Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-08-21 04:51 am
ptahrrific) wrote2007-08-21 04:51 am
Entry tags:
Fake News: Expecting, Chapter 17
Title: Expecting, Chapter 17: Plan B-H
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG
Warnings: Innuendo, fantasies
Words: ~4100
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: As the story approaches its end, the chapters are getting longer. And with this one, it's broken the 40,000-word barrier. This is officially a novel, folks.
If you got teary at the last chapter, keep those tissues handy.
Clips referenced: Stephen's Korean arch-nemesis; this is a God Machine.
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 17
Plan B-H
Today
He paced.
His worries and anxieties and concerns and fears had lost distinction, had congealed into a general background buzz that filled his whole mind. And underneath it he could hear the rumbles of deeper terrors, ideas that he could not or dared not fully contemplate.
The nurse had promised that he would be notified immediately if something went wrong; but, given how well he had been kept informed so far, this didn't comfort him. Besides, at any point something could be going wrong, and the nurse could be just starting to walk down the hall.
For the first time that night, when the door opened, he was expecting it.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
May 29, 2007
34 Weeks
Despite being one of the top members of Phoebe's team, Rick had never spent time alone with the patient. Phoebe was leader and media liaison and Colbert's primary contact all at once; Rick, like the other primary team members, had come to a few checkups, but since the initial implantation his role had been behind the scenes. He specialized in hormones, and aside from the scare over the iron levels this element of the pregnancy had gone very smoothly.
But Colbert was spending two days of the Memorial Week break in the hospital for some round-the-clock observation, and even Phoebe had to sleep once in a while.
Rick was not a people person, so he volunteered for the red-eye shift on the first night. He expected that Colbert would sleep through much of it, and there wouldn't be any bother with building a rapport.
He was wrong on both counts.
When he arrived, Phoebe gave him a brief outline of the day's events. The intermittent discomfort of which he had complained was now positively identified as Braxton-Hicks contractions; aside from that, he had eaten, taken his pills, strolled the gardens, had a visit from Stewart, and relaxed in front of the television with no unexpected difficulties.
In the meantime there was a camera in his room, a little gadget watching his pulse, and a "summon the doctor!" button on his wrist, just in case.
Rick had only exchanged brief greetings with Colbert. The patient had spread a stack of baby catalogs out on the bed and proceeded to get very involved with the latest box set of The Sopranos, so he was prepared to keep himself busy until he fell asleep. This was fine with Rick, who had work of his own to do, and still hadn't cracked the plastic wrap on the movie his sister had sent for his birthday four months ago.
The office next to the observation room had one monitor showing the feed from the camera, and another showing his heartbeat; at about one AM, Rick put his movie on the third. The camera had a night-vision view of the patient sleeping, and the second had been calm and even ever since he'd fallen asleep, so Rick allowed himself to pay attention to the movie.
Kevin Spacey's character was yelling at Amy Sedaris' when the heart rate began to rise.
Rick glanced at the first monitor. The patient shifted a little, but his breathing was even. Just a dream, then.
He paused the movie when Colbert began to talk in his sleep. It was just a garble of unintelligible phonemes, but Rick, like Phoebe, had taken to watching the patient's show every night to get a sense of his progress, so he recognized the intonation of "This is The Colbert Report!" near the beginning.
After eight minutes of intermittent mumbling, Rick wondered if the man were dreaming his way through an entire show.
Rather than start the movie again, he pulled out one of his papers and began to write an abstract, keeping his ears on the monitor. Might as well wait until Colbert drops out of REM sleep, he thought. It can't take long.
Seconds later, the heartbeat began to increase more rapidly; and, though the patient was too large to really toss and turn, he began to shift in agitation. Nightmare.
Rick put his paper down, gave up on the movie for the moment, went next door, and turned on the light.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
Colbert drained the glass of water in one go, then handed it back to the doctor and felt his stomach, as if by reflex.
"Bad dream?" asked Rick, who could think of nothing better to say.
"Bears," said Colbert darkly, as if that explained everything. "You got any more water?"
"Just a moment." Rick went over to the little lavatory attached to the observation room and filled the glass; as an afterthought, he dampened a washcloth and brought that too.
Colbert wiped the sweat from his face. With disheveled hair and his glasses off, he looked entirely different from his television persona — until he was composed enough to arrange his expression. All at once he was the man from the television, eyebrow arched so fiercely that it was hard to notice the damp strands of hair in his face. No wonder there were viewers willing to follow him over a cliff when fully groomed.
"As long as I'm here, can I get you anything else?" offered Rick, fully intending to make it quick and let the patient get back to his much-needed rest.
To his surprise, Colbert said, "Yes. You see that chair? Bring it over here. Yes, right there — now sit down. I'm going to Better Know you."
Rick could hear the capital letters in that. It had the sound of Authority. "Only for a little while, Mr. Colbert," he cautioned. "You need to get enough sleep."
