Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-10-18 12:02 am
ptahrrific) wrote2007-10-18 12:02 am
Entry tags:
Fake News: The Thing With Feathers, Chapter 16
Title: The Thing With Feathers, Chapter 16
Fandom: The Daily Show/The Colbert Report
Rating: PG
Words: ~1800
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: For the full table of contents, click here.
The Thing With Feathers
Chapter 16
(everywhere.)
He was old, so old: as old as the earth, and the rain, and the wind. Like so many of his kind, he had long ceased to put much thought into the ways of mortals. There were too many, their lives too brief.
But this one had challenged him, a bright shining human soul pronouncing a challenge to him personally, and that he could not ignore. This did not mean that he could not bide his time. And so he waited, curled like a snake in the grass, until the moment was right. To one as old as he was, two weeks and two days passed like five seconds.
When the moment arrived, he blew the celestial winds and transported his challenger to this place. Here there would be no need to strike him down, for he would strike all the blows himself.
The result was all that he had hoped for. And these two men (this one man) were (was) standing before him and telling him it was wrong.
He arched his body and lowered his head towards them. Neither yielded.
YOU ARE FIGHTERS?
"No," said the man in the world on to his left, shaking his head. "We're not warriors in anybody's cause. We're just regular guys."
BUT YOU WILL FIGHT FOR HIM.
"Well, yeah," said the man in the world to his right. "He's our friend."
Oh, he would have to speak to Athena about this one.
---------------------
When the great feathered head had lowered towards Jon and Jon, Allison had grabbed a paperweight and held it at the ready. She didn't think it would be much use, but if Quetzalcoatl (the Quetzalcoatl!) struck at either Jon, she wasn't about to sit around and do nothing.
The Jons held their ground, either bolstered by anger or paralyzed by fear, and at last the god raised his head again.
IT IS WELL, he said. NOW TAKE BACK WHAT IS YOURS.
He began to slither (or was it fly?) along the edge of the holes in the worlds, through the edges, submerging his body in reality as though the surface of the world had no more solidity than the surface of a lake. "Wait!" exclaimed Allison.
Now the paper-white eyes were turned, wordless, expectant, on her.
"Before you go," she stammered -- it was terrifying, but she needed to know -- "tell us: which came first? Did our writing create their world, or is their world creating what we write?"
NEITHER, said the plumed serpent. SOMEONE ELSE IS WRITING YOU BOTH.
And then he arced into the edges again, tracing the square formed by the existing walls of the room, and then he could no longer be seen except in that the sharp edges of the hole grew soft, feathery, as the proper ends of the rooms began to appear.
---------------------
"That's it?" said Eric in disbelief. "No duel of champions, no trek into the underworld, we don't even need to bring him the Wicked Witch's broom? He's going to say okay and leave, just like that? That's so..."
"Don't complain!" exclaimed Bobby. "If an angry, petty, vengeful being has your life in his hands, you want him to be fickle. Trust me on this one."
"But -- but -- it's such an anticlimax! If I were writing this, it would have been a lot more dramatic."
"Maybe," mused Bobby, "this is being written by someone who likes us."
And then all attention turned to the Stephens.
---------------------
It was a moment before Stephen realized what was happening; but the instant he did, he got to his feet, pushed passed Tad and Bobby, and charged towards the opening.
His foot caught on the rough-edged four inches of wall that had grown up from the floor; he tripped, stumbled forward, caught Jon (his Jon!) for support, and fell against him.
The other man went rigid, cold.
"Jon, it's me."
Jon made an obvious effort to relax. "I know. I know. It's just -- listen, I'll tell you later." And he looked pointedly down at the other Stephen, who was curled up in a fetal ball with only Eric still by his side.
That didn't last long, for all at once the Jon in the suit had leapt the barrier and wrapped Stephen's character in his arms, murmuring soothingly into his good ear.
