A Paean to Turkey (1/?)
So, I started this with the intent of writing a character Stephen breakdown fic. And I ended up with the first chapter of a holiday sitcom. Dude, this is so weird.
Title: A Paean to Turkey (1/?)
Series: TDS/TCR
Pairings: "Stephen"/Evie, "Stephen"/repression, Jon/Tracey
Rating: PG-13, at worst
Warnings: Some swearing. Also really, really bad rephrasing of a Patrick O'Brian quote.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: Stephen doesn't do well alone.
Stephen Colbert sits on a Fun Hop bounce ball and surveys his newly limited Nation. A stuffed monkey stares back at him with glassy eyes. Downstairs, he can hear his wife bustling around as she packs her bags. The children are already in the car.
He contemplates his options. Of which he has many.
“I’ll give you a call when we get there. Stephen?”
He studies his nails.
“Stephen. I’m taking Gipper. Frankly, I don’t trust you around him at the moment.”
Her cotton-clad kneecaps are now at eye level, so he studies those instead.
“There’s plenty of food in the fridge. Obviously. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Stephen makes a supreme effort and focuses on her small round earrings. They are red.
“Would it help if I asked you not to leave?”
“No, it would not.”
Her tone is patient, slightly long-suffering, final.
“Please don’t leave.”
“You… Make sure you get out of the house a bit. Do some walking.”
She does him the courtesy of looking somewhat worried. Then she turns on her sensibly shoed heel and he can hear the front door close. Sensibly, with finality.
It is Saturday at noon, his show is on hiatus (again), his wife has just left him (again); he should really have a look at those papers Meg’s lawyer sent (again). Proving one’s manhood should not be illegal - what is wrong with this country?
He answers himself at length while he irons the six by eighteen foot flag, cotton and silk blend. This he hoists at three-quarter mast on the balcony. Now it is one PM.
By Monday, he is a bit edgy. He has eaten his emergency ration of ice cream, watched ‘Fight Club’ twice (except for the last third, which makes no sense), carried on a flamewar with some hapless bloggers and shouted at the radio for several hours of liberal programming; also, the washing machine has malfunctioned.
He is hoarse and somewhat unshaven and worried about the long-term prospect of fresh underwear. His wife has not called.
On Thursday he wakes stuck to the couch in the living room with bruises on his legs and decides it is time to survey what the enemy is up to, and maybe buy some liquor, as he seems to have run out.
He shaves with rock-steady hands; he won’t be caught dead sporting a homosemitic intellectual face growth. Besides, it makes him look old.
***
He parks his SUV on the street in front of the picketing circle since they’re blocking traffic anyway.
The enemy is holding up flimsy placards, stamping feet in the cold and passing around a thermos of something he’d rather not investigate further. Probably coca tea. Bobby’s there, and shrinks respectfully when Stephen catches his eye.
“Stephen, hey! Didn’t expect to see you here.”
A sweetly unforced smile approaches him; it belongs to Jon Stewart.
“How are you, my friend? Aren’t you cold?”
“My zeal for president and country keeps me warm, Jon.”
Stephen shivers.
Jon stuffs his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He’s still smiling.
“What happened to your face? Okay. Uh, never mind.”
Stephen mentally adds Jon’s solid, khaki-clad thighs to the list of things trying to make him gay.
“Listen, we’re almost done here for today, you wanna tag along for food, maybe some drinks?”
“Just as long as you don’t try to indoctrinate me,”
Stephen says with a hearty laugh. Several feet away, Bobby cringes.
“Uh, sure thing; sure, Stephen.”
***
Hot, greasy food makes Stephen feel a bit more opaque. This is however somewhat counteracted by the amount of cold beer he washes it down with. When some woman writer from the Daily Show (“She’s your producer, Stephen, you should know her name!”) has finally said her good byes, Stephen skillfully preempts Jon’s doing the same by clinging to his sleeve.
“I have to go home now, Stephen - you should, too.”
“No.”
“I’m gonna call you a cab.”
“I have my car. Is. My car.”
“Probably been towed by now.”
With his unobstructed hand, Jon pulls out a cell phone.
“Don’t leave, Jon.”
“Let go my sleeve. C’mon, you need to go home now, get some sleep; busy day tomorrow.”
“Not for me.”
“Okay, sleep in, then.”
Jon’s phone begins to ring. He tugs his arm away.
“Hey babe - yeah, grabbed some food - just about to. Need anything? That I can provide. Sure. Hey kiddo. You did? That’s cool. Did you clean it up afterwards?”
Stephen decides, while Jon is rabbiting on to what is presumably (hopefully) his son, that he will rest his eyes a little, and leans his head against the inviting slope of Jon’s hip.
“Stephen. Stephen. Time to go.”
His shoulder is shaken, not unkindly.
“Five minutes.”
“Your cab is outside. C’mon. Evie will be worried.”
“No.”
“Course she will.”