"Right, right, of course. I just can't go back now; the bears are still there. So. Tell me about Dr. Rick Watson ... the fightin' Watson!"
Despite the late hour, the sparsely furnished room, the rumpled sheets, and the hospital-issue pajamas, Colbert was in his element. In ten minutes he had coaxed out of Rick a brief personal history, a defense of his Ivy League education, an explanation of why he enjoyed fly-fishing, and, somehow, an endorsement of George W. Bush as a "great" President.
"Say, you're a pretty nice guy," the host said eventually. "Do you have any interest in being my new black friend?"
This question threw Rick so badly that all he could think of to say was, "I'm not black. I'm biracial."
"Biracial? What's that?"
Okay, Rick had met some clueless white people over the years, but never one who was quite so blatant about it. "Ah. In my case, it means my mother was black and my father was white."
"Yeah, but which are you? Black or white? Pick a side. We're at war."
This was such a non sequitur that Rick could think of nothing to do but try another tack. "Your son's going to be biracial, you know."
"He is?"
Was that meant to be ironic? "You remember when the media was all over his biological parents, don't you? Surely you saw photos of them?"
"Yeah, but I'm colorblind. I don't see race. I'm not a racist."
By this point Rick just wanted out of the conversation, so he gave a clipped, direct answer. "His biological mother is Hispanic, and his biological father is Korean."
"Really? One of my arch-nemeses is Korean!"
At least Rick had context for this one: He had been watching the show during Colbert's overblown feud with Rain. "I can sing in Korean, you know," the host continued. "And I refuse to speak Spanish, but I bet you Esteban would speak it with him..."
"His race doesn't mean he'll born knowing either of those languages," said Rick, perhaps a little testily.
"Well, I know that," replied Colbert. "And obviously I'm going to raise him to speak English, because he's American and that should be our national language. But I thought it might be nice to, I don't know, expose him to some of his, I guess you'd call it, heritage or something. Is that right? I don't know anything about biracial people...."
Rick amended his opinion slightly. Clueless, but not hopeless.
Out loud he said, "That's a good thought. Unfortunately, this isn't my area of expertise; all I can refer to is my own case. You may want to read some of the literature on the matter for broader studies."
Colbert snorted dismissively. "Pfft! Reading."
Still, he looked as if he were considering the idea.
Then he met Rick's eyes and said, in a decidedly final tone, "Dr. Watson, thank you for taking the time to talk to me tonight."
"It was my pleasure," replied Rick, shaking Colbert's hand. As he left, he realized that it was even sort of true.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
June 5, 2007
35 Weeks
Long before Stephen reached Jon's office, he was wishing he hadn't come. Should have just sent Bobby or Tad. No one as tired, sore, or bloated as he felt that morning ought to be on the move.
But Bobby and Tad had both failed retrieval jobs before — Bobby in letting his eagle son run to Canada, Tad in more ways than he could count (really, a chicken?) — and this was far too important a mission to risk. No, Stephen had to fetch her in person.
As soon as he saw that she was safe, he collapsed onto Jon's couch.
"The iPhone fans don't know what they're talking about," he said admiringly, if a little breathlessly. "That is a God Machine."
He still knew every inch of her, every curve, every hue. How could have have left her here to be smacked around by other correspondents? They didn't appreciate her the way he did. They didn't understand her....
Another contraction gripped his insides, and he cringed.
"Are you okay?" asked Jon from the desk, muting his televisions one by one.
"Fine," Stephen replied tightly.
Jon looked dubious. But then, now that Stephen was paying attention, Jon looked kind of out of it too. There was stubble on his chin and a set of heavy bags under his eyes.
"Are you okay?" he asked, when the tension let up.
It took a moment for Jon to respond. Was he surprised that Stephen had asked? But he didn't look surprised; he just looked tired.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Didn't sleep well last night, that's all. Or the night before. And the coffee's wearing off."
"Oh." Stephen could sympathize with that. "You know how I feel, then. This one decided to start doing gymnastics around two AM, and didn't let up all night. I can't wait until he's out and I can get some rest."
For a moment Jon just stared. Then he began to laugh, not his usual adorable girly giggle but the uncontrollable and slightly hysterical laughter of the sleep-deprived. Stephen watched him in alarm for several seconds, and then shuddered as the next contraction hit.
"Sorry," managed Jon as he finally got ahold of himself. "It's just — if you think you're going to get any sleep with a newborn in the house—" He stopped. "Stephen, tell me what's wrong."
"I'm fine, Jon," hissed Stephen as evenly as he could. "It's just Braxton-Hicks — perfectly normal this late in pregnancy."
"But they're not supposed to hurt," his friend protested.
"Not usually," Stephen corrected. The pressure was winding down; he relaxed, began to talk at a normal speed. "My uterus is hooked up to things that aren't designed to be hooked up to, and next to things that aren't designed to have contractions happening next to them, so it's pulling and pushing on things that aren't used to being pulled and pushed. Also, he's small, so there's more space to contract. Also," he finished wryly, "I just got lucky."
