Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2010-11-30 01:42 am
ptahrrific) wrote2010-11-30 01:42 am
Entry tags:
Fake News: State of Grace bonus material
Title: State of Grace: bonus material
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Disclaimer: Not real; not mine.
Rating: Through PG
A roundup of scenes, snippets, and drabbles (the shorter ones are exactly 100 words apiece) that didn't quite fit into the text of State of Grace. If you don't notice, or aren't bothered by, the discrepancies, take these as deleted scenes. Otherwise, just consider them AU.
*
Jon didn't get a moment alone with Stephen all day. Even when the man wasn't interacting with anyone else, he'd be glowering at the paper across from the television while Tracey watched Desperate Housewives, or playing with the dogs outside as Charlene worked in the patch of dirt she was trying to prepare for growing zucchini.
When Tracey noticed, she asked if anything was up.
"Wish I knew," sighed Jon. "Something just...set him off."
"Knowing Stephen, he was probably offended that your boxers didn't coordinate with your socks."
He laughed, but it took obvious effort.
Tracey changed the subject.
*
It was a sight that the world had never expected to see again: the man who had been Steve Col-bert lying on the floor, surrounded by books.
Also on the floor, leaning against the couch, Jon tried to focus on the book he had grabbed for himself. He kept looking up to make sure the scene hadn't vanished like some kind of very detailed short-range mirage.
"Intellectuals!" grumbled Stephen to himself as he reached for the dictionary for the umpteenth time. "Why do they have to use all these huge words to say perfectly simple things?"
"Which book are you looking at?" asked Jon.
Stephen flipped it closed, keeping the page marked with his thumb. "Effective Treatments for PTSD. See, even the title is pretentious! Why not just call it Bad-Past-Time Fixy-Things That Work?"
"Stephen?"
"What, Jon?"
"You're getting angry for no reason again."
"I have a reason, Jon! These academics are throwing around ridiculous fancy jargon like they're some kind of—"
"—some kind of academics," finished Jon. "They don't do it to make you feel stupid; they do it so they can talk to each other and know exactly what they mean."
"It still leaves me out. That makes it elitist."
"It's done to help you, Stephen."
"Jon, that makes no sense at all."
"Sure it does. When they use specialized words, they can spend less time explaining what they mean, and more time doing new research. Which, in this case, means finding better ways to deal with what you're going through."
"Fine," huffed Stephen. "But they could at least use words I understand when explaining it to me."
"You've got a book that was written for other psychologists, not lay people. Want to trade? This one's in plain language...."
"No! I'm not giving up that easily, Jon. Their polysyllabic vocabulary isn't going to scare me!"
"All right, all right. Only trying to help."
He went back to the paragraph he had been rereading for the past ten minutes, and had almost gotten to the end of it when Stephen said, "Jon?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for offering."
A warm fuzzy glow spread from Jon's heart to the tips of his toes. "You're welcome."
*
Stephen stood in the bathroom for a good ten minutes, leaning against the wall, staring at the label until his eyes crossed. It was full of fine print, dates and abbreviations and chemical names, plus a whole multi-step process to settle on a regular dose, but the first step was clear enough: One tablet, at bedtime.
A flutter of darkness just off the edge of his vision. Don't take them. You don't need them.
"I'm not needy," he agreed out loud.
He glanced at his reflection, and saw, just for a second, scared little-boy eyes peering out of the mirror.
*
"I get queasy sometimes when George cries," Stephen blurted. "It goes away when I fix whatever's wrong, but if I know he's upset and I'm not taking care of it...I feel like a cheap vase on a high shelf, you know? One step, and—" He broke off, suddenly aware of a low wave of panic bubbling in his stomach. "You think that means I'm doing something wrong, Father?" he finished quickly.
"I think it means you're a parent," replied the priest. "It's perfectly normal to get anxious about your children."
But it never felt like this before, Stephen didn't say. You weren't supposed to argue with priests, after all. "You don't think it means I'm spoiling him?" he asked, just to make sure he hadn't misunderstood. "That I should suck it up and let him cry, instead of taking the easy way out?"
"He's three months old, isn't he?" prompted Father Ted. "I've heard that, for the first few years of life, it's impossible to give a child too much attention."
