ptahrrific | Fake News: What's Your Age Again?

Title: What's Your Age Again?

Fandom: TDS/TCR
Genre: Somewhere between drama and fluff.
Rating: PG
Words: ~960
Disclaimer: The usual two.

For the Report characters: The Colbert Report characters are property of Stephen and the other Report writers. 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: Written for Jon's 44th birthday (November 28, 2006). Because there can never be too much birthday fic, and there's certainly not enough.

What's Your Age Again?

Jon wasn't sure what he'd been expecting from Stephen. A present? A card? Balloons? No, Stephen only dropped balloons to celebrate his own triumphs. In fact, pretty much everything Stephen did was to celebrate Stephen.

Still, a "Happy Birthday" would've been nice.

Did Stephen even know? Jon had mentioned it on the show; but the toss had been pre-empted by the performance, and it would be just like Stephen to boycott the whole show that night out of spite.

But he could have remembered it from last year, or someone could have told him...

This train of thought chugged along in circles around Jon's mind as he approached the Report studio door and knocked.

To his surprise, Stephen himself opened it. "Jon! Hi! So nice of you to drop by."

"Stephen, you asked me to come over." Jon wasn't sure why he bothered to say it; facts like these never made a dent in Stephen's attitude.

Sure enough: "Did I? I don't think so," replied Stephen amiably, putting a hand on Jon's shoulder and steering him in. "I missed the show. How was it?"

"It was good," offered Jon. "Tom Waits came and sang."

"Is that so."

Jon felt like a puppy being led on a leash, the way Stephen was pulling him along - as if he didn't know the way around his former studio - and not really listening to him. He took a stab at directing the conversation. "I'm a big fan of his. So I, ah, sort of pretended it was a birthday present. The performance."

They started climbing stairs; Stephen nodded absently. "That's nice."

"Stephen, it's my birthday."

The taller man, now that much higher than him for being always a step ahead, looked down. "Really! What's your age again? Forty-nine, fifty?"

"...forty-four."

"Right, of course."

Jon would have stopped walking if not for the hand gripping his arm; as it was, he nearly tripped on the stairs before regaining his footing.

What could he say? How could he convey to his friend that he, Jon, was hurt - really hurt - by this utter lack of care?

After all, it wasn't much different from how Stephen treated him on a daily basis.

Come to think of it, why as Jon still following him?

With Stephen's hand on the break room doorknob, Jon suddenly took a step backwards, pulling his arm out of the other man's grip. And suddenly Stephen was giving him a strange look, almost scared.

"Why did you call me over?" asked Jon sharply. After all, it might be something really serious (in which case he had Stephen's back, of course he did, and Stephen knew it). But if it was just one of his whims, Jon didn't feel like putting up with it. Not today.

"Trust me, Jon?" asked Stephen, with a most uncharacteristic note of appeal in his voice. "Don't you trust Steph--me?"

Jon blinked, then squinted at the man in front of him. He looked like Stephen...

"Oh my [bleep]," said not-Stephen.

And then, before Jon could object, not-Stephen kicked the door open, caught Jon around the waist and pulled him into the room with one hand, and flicked on the light with the other.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" shouted the crowd.

Some part of Jon's brain was dimly aware that his mouth was hanging open, and he ought to do something about it. The rest of him was too stunned to pay attention.

The whole cast and crew had turned up - even both of the Brits - along with several former writers and, yes, correspondents - Rob and Ed, Steve and Nancy - and the lot of them were wearing cheap paper birthday hats and grinning like loons.

He looked from face to face in amazement, then turned to the one next to him: Stephen's face, but not Stephen. "You're..."

"...a Formidable Opponent?"

"Yeah, that's it."

The Opponent smiled - a much more open and unassuming smile than Jon was used to seeing on Stephen's face - and belatedly released Jon's waist.

Still reeling a bit from the shock, the host looked over the crowd, grinning. "You guys - this is great! ... Oh, no. No, you didn't."

For Stephen's stage manager and building manager were rolling out, on a cart, the most massive cake Jon had ever seen in his life, draped in frosting that appeared to be color-coordinated with the Daily Show set.

"You see why we couldn't do this in your studio," put in Sam. "You never would have overlooked this."

"No kidding." It was literal: the top of the cake was at Jon's eye level. This was a huge cake. "So...did you get permission to use Stephen's studio, or are you doing this behind his back?"

The cake wiggled.

Then, before Jon quite realized what was happening, he was facing a sort of mermaid: the bottom half cake, the top half a rather cakey and decidedly shirtless Stephen Colbert. "Behind my back?" he demanded indignantly. "This was my idea."

Jon could have kissed him. Instead, he leaned in and held Stephen's gaze for a moment.

In a tone meant to convey I'm sorry I doubted you and I appreciate how unusual this is for you and You're a good friend all at once, he said, as sincerely as possible, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," replied Stephen brightly, with his familiar un-self-conscious grin. He scooped up a handful of cake, icing and all, and held it out. "Happy birthday, Jon."