"Small?" repeated Jon. "How small?"
"Not small like there's a problem. Small like he's going to be small. You know how it is."
"Are you sure there's nothing wrong—"
"I was in for observation last week, remember? The doctors did all their fancy medical test things, and that's what they told me. In more technical terms, I mean. If there were something wrong, you'd be the first to know."
Jon seemed satisfied with this, so Stephen turned his attention back to the God Machine. She was sitting on her little wheeled stand stand next to Jon's desk; he raised a hand and drew it towards him, and the machine rolled in the same direction.
"I always meant to ask how you do that," remarked Jon.
Stephen frowned. "I didn't do anything. It's all her."
"But she — it — isn't mechanized or anything. Seriously, how do you make it move? Magnets?"
"She missed me," said Stephen, ignoring him. "That's why she stopped working for Sam, and you had to switch to a graphic." He stroked the top of the machine affectionately. "Don't worry, sweetheart. Stephen's here now."
"Is this one of those things where I'm not going to get a straight answer out of you? Like with the wørd bullet?"
"I gave you an answer, Jon. It's not my fault if you don't get it."
He was still soothing the God Machine when the next contraction came, and all his focus went to holding on. Breathe in, slowly, breathe out, ow, ow, ow, breathe in, don't gasp, breathe out, don't moan, don't be weak, don't let Jon think you're weak....
"Stephen, you've got a death grip on that thing! Did you tell Dr. Moreau they were this strong?"
He opened his eyes to see that both hands were on the machine, and gripping her so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.
"They're not," he insisted, ignoring all evidence to the contrary. Evidence was for factinistas. "I told you — I'm fine — if the ladies can do this, so can I—"
Jon fumbled in his desk for a moment, then got up and came over to sit on the couch with something in his hand. As this contraction wound down, Stephen eyed the little white object warily.
"When 'the ladies' get tired of putting up with them," said Jon, "there's always plan B."
"I don't believe in plan B. That would mean admitting that plan A didn't work."
"Plan B-H, then. That's what Bush said about the Baker-Hamilton plan; we used it in a Moment of Zen the other week. You know he wouldn't admit that plan A didn't work."
The logic was compelling, but Stephen remained suspicious. "Jon, are you offering me a hit?"
Again with the giggle. "It's an inhaler, Stephen. Asthma, remember? It's just Venturil. Perfectly legal. But a puff of this will stop Braxton-Hicks."
Stephen eyed the inhaler with new interest. "Really? Is it safe?"
"Yeah. Tracey stole this a couple of times with Nate, but I checked it out before I let her. I've heard a glass of port works on contractions too, but I'm not so sure about its side effects."
And of course Jon wouldn't have suggested it if it weren't safe. The only question left was... "Um, how?"
So Jon talked him through it. As he was holding his breath to make sure his lungs absorbed the drug, it occurred to him that Jon's lips had probably been wrapped around this thing hundreds of times.
And if his wife used it too, it's an inhaler three-way.
It wasn't as tasty as an ice cream three-way; but now that he was thinking about Jon and lips and wrapping and sucking, it was surprisingly hard to focus.
At last he put it down, wiping off the mouthpiece with his sleeve. "How long until it starts working?"
"Uh, at least five minutes. No more than twenty, I don't think."
He'd just gotten used to the idea of not having any more of these, and instead he might have twenty minutes' worth still to go? Stephen groaned.
"How soon do you have to get back?" asked Jon.
"It's my show. I can get back whenever I want."
"That," said Jon, "is not actually true, but lucky for you I'm too tired to argue." He retrieved an ugly green pillow from behind the couch and handed it to Stephen. "Lie down."
A little thrill went down Stephen's spine. "What are you going to do?"
"I," replied Jon, putting a second pillow on his own lap, "am going to sit right here and prop up your feet, and pretend I don't have any work to do either. Go on, lie down."
Soon enough Stephen was stretched out with his head on a pillow on the arm of the couch, his torso awkwardly twisted so that the weight of the baby wouldn't squash his other organs, and his legs on another pillow resting on Jon's thighs. And it was all perfectly innocent, never mind that half of the fantasies that he refused to acknowledge in daylight hours began with this same man saying, in a voice that was gentle but too firm to disobey, "Lie down."
"How are your feet?" asked the real Jon.
"Sore," replied Stephen.
"Let me get these shoes off."
And that, again, was almost how the fantasy went — Lie down; now take off your shoes, now your tie, now your shirt; and in some versions Stephen tried to resist, no, please, don't make me do this, but Jon would smile a knowing smile and say Don't lie to me, Stephen, I know you want this; and he'd be right, because even though it was shameful and dirty and profane and wrong, Stephen ached for it, and at the first touch....
"Ow!"