Stephen, still leaning on his own Jon, looked back across the barrier (now nearly a foot tall) to Bobby and Tad. "Come help us out, guys."
They approached, eying their boss warily.
"Look," said Stephen, "I know he's a jerk, but he's just been put through the wringer by a vengeful god. Cut him some slack."
---------------------
He felt drained, broken, shattered: his gut worn out, his mind scattered, his wrist killing him. He hadn't seen anything but the feathers, and even when he knew it was Quetzalcoatl he couldn't pick out the god's form, couldn't make it look like anything but endless shifting feathers.
He heard his own voice, as if from far off, saying the line that he remembered from that segment years ago; and then he closed his eyes and stopped trying to understand. He only dimly heard when Jon began to shout, the words coming so fast and so loud that there might have been two of him. Even the endless voice of Quetzalcoatl ceased to push meaning through the fog.
And then Jon's voice was right by his ear, gentle, his breath warm, and a few phrases made their way through. ...going to be okay ... your Jon ... you're going home...
He sagged limply into the arms that caught him up, and opened his eyes, just a fraction.
It was like looking in a mirror.
No, he decided, it wasn't like that at all. He had spent enough hours studying himself in mirrors to know how he looked in them; he knew every tic, every quirk, every line and every hair.
This was his face with all of those reversed. It was like looking at a living portrait. It was himself as others saw him.
"Hello?" he whispered.
"Hey," said his own voice in reply. "Hang in there."
So he did. Because if you can't trust yourself, who can you trust?
---------------------
The edge of the barrier shifted like sand as it rose, and, as they found when Eric held a hand above it for a few seconds, tried to grow around anything placed in its path. So they couldn't lean on it; instead, Tad and Bobby stood on one side, Jon and Jon and Stephen and Eric and Allison on the other, and all seven of them held Stephen's character (no, the other Stephen), passing him across, carrying him home.
The growing wall was still only two feet tall, so as soon as Stephen's character was across it the Jon in the suit simply stepped over it into his own world, then turned back.
"Thank you," he said, "so much, for taking care of him."
"Likewise," said the Jon in the T-shirt. "Just get him into rehab."
"Right away," said the other Jon.
"And next time he's downing pills like water on the show," added Allison, "don't let it slide."
"I won't."
"And be more assertive," added Stephen with a wink.
He smiled. "I will."
Stephen watched him go to the couch, where Tad and Bobby had laid the character down. He started to lean on his own Jon, then thought better of it. "Can I...?"
"Go ahead. Sorry about earlier. It's just," and he lowered his voice, "the last Stephen who jumped on me kinda tried to stick his tongue down my throat, so..."
He trailed off uncomfortably as Stephen stared at him, the implications of this falling into place.
And then Stephen turned to the barrier -- it was half closed now, the opening more like a huge picture window than a whole missing wall -- and shouted through it, "Jon! Come back!"
---------------------
He hadn't gotten a chance to talk to his other self; once Quetzalcoatl had gone he went straight to Stephen, his Stephen. But Jon couldn't help noticing the way the other Stephen ran directly into the other Jon's arms, whispered to him, leaned on him. All the kindness that this Stephen had shown while trapped in Jon's world -- all the friendship, all the easy camaraderie -- belonged to this other Jon, not him.
So Jon threw his whole attention to his own Stephen, who had perhaps never needed it more. The normally proud pundit was semiconscious, shaking all over, with limp hair, ragged breath, and the dried tracks of tears lining his face; his eyes were tightly shut. As the others from both worlds helped Jon lift him, Jon kept up the comforting litany in his ear.
After only a brief pause to thank the denizens of the other world, he ran back to Stephen's side.
He didn't want to leave it, not for a second -- in fact, not ever again, not if he could help it -- but then the other Stephen called him and their connection would be closed soon, so Jon turned and jogged back, coming nearly up to the wall as he was beckoned closer and closer. "What? What is it? Did we leave anything over there?"