"But I don't want him to get clingy," protested Stephen, fighting the pins-and-needles that brushed down his legs. "I want him to be able to stand on his own, I...."
"This may sound like a paradox," the priest said gently, "but the children who grow up to be the most independent and self-assured are often the ones who, when they were young, felt most strongly that they had someone to rely on."
*
"Stevie adores you, you know," murmured Tyrone. "Kid's rational enough for the rest of us put together, but he'd walk off a cliff if you asked him. You're like the halfway decent parent he never had."
Pinned against the car, Jon swallowed. The lack of personal space was acute, but Tyrone wasn't using it to his advantage; if anything, he didn't seem to notice. "I had some idea, yeah."
"Sweetness kind of hates you," continued Tyrone, keys clinking in his hand.
"I know."
Tyrone pressed the keyring into Jon's palm. As their fingers brushed, he said, "I don't hate you."
*
"Well, well, well," said Stephen meaningfully. "Well, well, well."
Beside him on the den couch, Jon raised his eyebrows. "Something you want to say?"
"Oh, nothing much," replied Stephen, tossing his head to underline the nothing-muchness of it. "It just suddenly occurred to me that we're all alone. Kids are in bed. The lights are low. And there's something very suggestive on the screen."
Jon looked doubtfully at the television. "Stephen? That's a used car commercial."
"A Fox News used car commercial," corrected Stephen. "Which makes it sexy by proxy."
"Uh, if you say so."
Stephen gave him a look that fairly dripped with meaning.
"So I guess you're not going to let me switch to CNN during the break, huh."
"Jon."
"Right." Jon focused on the screen, groping in earnest for the leap of logic that Stephen no doubt thought was shatteringly obvious. "Alone...dark...sexy deals on 1998 Civics...."
The cushion beside him creaked, and he glanced up to find the other man's face inches from his, voice low and breath warm. "Keep talking."
Jon licked his suddenly-dry lips. "Sexy deals," he repeated, as Stephen pushed him slowly down onto the other pillow. "A sultry zero percent APR. Lusciously manageable monthly payments. No...mmm...no interest until June 2008. Hi."
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Disclaimer: Not real; not mine.
Rating: Through PG
A roundup of scenes, snippets, and drabbles (the shorter ones are exactly 100 words apiece) that didn't quite fit into the text of State of Grace. If you don't notice, or aren't bothered by, the discrepancies, take these as deleted scenes. Otherwise, just consider them AU.
*
Jon didn't get a moment alone with Stephen all day. Even when the man wasn't interacting with anyone else, he'd be glowering at the paper across from the television while Tracey watched Desperate Housewives, or playing with the dogs outside as Charlene worked in the patch of dirt she was trying to prepare for growing zucchini.
When Tracey noticed, she asked if anything was up.
"Wish I knew," sighed Jon. "Something just...set him off."
"Knowing Stephen, he was probably offended that your boxers didn't coordinate with your socks."
He laughed, but it took obvious effort.
Tracey changed the subject.
*
It was a sight that the world had never expected to see again: the man who had been Steve Col-bert lying on the floor, surrounded by books.
Also on the floor, leaning against the couch, Jon tried to focus on the book he had grabbed for himself. He kept looking up to make sure the scene hadn't vanished like some kind of very detailed short-range mirage.
"Intellectuals!" grumbled Stephen to himself as he reached for the dictionary for the umpteenth time. "Why do they have to use all these huge words to say perfectly simple things?"
"Which book are you looking at?" asked Jon.
Stephen flipped it closed, keeping the page marked with his thumb. "Effective Treatments for PTSD. See, even the title is pretentious! Why not just call it Bad-Past-Time Fixy-Things That Work?"
"Stephen?"
"What, Jon?"
"You're getting angry for no reason again."
"I have a reason, Jon! These academics are throwing around ridiculous fancy jargon like they're some kind of—"
"—some kind of academics," finished Jon. "They don't do it to make you feel stupid; they do it so they can talk to each other and know exactly what they mean."
"It still leaves me out. That makes it elitist."
"It's done to help you, Stephen."
"Jon, that makes no sense at all."