The pain brought him back to reality like a bucket of ice water. That wasn't in any of his fantasies. Of course, he usually wasn't pregnant in them either. Certainly not this pregnant.
"Sorry!" said Jon quickly. "I'll be more careful."
"Just don't — they hurt when you touch them — leave the socks on, they're fine...."
He broke off as the squeezing began again.
Dr. Moreau had timed a handful of these, and the average one was what she called "only thirty seconds, even if it seems like much longer." Stephen, who worked in television, knew there was no 'only' about it. Thirty seconds of material was a respectable toss. Thirty seconds of dead air was suicide, with an extra twenty-five seconds to put nails in the coffin. Thirty seconds of iron bands tightening around his uterus was about as long as he could stand.
He realized belatedly that Jon was talking: "I know this came up at the Lamaze class one time, but all I remember is that one woman said what helped her was movies with lots of explosions. And hot water bottles, but I don't have any of those here either. And having their husbands do the cooking and cleaning, but you pay people to do that..."
Stephen was only half listening, wondering if there were a point to this. If it didn't help him....
"What worked for Lorraine?"
"Hm?"
"When your wife was having Braxton-Hicks, what made her feel better?"
"Dunno."
A moment later he realized that the talking had stopped, and he twisted his head to look up at Jon, expecting to get a reproachful or exasperated look the way he usually did.
No such luck.
On top of being tired and having a touch of that soulful sad-dog look which came so naturally to him, Jon looked disappointed, in a sort of way that suggested it didn't matter that Stephen was a Top Entertainer of 2006 and Time.com's Second Most Influential Person in the World and a bestselling flavor of ice cream all at the same time, he was still a failure if he couldn't think of anything.
"Massage," he remembered suddenly. "With...one of the kids," how ever did Jon keep his wife's pregnancies straight?, "I hired a masseuse, because she was complaining about...she wanted something strange, not a foot massage — oh! I bet her feet hurt too! So she got calf massages."
"Sounds right. Would you like one?"
"A masseuse?"
"A calf massage."
"From who?"
"Well, me."
"Are you trained?"
"No, but it's not exactly rocket science, is it? I gave Trace a couple, but mostly she just wanted me to leave her alone and go make dinner."
Whipped, thought Stephen, but he had an idea that Jon might not like to hear this. Instead he said, "Well, give it a try. If I want you to leave me alone, I'll tell you."
"I'm sure you will," said Jon with a touch of amusement; and then he was kneading the tired muscles of Stephen's legs, gently but firmly, and Stephen was resolutely picturing Helen Thomas.
They remained like this in silence for a few minutes. The next contraction came and went; Jon's touch didn't make it any easier but was at least distracting. And then the contraction after that didn't come at all, and the baby, who had gotten wriggly while he was being squeezed, went blessedly calm.
Stephen didn't move; he hoped that as long as he held still, Jon wouldn't stop.
"I should have..." he began, and stopped, because he knew what he was going to say but had a sinking feeling that it led somewhere he didn't want to go.
"Should have what?" said Jon gently.
"I should have done this for Lor," he said, all in a rush. "I should have done a lot of things for her. I should have paid more attention. I should have done better. I should...I should have been better."
There was a lump in his throat; he swallowed hard.
"Jon, am I a failure?"
"Oh, Stephen. Of course not," murmured Jon. "You're a best-selling flavor of ice cream, remember?"
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
His even breathing showed that Stephen had fallen asleep, but Jon didn't stop moving his hands for a minute or two, just in case.
He didn't know what had prompted this sudden onslaught of awareness, but it was both heartening and heartbreaking. My Stephen. You'll get better at this, I know you will. And I hope you'll find another woman who'll put up with you, now that you have some idea of how to treat one.
Or a man, for that matter — that's what you want, right? I hope you can admit that to yourself, and find one who'll love you, and if he ever hurts you I'll kick his — well, he'll probably be stronger than I am, and in better shape, and without the asthma, and taller, let's not forget taller....
And why am I already making plans to get beaten up by Stephen's hypothetical future boyfriend? Geez, Jon, glutton for punishment much?
Having suitably chastised himself for being silly, he went back to looking at Stephen. As if to make up for the tension and energy and spring-loaded temper that he carried while awake, the other man was sleeping so peacefully that it made Jon feel drowsy just to look at him.
Don't nap now, or you'll never get to sleep tonight....
But he couldn't exactly move, what with the way Stephen's legs were draped across him; and all of his nerves were crying out for a rest; and someone would wake him up in an hour anyway if he didn't put in an order for lunch.
Jon closed his eyes.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
A digital photo began to circulate in internal emails that afternoon. A copy was eventually printed out and pinned up on The Daily Show's break room fridge; some care was taken to hide it from the boss, but then he saw it and laughed and said it was quite a good joke, so it stayed.
The same photo ended up on The Colbert Report's fridge, but this one was tucked under a memo about annual quarterly financial reports, which ensured that the boss here would never see it.