He is herded out the door, into the cab. He sleeps on the way to the empty house.
***
On Saturday, his wife calls. She says they will be celebrating Thanksgiving at her parents’ and gives him the number for the washing machine repair service. Who needs her? He can make his own damn turkey.
He calls Jon.
“Hi Stephen.”
“Do Jews celebrate Thanksgiving?”
“… I suppose that would depend on the Jew in question. Why do you ask?”
“Jon, we need to talk.”
“Okay. So… talk.”
“Not on the phone. We can meet for dinner.”
“I kind of wanted to eat at home for once.”
“It’s important!”
“Let me have dinner and then we can meet.”
Stephen takes several showers, dresses warmly and then sits on the porch swing he has had specially installed. Then he calls his driving service.
***
“What is so important? I don’t think you should have another one of those.”
“They may look girly but they are a true man’s drink at heart, Jon!”
“That’s why you shouldn’t have any more.”
“Jon.”
“Yes?”
“Are you… one of the Jews who celebrates Thanksgiving?”
“Uh. You’ve known me for years, Stephen. What do you think?”
“Oh. Ohh, right. Well that settles that, then.”
Jon is staring at him. Stephen feels that he’s finally getting his due, attention-wise. Also, Jon’s eyes are very blue in this light.
“This had better not be what you wanted to talk to me about, Stephen.”
“Well, it’s not. Not exactly.”
“Stephen. It’s been two hours. Spit it the fuck out already.”
“Um. Can I celebrate Thanksgiving at your house? I mean, I don’t mind that it’s Jewish, that’s okay. As long as you don’t -”
“No! Stephen, no. What is going on? You look like hell, you’re acting - weirder than usual. What is this?”
“Please, Jon.”
“You’ve got your own family to celebrate Thanksgiving with!”
Stephen stares manfully at his empty cocktail glass.
“You - oh shit. Shit! She left you again.”
Stephen nods.
***
“He was in tears, baby - I couldn’t - ”
“What did you say? Did you promise him anything?”
“I said I’d think about it. Said I had to ask you first.”
Deflated, Tracey leans against the counter.
“How long has she been gone?”
“Just about a week, I think. He wasn’t… really clear on the details.”
Tracey pulls Jon’s arms about her and tugs contemplatively at the wet left side of his shirt collar. He speaks into her hair.
“I’m worried about him, Trace. He doesn’t do well on his own.”
“Is there any way - any way at all that you can keep him from embarrassing the shit out of us in front of my parents?”
“Just your parents?"
"Don't push it."
"I’ll do my best.”
***
So, uh, enjoy?
O
Title: A Paean to Turkey (1/?)
Series: TDS/TCR
Pairings: "Stephen"/Evie, "Stephen"/repression, Jon/Tracey
Rating: PG-13, at worst
Warnings: Some swearing. Also really, really bad rephrasing of a Patrick O'Brian quote.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: Stephen doesn't do well alone.
Stephen Colbert sits on a Fun Hop bounce ball and surveys his newly limited Nation. A stuffed monkey stares back at him with glassy eyes. Downstairs, he can hear his wife bustling around as she packs her bags. The children are already in the car.
He contemplates his options. Of which he has many.
“I’ll give you a call when we get there. Stephen?”
He studies his nails.
“Stephen. I’m taking Gipper. Frankly, I don’t trust you around him at the moment.”
Her cotton-clad kneecaps are now at eye level, so he studies those instead.
“There’s plenty of food in the fridge. Obviously. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Stephen makes a supreme effort and focuses on her small round earrings. They are red.
“Would it help if I asked you not to leave?”
“No, it would not.”
Her tone is patient, slightly long-suffering, final.
“Please don’t leave.”
“You… Make sure you get out of the house a bit. Do some walking.”
She does him the courtesy of looking somewhat worried. Then she turns on her sensibly shoed heel and he can hear the front door close. Sensibly, with finality.
It is Saturday at noon, his show is on hiatus (again), his wife has just left him (again); he should really have a look at those papers Meg’s lawyer sent (again). Proving one’s manhood should not be illegal - what is wrong with this country?
He answers himself at length while he irons the six by eighteen foot flag, cotton and silk blend. This he hoists at three-quarter mast on the balcony. Now it is one PM.
By Monday, he is a bit edgy. He has eaten his emergency ration of ice cream, watched ‘Fight Club’ twice (except for the last third, which makes no sense), carried on a flamewar with some hapless bloggers and shouted at the radio for several hours of liberal programming; also, the washing machine has malfunctioned.
He is hoarse and somewhat unshaven and worried about the long-term prospect of fresh underwear. His wife has not called.
On Thursday he wakes stuck to the couch in the living room with bruises on his legs and decides it is time to survey what the enemy is up to, and maybe buy some liquor, as he seems to have run out.
He shaves with rock-steady hands; he won’t be caught dead sporting a homosemitic intellectual face growth. Besides, it makes him look old.