The other man had a giddy grin on his face, the kind that melted Jon's heart whenever he saw it on his own Stephen. "No, no, it's fine," he said, half laughing as he spoke. "It's better than fine. It's great. Here's the thing. You think you're not putting pressure on him, you think you aren't straining his walls, but you are. You are!"
Jon's heart sank, and it must have showed on his face, for this Stephen added quickly, "Not with anything you do. You're doing everything right. You can't help it, any more than the baby carrots can."
Jon frowned. Stephen kept grinning. The window between them was only a few feet on each side now.
"I don't understand..."
"Get him alone in a room with you some night," laughed Stephen. "You'll figure it out pretty quickly. Mine did. Until then..."
He reached through the barrier, curled his left hand around the back of Jon's neck, drew him in, and pressed a soft kiss to his temple.
"Thank you again," he said as he withdrew back into his own world. "For everything."
Jon opened his mouth; but before he could think of anything to say, the last of the wall closed in without so much as a whisper.
---------------------
Stephen put his good hand on the bricks and leaned forward slightly. Solid.
"And now," he announced, no longer feeling giddy, just lightheaded, "I'm going home."
"Are you sure you're good to drive?" asked Eric.
"No! Oh, no, I am definitely not good to drive. Not for eight hours after the shot."
"Shot?" repeated Allison. "What shot?"
"The one to counteract the overdose..."
"What!?" chorused the others.
"It's a long story, I'll tell you on the way. Come on."
"We've made excuses," said Jon. "You can stay here for the night; your wife will be driving in tomorrow after you wake up..."
Stephen shook his head. "Jon, the last time I woke up, I found myself in a world where my wife didn't exist. Either someone is taking me to her, or I am staying awake until she arrives, because I am not going to sleep until I have seen her again."
Still confused, Eric and Allison started to protest, but Jon held up a hand to cut them off.
"My car is leaving for Stephen's house," he announced. "Are you coming?"
Fandom: The Daily Show/The Colbert Report
Rating: PG
Words: ~1800
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: For the full table of contents, click here.
The Thing With Feathers
Chapter 16
(everywhere.)
He was old, so old: as old as the earth, and the rain, and the wind. Like so many of his kind, he had long ceased to put much thought into the ways of mortals. There were too many, their lives too brief.
But this one had challenged him, a bright shining human soul pronouncing a challenge to him personally, and that he could not ignore. This did not mean that he could not bide his time. And so he waited, curled like a snake in the grass, until the moment was right. To one as old as he was, two weeks and two days passed like five seconds.
When the moment arrived, he blew the celestial winds and transported his challenger to this place. Here there would be no need to strike him down, for he would strike all the blows himself.
The result was all that he had hoped for. And these two men (this one man) were (was) standing before him and telling him it was wrong.
He arched his body and lowered his head towards them. Neither yielded.
YOU ARE FIGHTERS?
"No," said the man in the world on to his left, shaking his head. "We're not warriors in anybody's cause. We're just regular guys."
BUT YOU WILL FIGHT FOR HIM.
"Well, yeah," said the man in the world to his right. "He's our friend."
Oh, he would have to speak to Athena about this one.
When the great feathered head had lowered towards Jon and Jon, Allison had grabbed a paperweight and held it at the ready. She didn't think it would be much use, but if Quetzalcoatl (the Quetzalcoatl!) struck at either Jon, she wasn't about to sit around and do nothing.
The Jons held their ground, either bolstered by anger or paralyzed by fear, and at last the god raised his head again.
IT IS WELL, he said. NOW TAKE BACK WHAT IS YOURS.
He began to slither (or was it fly?) along the edge of the holes in the worlds, through the edges, submerging his body in reality as though the surface of the world had no more solidity than the surface of a lake. "Wait!" exclaimed Allison.
Now the paper-white eyes were turned, wordless, expectant, on her.