Each photo had a handwritten caption, the same as the subject line of the email:
"CAUGHT ON CAMERA: Stewart and Colbert sleeping together!"
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG
Warnings: Innuendo, fantasies
Words: ~4100
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: As the story approaches its end, the chapters are getting longer. And with this one, it's broken the 40,000-word barrier. This is officially a novel, folks.
If you got teary at the last chapter, keep those tissues handy.
Clips referenced: Stephen's Korean arch-nemesis; this is a God Machine.
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 17
Plan B-H
Today
He paced.
His worries and anxieties and concerns and fears had lost distinction, had congealed into a general background buzz that filled his whole mind. And underneath it he could hear the rumbles of deeper terrors, ideas that he could not or dared not fully contemplate.
The nurse had promised that he would be notified immediately if something went wrong; but, given how well he had been kept informed so far, this didn't comfort him. Besides, at any point something could be going wrong, and the nurse could be just starting to walk down the hall.
For the first time that night, when the door opened, he was expecting it.
May 29, 2007
34 Weeks
Despite being one of the top members of Phoebe's team, Rick had never spent time alone with the patient. Phoebe was leader and media liaison and Colbert's primary contact all at once; Rick, like the other primary team members, had come to a few checkups, but since the initial implantation his role had been behind the scenes. He specialized in hormones, and aside from the scare over the iron levels this element of the pregnancy had gone very smoothly.
But Colbert was spending two days of the Memorial Week break in the hospital for some round-the-clock observation, and even Phoebe had to sleep once in a while.
Rick was not a people person, so he volunteered for the red-eye shift on the first night. He expected that Colbert would sleep through much of it, and there wouldn't be any bother with building a rapport.
He was wrong on both counts.
When he arrived, Phoebe gave him a brief outline of the day's events. The intermittent discomfort of which he had complained was now positively identified as Braxton-Hicks contractions; aside from that, he had eaten, taken his pills, strolled the gardens, had a visit from Stewart, and relaxed in front of the television with no unexpected difficulties.
In the meantime there was a camera in his room, a little gadget watching his pulse, and a "summon the doctor!" button on his wrist, just in case.
Rick had only exchanged brief greetings with Colbert. The patient had spread a stack of baby catalogs out on the bed and proceeded to get very involved with the latest box set of The Sopranos, so he was prepared to keep himself busy until he fell asleep. This was fine with Rick, who had work of his own to do, and still hadn't cracked the plastic wrap on the movie his sister had sent for his birthday four months ago.
The office next to the observation room had one monitor showing the feed from the camera, and another showing his heartbeat; at about one AM, Rick put his movie on the third. The camera had a night-vision view of the patient sleeping, and the second had been calm and even ever since he'd fallen asleep, so Rick allowed himself to pay attention to the movie.
Kevin Spacey's character was yelling at Amy Sedaris' when the heart rate began to rise.
Rick glanced at the first monitor. The patient shifted a little, but his breathing was even. Just a dream, then.
He paused the movie when Colbert began to talk in his sleep. It was just a garble of unintelligible phonemes, but Rick, like Phoebe, had taken to watching the patient's show every night to get a sense of his progress, so he recognized the intonation of "This is The Colbert Report!" near the beginning.
After eight minutes of intermittent mumbling, Rick wondered if the man were dreaming his way through an entire show.
Rather than start the movie again, he pulled out one of his papers and began to write an abstract, keeping his ears on the monitor. Might as well wait until Colbert drops out of REM sleep, he thought. It can't take long.
Seconds later, the heartbeat began to increase more rapidly; and, though the patient was too large to really toss and turn, he began to shift in agitation. Nightmare.
Rick put his paper down, gave up on the movie for the moment, went next door, and turned on the light.
Colbert drained the glass of water in one go, then handed it back to the doctor and felt his stomach, as if by reflex.
"Bad dream?" asked Rick, who could think of nothing better to say.
"Bears," said Colbert darkly, as if that explained everything. "You got any more water?"
"Just a moment." Rick went over to the little lavatory attached to the observation room and filled the glass; as an afterthought, he dampened a washcloth and brought that too.
Colbert wiped the sweat from his face. With disheveled hair and his glasses off, he looked entirely different from his television persona — until he was composed enough to arrange his expression. All at once he was the man from the television, eyebrow arched so fiercely that it was hard to notice the damp strands of hair in his face. No wonder there were viewers willing to follow him over a cliff when fully groomed.
"As long as I'm here, can I get you anything else?" offered Rick, fully intending to make it quick and let the patient get back to his much-needed rest.
To his surprise, Colbert said, "Yes. You see that chair? Bring it over here. Yes, right there — now sit down. I'm going to Better Know you."
Rick could hear the capital letters in that. It had the sound of Authority. "Only for a little while, Mr. Colbert," he cautioned. "You need to get enough sleep."
"Right, right, of course. I just can't go back now; the bears are still there. So. Tell me about Dr. Rick Watson ... the fightin' Watson!"