***
He parks his SUV on the street in front of the picketing circle since they’re blocking traffic anyway.
The enemy is holding up flimsy placards, stamping feet in the cold and passing around a thermos of something he’d rather not investigate further. Probably coca tea. Bobby’s there, and shrinks respectfully when Stephen catches his eye.
“Stephen, hey! Didn’t expect to see you here.”
A sweetly unforced smile approaches him; it belongs to Jon Stewart.
“How are you, my friend? Aren’t you cold?”
“My zeal for president and country keeps me warm, Jon.”
Stephen shivers.
Jon stuffs his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He’s still smiling.
“What happened to your face? Okay. Uh, never mind.”
Stephen mentally adds Jon’s solid, khaki-clad thighs to the list of things trying to make him gay.
“Listen, we’re almost done here for today, you wanna tag along for food, maybe some drinks?”
“Just as long as you don’t try to indoctrinate me,”
Stephen says with a hearty laugh. Several feet away, Bobby cringes.
“Uh, sure thing; sure, Stephen.”
***
Hot, greasy food makes Stephen feel a bit more opaque. This is however somewhat counteracted by the amount of cold beer he washes it down with. When some woman writer from the Daily Show (“She’s your producer, Stephen, you should know her name!”) has finally said her good byes, Stephen skillfully preempts Jon’s doing the same by clinging to his sleeve.
“I have to go home now, Stephen - you should, too.”
“No.”
“I’m gonna call you a cab.”
“I have my car. Is. My car.”
“Probably been towed by now.”
With his unobstructed hand, Jon pulls out a cell phone.
“Don’t leave, Jon.”
“Let go my sleeve. C’mon, you need to go home now, get some sleep; busy day tomorrow.”
“Not for me.”
“Okay, sleep in, then.”
Jon’s phone begins to ring. He tugs his arm away.
“Hey babe - yeah, grabbed some food - just about to. Need anything? That I can provide. Sure. Hey kiddo. You did? That’s cool. Did you clean it up afterwards?”
Stephen decides, while Jon is rabbiting on to what is presumably (hopefully) his son, that he will rest his eyes a little, and leans his head against the inviting slope of Jon’s hip.
“Stephen. Stephen. Time to go.”
His shoulder is shaken, not unkindly.
“Five minutes.”
“Your cab is outside. C’mon. Evie will be worried.”
“No.”
“Course she will.”
He is herded out the door, into the cab. He sleeps on the way to the empty house.
***
On Saturday, his wife calls. She says they will be celebrating Thanksgiving at her parents’ and gives him the number for the washing machine repair service. Who needs her? He can make his own damn turkey.
He calls Jon.
“Hi Stephen.”
“Do Jews celebrate Thanksgiving?”
“… I suppose that would depend on the Jew in question. Why do you ask?”
“Jon, we need to talk.”
“Okay. So… talk.”
“Not on the phone. We can meet for dinner.”
“I kind of wanted to eat at home for once.”
“It’s important!”
“Let me have dinner and then we can meet.”
Stephen takes several showers, dresses warmly and then sits on the porch swing he has had specially installed. Then he calls his driving service.
***
“What is so important? I don’t think you should have another one of those.”
“They may look girly but they are a true man’s drink at heart, Jon!”
“That’s why you shouldn’t have any more.”
“Jon.”
“Yes?”
“Are you… one of the Jews who celebrates Thanksgiving?”
“Uh. You’ve known me for years, Stephen. What do you think?”
“Oh. Ohh, right. Well that settles that, then.”
Jon is staring at him. Stephen feels that he’s finally getting his due, attention-wise. Also, Jon’s eyes are very blue in this light.
“This had better not be what you wanted to talk to me about, Stephen.”
“Well, it’s not. Not exactly.”
“Stephen. It’s been two hours. Spit it the fuck out already.”
“Um. Can I celebrate Thanksgiving at your house? I mean, I don’t mind that it’s Jewish, that’s okay. As long as you don’t -”
“No! Stephen, no. What is going on? You look like hell, you’re acting - weirder than usual. What is this?”
“Please, Jon.”
“You’ve got your own family to celebrate Thanksgiving with!”
Stephen stares manfully at his empty cocktail glass.
“You - oh shit. Shit! She left you again.”
Stephen nods.
***
“He was in tears, baby - I couldn’t - ”
“What did you say? Did you promise him anything?”
“I said I’d think about it. Said I had to ask you first.”
Deflated, Tracey leans against the counter.
“How long has she been gone?”
“Just about a week, I think. He wasn’t… really clear on the details.”
Tracey pulls Jon’s arms about her and tugs contemplatively at the wet left side of his shirt collar. He speaks into her hair.
“I’m worried about him, Trace. He doesn’t do well on his own.”
“Is there any way - any way at all that you can keep him from embarrassing the shit out of us in front of my parents?”
“Just your parents?"
"Don't push it."
"I’ll do my best.”
***
So, uh, enjoy?
O