"Before you go," she stammered -- it was terrifying, but she needed to know -- "tell us: which came first? Did our writing create their world, or is their world creating what we write?"
NEITHER, said the plumed serpent. SOMEONE ELSE IS WRITING YOU BOTH.
And then he arced into the edges again, tracing the square formed by the existing walls of the room, and then he could no longer be seen except in that the sharp edges of the hole grew soft, feathery, as the proper ends of the rooms began to appear.
"That's it?" said Eric in disbelief. "No duel of champions, no trek into the underworld, we don't even need to bring him the Wicked Witch's broom? He's going to say okay and leave, just like that? That's so..."
"Don't complain!" exclaimed Bobby. "If an angry, petty, vengeful being has your life in his hands, you want him to be fickle. Trust me on this one."
"But -- but -- it's such an anticlimax! If I were writing this, it would have been a lot more dramatic."
"Maybe," mused Bobby, "this is being written by someone who likes us."
And then all attention turned to the Stephens.
It was a moment before Stephen realized what was happening; but the instant he did, he got to his feet, pushed passed Tad and Bobby, and charged towards the opening.
His foot caught on the rough-edged four inches of wall that had grown up from the floor; he tripped, stumbled forward, caught Jon (his Jon!) for support, and fell against him.
The other man went rigid, cold.
"Jon, it's me."
Jon made an obvious effort to relax. "I know. I know. It's just -- listen, I'll tell you later." And he looked pointedly down at the other Stephen, who was curled up in a fetal ball with only Eric still by his side.
That didn't last long, for all at once the Jon in the suit had leapt the barrier and wrapped Stephen's character in his arms, murmuring soothingly into his good ear.
Stephen, still leaning on his own Jon, looked back across the barrier (now nearly a foot tall) to Bobby and Tad. "Come help us out, guys."
They approached, eying their boss warily.
"Look," said Stephen, "I know he's a jerk, but he's just been put through the wringer by a vengeful god. Cut him some slack."
He felt drained, broken, shattered: his gut worn out, his mind scattered, his wrist killing him. He hadn't seen anything but the feathers, and even when he knew it was Quetzalcoatl he couldn't pick out the god's form, couldn't make it look like anything but endless shifting feathers.
He heard his own voice, as if from far off, saying the line that he remembered from that segment years ago; and then he closed his eyes and stopped trying to understand. He only dimly heard when Jon began to shout, the words coming so fast and so loud that there might have been two of him. Even the endless voice of Quetzalcoatl ceased to push meaning through the fog.
And then Jon's voice was right by his ear, gentle, his breath warm, and a few phrases made their way through. ...going to be okay ... your Jon ... you're going home...
He sagged limply into the arms that caught him up, and opened his eyes, just a fraction.
It was like looking in a mirror.
No, he decided, it wasn't like that at all. He had spent enough hours studying himself in mirrors to know how he looked in them; he knew every tic, every quirk, every line and every hair.
This was his face with all of those reversed. It was like looking at a living portrait. It was himself as others saw him.
"Hello?" he whispered.
"Hey," said his own voice in reply. "Hang in there."
So he did. Because if you can't trust yourself, who can you trust?
The edge of the barrier shifted like sand as it rose, and, as they found when Eric held a hand above it for a few seconds, tried to grow around anything placed in its path. So they couldn't lean on it; instead, Tad and Bobby stood on one side, Jon and Jon and Stephen and Eric and Allison on the other, and all seven of them held Stephen's character (no, the other Stephen), passing him across, carrying him home.
The growing wall was still only two feet tall, so as soon as Stephen's character was across it the Jon in the suit simply stepped over it into his own world, then turned back.
"Thank you," he said, "so much, for taking care of him."
"Likewise," said the Jon in the T-shirt. "Just get him into rehab."
"Right away," said the other Jon.
"And next time he's downing pills like water on the show," added Allison, "don't let it slide."
"I won't."
"And be more assertive," added Stephen with a wink.