Despite the late hour, the sparsely furnished room, the rumpled sheets, and the hospital-issue pajamas, Colbert was in his element. In ten minutes he had coaxed out of Rick a brief personal history, a defense of his Ivy League education, an explanation of why he enjoyed fly-fishing, and, somehow, an endorsement of George W. Bush as a "great" President.
"Say, you're a pretty nice guy," the host said eventually. "Do you have any interest in being my new black friend?"
This question threw Rick so badly that all he could think of to say was, "I'm not black. I'm biracial."
"Biracial? What's that?"
Okay, Rick had met some clueless white people over the years, but never one who was quite so blatant about it. "Ah. In my case, it means my mother was black and my father was white."
"Yeah, but which are you? Black or white? Pick a side. We're at war."
This was such a non sequitur that Rick could think of nothing to do but try another tack. "Your son's going to be biracial, you know."
"He is?"
Was that meant to be ironic? "You remember when the media was all over his biological parents, don't you? Surely you saw photos of them?"
"Yeah, but I'm colorblind. I don't see race. I'm not a racist."
By this point Rick just wanted out of the conversation, so he gave a clipped, direct answer. "His biological mother is Hispanic, and his biological father is Korean."
"Really? One of my arch-nemeses is Korean!"
At least Rick had context for this one: He had been watching the show during Colbert's overblown feud with Rain. "I can sing in Korean, you know," the host continued. "And I refuse to speak Spanish, but I bet you Esteban would speak it with him..."
"His race doesn't mean he'll born knowing either of those languages," said Rick, perhaps a little testily.
"Well, I know that," replied Colbert. "And obviously I'm going to raise him to speak English, because he's American and that should be our national language. But I thought it might be nice to, I don't know, expose him to some of his, I guess you'd call it, heritage or something. Is that right? I don't know anything about biracial people...."
Rick amended his opinion slightly. Clueless, but not hopeless.
Out loud he said, "That's a good thought. Unfortunately, this isn't my area of expertise; all I can refer to is my own case. You may want to read some of the literature on the matter for broader studies."
Colbert snorted dismissively. "Pfft! Reading."
Still, he looked as if he were considering the idea.
Then he met Rick's eyes and said, in a decidedly final tone, "Dr. Watson, thank you for taking the time to talk to me tonight."
"It was my pleasure," replied Rick, shaking Colbert's hand. As he left, he realized that it was even sort of true.
June 5, 2007
35 Weeks
Long before Stephen reached Jon's office, he was wishing he hadn't come. Should have just sent Bobby or Tad. No one as tired, sore, or bloated as he felt that morning ought to be on the move.
But Bobby and Tad had both failed retrieval jobs before — Bobby in letting his eagle son run to Canada, Tad in more ways than he could count (really, a chicken?) — and this was far too important a mission to risk. No, Stephen had to fetch her in person.
As soon as he saw that she was safe, he collapsed onto Jon's couch.
"The iPhone fans don't know what they're talking about," he said admiringly, if a little breathlessly. "That is a God Machine."
He still knew every inch of her, every curve, every hue. How could have have left her here to be smacked around by other correspondents? They didn't appreciate her the way he did. They didn't understand her....
Another contraction gripped his insides, and he cringed.
"Are you okay?" asked Jon from the desk, muting his televisions one by one.
"Fine," Stephen replied tightly.
Jon looked dubious. But then, now that Stephen was paying attention, Jon looked kind of out of it too. There was stubble on his chin and a set of heavy bags under his eyes.
"Are you okay?" he asked, when the tension let up.
It took a moment for Jon to respond. Was he surprised that Stephen had asked? But he didn't look surprised; he just looked tired.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Didn't sleep well last night, that's all. Or the night before. And the coffee's wearing off."
"Oh." Stephen could sympathize with that. "You know how I feel, then. This one decided to start doing gymnastics around two AM, and didn't let up all night. I can't wait until he's out and I can get some rest."
For a moment Jon just stared. Then he began to laugh, not his usual adorable girly giggle but the uncontrollable and slightly hysterical laughter of the sleep-deprived. Stephen watched him in alarm for several seconds, and then shuddered as the next contraction hit.
"Sorry," managed Jon as he finally got ahold of himself. "It's just — if you think you're going to get any sleep with a newborn in the house—" He stopped. "Stephen, tell me what's wrong."
"I'm fine, Jon," hissed Stephen as evenly as he could. "It's just Braxton-Hicks — perfectly normal this late in pregnancy."
"But they're not supposed to hurt," his friend protested.
"Not usually," Stephen corrected. The pressure was winding down; he relaxed, began to talk at a normal speed. "My uterus is hooked up to things that aren't designed to be hooked up to, and next to things that aren't designed to have contractions happening next to them, so it's pulling and pushing on things that aren't used to being pulled and pushed. Also, he's small, so there's more space to contract. Also," he finished wryly, "I just got lucky."