"Sure it does. When they use specialized words, they can spend less time explaining what they mean, and more time doing new research. Which, in this case, means finding better ways to deal with what you're going through."
"Fine," huffed Stephen. "But they could at least use words I understand when explaining it to me."
"You've got a book that was written for other psychologists, not lay people. Want to trade? This one's in plain language...."
"No! I'm not giving up that easily, Jon. Their polysyllabic vocabulary isn't going to scare me!"
"All right, all right. Only trying to help."
He went back to the paragraph he had been rereading for the past ten minutes, and had almost gotten to the end of it when Stephen said, "Jon?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for offering."
A warm fuzzy glow spread from Jon's heart to the tips of his toes. "You're welcome."
*
Stephen stood in the bathroom for a good ten minutes, leaning against the wall, staring at the label until his eyes crossed. It was full of fine print, dates and abbreviations and chemical names, plus a whole multi-step process to settle on a regular dose, but the first step was clear enough: One tablet, at bedtime.
A flutter of darkness just off the edge of his vision. Don't take them. You don't need them.
"I'm not needy," he agreed out loud.
He glanced at his reflection, and saw, just for a second, scared little-boy eyes peering out of the mirror.
*
"I get queasy sometimes when George cries," Stephen blurted. "It goes away when I fix whatever's wrong, but if I know he's upset and I'm not taking care of it...I feel like a cheap vase on a high shelf, you know? One step, and—" He broke off, suddenly aware of a low wave of panic bubbling in his stomach. "You think that means I'm doing something wrong, Father?" he finished quickly.
"I think it means you're a parent," replied the priest. "It's perfectly normal to get anxious about your children."
But it never felt like this before, Stephen didn't say. You weren't supposed to argue with priests, after all. "You don't think it means I'm spoiling him?" he asked, just to make sure he hadn't misunderstood. "That I should suck it up and let him cry, instead of taking the easy way out?"
"He's three months old, isn't he?" prompted Father Ted. "I've heard that, for the first few years of life, it's impossible to give a child too much attention."
"But I don't want him to get clingy," protested Stephen, fighting the pins-and-needles that brushed down his legs. "I want him to be able to stand on his own, I...."
"This may sound like a paradox," the priest said gently, "but the children who grow up to be the most independent and self-assured are often the ones who, when they were young, felt most strongly that they had someone to rely on."
*
"Stevie adores you, you know," murmured Tyrone. "Kid's rational enough for the rest of us put together, but he'd walk off a cliff if you asked him. You're like the halfway decent parent he never had."
Pinned against the car, Jon swallowed. The lack of personal space was acute, but Tyrone wasn't using it to his advantage; if anything, he didn't seem to notice. "I had some idea, yeah."
"Sweetness kind of hates you," continued Tyrone, keys clinking in his hand.
"I know."
Tyrone pressed the keyring into Jon's palm. As their fingers brushed, he said, "I don't hate you."
*
"Well, well, well," said Stephen meaningfully. "Well, well, well."
Beside him on the den couch, Jon raised his eyebrows. "Something you want to say?"
"Oh, nothing much," replied Stephen, tossing his head to underline the nothing-muchness of it. "It just suddenly occurred to me that we're all alone. Kids are in bed. The lights are low. And there's something very suggestive on the screen."
Jon looked doubtfully at the television. "Stephen? That's a used car commercial."
"A Fox News used car commercial," corrected Stephen. "Which makes it sexy by proxy."
"Uh, if you say so."
Stephen gave him a look that fairly dripped with meaning.
"So I guess you're not going to let me switch to CNN during the break, huh."
"Jon."
"Right." Jon focused on the screen, groping in earnest for the leap of logic that Stephen no doubt thought was shatteringly obvious. "Alone...dark...sexy deals on 1998 Civics...."
The cushion beside him creaked, and he glanced up to find the other man's face inches from his, voice low and breath warm. "Keep talking."
Jon licked his suddenly-dry lips. "Sexy deals," he repeated, as Stephen pushed him slowly down onto the other pillow. "A sultry zero percent APR. Lusciously manageable monthly payments. No...mmm...no interest until June 2008. Hi."
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