listen. Even Jon, he's the version of himself from the tosses, the one who just reacts to your absurdities, the straight man in the double act.

And you never brought your kids into the show, did you? You refer to them sometimes for jokes, but not the real them, just whatever version of them is convenient for the joke. "My daughter just took her first steps." A few years later, "I'm sending Killer to keep an eye on my daughter's prom."

His foot landed on a spot on the rug that was wrong, somehow, and he stopped, looking at it, trying to figure out why.

You make up kids to fit the jokes, the voice persisted. What does that mean for your character? What would a stable version of his backstory look like? Either he has dozens of kids, or he's making them up too. But why would he make them up? Not for the jokes.

To fit in. To be normal. He lies all the time for the sake of being normal. Or rather, he tells the truth as he wishes it were. Truthiness.

There was supposed to be a stain. His youngest had spilled grape juice on the rug last month, and no amount of scrubbing had gotten the spot out completely. It would be right there, under the toe of his shoe.

Stephen pulled off his glasses and wiped his eyes. He'd stopped crying, but his sleeve still came away damp.

He sat down, shakily, in the nearest chair, and beckoned to his friend (no, not his friend), who was leaning against the door frame and rubbing his shoulder. When he spoke, he was surprised at how calm he managed to sound. "Jon, come over here. Sit down."

Jon took a seat in the chair beside him, face etched with concern and worry and care, the pain in his shoulder clearly an afterthought. The Jon from the tosses. The Jon who was used to, who put up with, all kinds of abuse from...

"Something's happened," said Stephen. "It's like I've stepped into a Twilight Zone episode. I don't understand it. I can't explain it. And it's freaking me out, a lot, but I think I have a handle on it, at least a little bit. I know what happened, if not how or why. The thing is -- I'm not your Stephen."

"Of course not," said Jon quickly. "I don't own -- I'd never presume--"

"No, no, I mean, I'm not your friend."

Jon stopped, face falling.

"God, no, sorry, that's not what I meant either! Your Stephen is your friend, even if he's a bad one sometimes. Most of the time. But I'm not him. I'm not the Stephen you know. I have the same name, and some of the same history, and the same hair, but I'm not him."

Now Jon just looked confused.

"You don't believe me."

"I don't understand, Stephen. How could you be someone else? You never change -- not your habits, not your opinions, not..."

"George Bush," said Stephen flatly, "is a terrible president."

The silence was total. Even the crickets outside stopped chirping.

And then Jon said, eyes very wide, "You're not my Stephen."


---------------------
---------------------
(here.)


When he heard the knock, Stephen figured he'd taken a realistic amount of time for a phone call to a wife. "Love you, honey. Bye!" he said loudly, and slammed the receiver down before calling, "Come on in!"

He arranged his features into his best stony expression of authority as Jon opened the door.

"Just finished the call," he announced, in case it wasn't clear, as he rose in greeting. "She's fine with it, of course. To love and obey, and all that."

"Right. Listen, Stephen..."

"So I'm staying here tonight, is that it?" he continued, walking out from behind the desk.

"Yes, you are."

"And you're staying with me?"

"That's the plan, yeah. Now, Stephen, this is important..."

He shut the door.

In the next instant Stephen had pinned him against it, the thump sending an unheeded shockwave through his wrist, his other hand tangling in Jon's hair as he kissed the man, hungrily, greedily, because even if they only had one night it was still a whole night and he was going to make the most of it, pressing their bodies together as Jon moved beneath him, trying to get the taste and the feel and the sound all at once--

--and then Jon's elbow was between their faces, forcing Stephen's head back.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" he exclaimed. "Easy there!"

"Should I slow down? We can take it slow. We can go at any speed you want."

"I -- no! I don't want this at all!"

Stephen felt his veins turn to ice.

He stumbled back a step, and Jon lowered his arm, looking surprised and angry and not so much as a little bit flattered or pleased or even interested.

After a heart-stopping pause, Stephen's gut sprang into gear and began cycling through its options. Denial?

"I didn't--"

No, Jon was a godless liberal mainstream media shill but he was smart, he knew exactly what Stephen's intention had been. Anger?

"How dare--"

But there was no one to be angry at except himself; Jon was the sane and normal one; Stephen was the one who was sick, sinful, wrong. Begging?

"Oh, God, please don't fire me."

His voice broke as he said it. Yes, that would do.

"I'm not going to fire you," said Jon, and Stephen felt himself cringing further at the utterly dismissive tone. "I ... listen, Eric and Allison are getting sleeping bags, I'm gonna just ... go see how they're doing."

He groped for the doorknob, watching Stephen the way he would some dangerous animal who might charge at any time; after a few misses he caught it, opened the door, and backed out.

"Please don't hate me," whispered Stephen, but by then Jon was too far gone to hear.