"Small?" repeated Jon. "How small?"
"Not small like there's a problem. Small like he's going to be small. You know how it is."
"Are you sure there's nothing wrong—"
"I was in for observation last week, remember? The doctors did all their fancy medical test things, and that's what they told me. In more technical terms, I mean. If there were something wrong, you'd be the first to know."
Jon seemed satisfied with this, so Stephen turned his attention back to the God Machine. She was sitting on her little wheeled stand stand next to Jon's desk; he raised a hand and drew it towards him, and the machine rolled in the same direction.
"I always meant to ask how you do that," remarked Jon.
Stephen frowned. "I didn't do anything. It's all her."
"But she — it — isn't mechanized or anything. Seriously, how do you make it move? Magnets?"
"She missed me," said Stephen, ignoring him. "That's why she stopped working for Sam, and you had to switch to a graphic." He stroked the top of the machine affectionately. "Don't worry, sweetheart. Stephen's here now."
"Is this one of those things where I'm not going to get a straight answer out of you? Like with the wørd bullet?"
"I gave you an answer, Jon. It's not my fault if you don't get it."
He was still soothing the God Machine when the next contraction came, and all his focus went to holding on. Breathe in, slowly, breathe out, ow, ow, ow, breathe in, don't gasp, breathe out, don't moan, don't be weak, don't let Jon think you're weak....
"Stephen, you've got a death grip on that thing! Did you tell Dr. Moreau they were this strong?"
He opened his eyes to see that both hands were on the machine, and gripping her so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.
"They're not," he insisted, ignoring all evidence to the contrary. Evidence was for factinistas. "I told you — I'm fine — if the ladies can do this, so can I—"
Jon fumbled in his desk for a moment, then got up and came over to sit on the couch with something in his hand. As this contraction wound down, Stephen eyed the little white object warily.
"When 'the ladies' get tired of putting up with them," said Jon, "there's always plan B."
"I don't believe in plan B. That would mean admitting that plan A didn't work."
"Plan B-H, then. That's what Bush said about the Baker-Hamilton plan; we used it in a Moment of Zen the other week. You know he wouldn't admit that plan A didn't work."
The logic was compelling, but Stephen remained suspicious. "Jon, are you offering me a hit?"
Again with the giggle. "It's an inhaler, Stephen. Asthma, remember? It's just Venturil. Perfectly legal. But a puff of this will stop Braxton-Hicks."
Stephen eyed the inhaler with new interest. "Really? Is it safe?"
"Yeah. Tracey stole this a couple of times with Nate, but I checked it out before I let her. I've heard a glass of port works on contractions too, but I'm not so sure about its side effects."
And of course Jon wouldn't have suggested it if it weren't safe. The only question left was... "Um, how?"
So Jon talked him through it. As he was holding his breath to make sure his lungs absorbed the drug, it occurred to him that Jon's lips had probably been wrapped around this thing hundreds of times.
And if his wife used it too, it's an inhaler three-way.
It wasn't as tasty as an ice cream three-way; but now that he was thinking about Jon and lips and wrapping and sucking, it was surprisingly hard to focus.
At last he put it down, wiping off the mouthpiece with his sleeve. "How long until it starts working?"
"Uh, at least five minutes. No more than twenty, I don't think."
He'd just gotten used to the idea of not having any more of these, and instead he might have twenty minutes' worth still to go? Stephen groaned.
"How soon do you have to get back?" asked Jon.
"It's my show. I can get back whenever I want."
"That," said Jon, "is not actually true, but lucky for you I'm too tired to argue." He retrieved an ugly green pillow from behind the couch and handed it to Stephen. "Lie down."
A little thrill went down Stephen's spine. "What are you going to do?"
"I," replied Jon, putting a second pillow on his own lap, "am going to sit right here and prop up your feet, and pretend I don't have any work to do either. Go on, lie down."
Soon enough Stephen was stretched out with his head on a pillow on the arm of the couch, his torso awkwardly twisted so that the weight of the baby wouldn't squash his other organs, and his legs on another pillow resting on Jon's thighs. And it was all perfectly innocent, never mind that half of the fantasies that he refused to acknowledge in daylight hours began with this same man saying, in a voice that was gentle but too firm to disobey, "Lie down."
"How are your feet?" asked the real Jon.
"Sore," replied Stephen.
"Let me get these shoes off."
And that, again, was almost how the fantasy went — Lie down; now take off your shoes, now your tie, now your shirt; and in some versions Stephen tried to resist, no, please, don't make me do this, but Jon would smile a knowing smile and say Don't lie to me, Stephen, I know you want this; and he'd be right, because even though it was shameful and dirty and profane and wrong, Stephen ached for it, and at the first touch....
"Ow!"
The pain brought him back to reality like a bucket of ice water. That wasn't in any of his fantasies. Of course, he usually wasn't pregnant in them either. Certainly not this pregnant.