He smiled. "I will."
Stephen watched him go to the couch, where Tad and Bobby had laid the character down. He started to lean on his own Jon, then thought better of it. "Can I...?"
"Go ahead. Sorry about earlier. It's just," and he lowered his voice, "the last Stephen who jumped on me kinda tried to stick his tongue down my throat, so..."
He trailed off uncomfortably as Stephen stared at him, the implications of this falling into place.
And then Stephen turned to the barrier -- it was half closed now, the opening more like a huge picture window than a whole missing wall -- and shouted through it, "Jon! Come back!"
He hadn't gotten a chance to talk to his other self; once Quetzalcoatl had gone he went straight to Stephen, his Stephen. But Jon couldn't help noticing the way the other Stephen ran directly into the other Jon's arms, whispered to him, leaned on him. All the kindness that this Stephen had shown while trapped in Jon's world -- all the friendship, all the easy camaraderie -- belonged to this other Jon, not him.
So Jon threw his whole attention to his own Stephen, who had perhaps never needed it more. The normally proud pundit was semiconscious, shaking all over, with limp hair, ragged breath, and the dried tracks of tears lining his face; his eyes were tightly shut. As the others from both worlds helped Jon lift him, Jon kept up the comforting litany in his ear.
After only a brief pause to thank the denizens of the other world, he ran back to Stephen's side.
He didn't want to leave it, not for a second -- in fact, not ever again, not if he could help it -- but then the other Stephen called him and their connection would be closed soon, so Jon turned and jogged back, coming nearly up to the wall as he was beckoned closer and closer. "What? What is it? Did we leave anything over there?"
The other man had a giddy grin on his face, the kind that melted Jon's heart whenever he saw it on his own Stephen. "No, no, it's fine," he said, half laughing as he spoke. "It's better than fine. It's great. Here's the thing. You think you're not putting pressure on him, you think you aren't straining his walls, but you are. You are!"
Jon's heart sank, and it must have showed on his face, for this Stephen added quickly, "Not with anything you do. You're doing everything right. You can't help it, any more than the baby carrots can."
Jon frowned. Stephen kept grinning. The window between them was only a few feet on each side now.
"I don't understand..."
"Get him alone in a room with you some night," laughed Stephen. "You'll figure it out pretty quickly. Mine did. Until then..."
He reached through the barrier, curled his left hand around the back of Jon's neck, drew him in, and pressed a soft kiss to his temple.
"Thank you again," he said as he withdrew back into his own world. "For everything."
Jon opened his mouth; but before he could think of anything to say, the last of the wall closed in without so much as a whisper.
Stephen put his good hand on the bricks and leaned forward slightly. Solid.
"And now," he announced, no longer feeling giddy, just lightheaded, "I'm going home."
"Are you sure you're good to drive?" asked Eric.
"No! Oh, no, I am definitely not good to drive. Not for eight hours after the shot."
"Shot?" repeated Allison. "What shot?"
"The one to counteract the overdose..."
"What!?" chorused the others.
"It's a long story, I'll tell you on the way. Come on."
"We've made excuses," said Jon. "You can stay here for the night; your wife will be driving in tomorrow after you wake up..."
Stephen shook his head. "Jon, the last time I woke up, I found myself in a world where my wife didn't exist. Either someone is taking me to her, or I am staying awake until she arrives, because I am not going to sleep until I have seen her again."
Still confused, Eric and Allison started to protest, but Jon held up a hand to cut them off.
"My car is leaving for Stephen's house," he announced. "Are you coming?"
no subject
They'll be fun, never fear. (And, once the last of the material for this story is posted, I've got a sequel lined up to one of my most-commented-on and most-returned-to previous stories. I think it'll be enjoyed.)
I would love a more meta comment, but I'm certainly not going to complain about this one ^_^
no subject
no subject
(Besides, it's too much fun to actually be able to make people squirm in anticipation. ^_~)