"Sorry!" said Jon quickly. "I'll be more careful."
"Just don't — they hurt when you touch them — leave the socks on, they're fine...."
He broke off as the squeezing began again.
Dr. Moreau had timed a handful of these, and the average one was what she called "only thirty seconds, even if it seems like much longer." Stephen, who worked in television, knew there was no 'only' about it. Thirty seconds of material was a respectable toss. Thirty seconds of dead air was suicide, with an extra twenty-five seconds to put nails in the coffin. Thirty seconds of iron bands tightening around his uterus was about as long as he could stand.
He realized belatedly that Jon was talking: "I know this came up at the Lamaze class one time, but all I remember is that one woman said what helped her was movies with lots of explosions. And hot water bottles, but I don't have any of those here either. And having their husbands do the cooking and cleaning, but you pay people to do that..."
Stephen was only half listening, wondering if there were a point to this. If it didn't help him....
"What worked for Lorraine?"
"Hm?"
"When your wife was having Braxton-Hicks, what made her feel better?"
"Dunno."
A moment later he realized that the talking had stopped, and he twisted his head to look up at Jon, expecting to get a reproachful or exasperated look the way he usually did.
No such luck.
On top of being tired and having a touch of that soulful sad-dog look which came so naturally to him, Jon looked disappointed, in a sort of way that suggested it didn't matter that Stephen was a Top Entertainer of 2006 and Time.com's Second Most Influential Person in the World and a bestselling flavor of ice cream all at the same time, he was still a failure if he couldn't think of anything.
"Massage," he remembered suddenly. "With...one of the kids," how ever did Jon keep his wife's pregnancies straight?, "I hired a masseuse, because she was complaining about...she wanted something strange, not a foot massage — oh! I bet her feet hurt too! So she got calf massages."
"Sounds right. Would you like one?"
"A masseuse?"
"A calf massage."
"From who?"
"Well, me."
"Are you trained?"
"No, but it's not exactly rocket science, is it? I gave Trace a couple, but mostly she just wanted me to leave her alone and go make dinner."
Whipped, thought Stephen, but he had an idea that Jon might not like to hear this. Instead he said, "Well, give it a try. If I want you to leave me alone, I'll tell you."
"I'm sure you will," said Jon with a touch of amusement; and then he was kneading the tired muscles of Stephen's legs, gently but firmly, and Stephen was resolutely picturing Helen Thomas.
They remained like this in silence for a few minutes. The next contraction came and went; Jon's touch didn't make it any easier but was at least distracting. And then the contraction after that didn't come at all, and the baby, who had gotten wriggly while he was being squeezed, went blessedly calm.
Stephen didn't move; he hoped that as long as he held still, Jon wouldn't stop.
"I should have..." he began, and stopped, because he knew what he was going to say but had a sinking feeling that it led somewhere he didn't want to go.
"Should have what?" said Jon gently.
"I should have done this for Lor," he said, all in a rush. "I should have done a lot of things for her. I should have paid more attention. I should have done better. I should...I should have been better."
There was a lump in his throat; he swallowed hard.
"Jon, am I a failure?"
"Oh, Stephen. Of course not," murmured Jon. "You're a best-selling flavor of ice cream, remember?"
His even breathing showed that Stephen had fallen asleep, but Jon didn't stop moving his hands for a minute or two, just in case.
He didn't know what had prompted this sudden onslaught of awareness, but it was both heartening and heartbreaking. My Stephen. You'll get better at this, I know you will. And I hope you'll find another woman who'll put up with you, now that you have some idea of how to treat one.
Or a man, for that matter — that's what you want, right? I hope you can admit that to yourself, and find one who'll love you, and if he ever hurts you I'll kick his — well, he'll probably be stronger than I am, and in better shape, and without the asthma, and taller, let's not forget taller....
And why am I already making plans to get beaten up by Stephen's hypothetical future boyfriend? Geez, Jon, glutton for punishment much?
Having suitably chastised himself for being silly, he went back to looking at Stephen. As if to make up for the tension and energy and spring-loaded temper that he carried while awake, the other man was sleeping so peacefully that it made Jon feel drowsy just to look at him.
Don't nap now, or you'll never get to sleep tonight....
But he couldn't exactly move, what with the way Stephen's legs were draped across him; and all of his nerves were crying out for a rest; and someone would wake him up in an hour anyway if he didn't put in an order for lunch.
Jon closed his eyes.
A digital photo began to circulate in internal emails that afternoon. A copy was eventually printed out and pinned up on The Daily Show's break room fridge; some care was taken to hide it from the boss, but then he saw it and laughed and said it was quite a good joke, so it stayed.
The same photo ended up on The Colbert Report's fridge, but this one was tucked under a memo about annual quarterly financial reports, which ensured that the boss here would never see it.
Each photo had a handwritten caption, the same as the subject line of the email:
"CAUGHT ON CAMERA: Stewart and Colbert sleeping together!"