I'M NOT DEAD, YET!
Title: 100 Times Stephen Fell in Love with Himself (#10)
Author: t3h Shishu
Series: TCR
Pairing: "Stephen"/"Stephen" (red!tie/blue!tie)
Rating: G
Warnings: Total fluff
Disclaimer: Well, I wish I owned this lovely character. But I don't. I just write about him.
Summary: MUHAH. I'm back! Okay, so I have still been here, but now I'm continuing that drabble series I was doing. So I decided to write again in lieu of popularish demand my history paper being over a week late the fact it's summer, and I've got time on my hands. I think I may actually end up doing a drabble for every prompt. And "Love is a full Length Mirror" is probably on hold, until I find the piece of paper I scribbled the first paragraph for that pimp!Jon fic.....but yeah, you don't care.
This one takes place the day Stephen gets back during the strike.
Think
As far as producing his show was concerned, Stephen knew he did it all by himself, anyway. But the writers had to have some purpose, or what would they be striking about? That’s what really scared him, whatever it was that their job was. The break was nice; he didn’t want to face that rejection, from the Democrats, of all people, and now he had some responsibility to some ominous labor that wasn’t being done. Damn those unions.
Stephen contemplated his situation, what to do, how he would do it, if the world could survive without his saving. And it was then he realized what that deathly task his “writers” were actually doing: thinking.
“NO!” He screamed out loud, fearful of the very prospect. Instead of seeing his show as one huge spoonful of truth, it began to divide into teaspoons, one, two, three, four, five acts. Each segment was becoming calculated, when he pre-taped this, when they would brainstorm that. “That’s not how my show works, no! I won’t stand for that!”
Stephen stood up from his chair, scrunching the imaginary papers on his desk, and squinting his eyes tightly. He clenched his teeth, as he sat upon the brink of tears. “Focus, man, come on…”
“I heard Papa Bear say something interesting, today,” a voice, uncanny and soothing, interjected from nowhere. Stephen opened his eyes, large and crusted with unshed tears. It was his counterpart, red-tied and cool, as usual. “And you could also say something about how these Hollywood commies are daring to hold a strike in this post-9/11 world.”
Before he could wipe them away, the other Stephen was at his face, fingers wiping away the salty remnants from his face. “I...I...yeah. We can do that,” he responded uneasily.
“I’m going to be here to help you.” He smiled something genuine, held the other’s chin lightly, and the blue-tie Stephen’s fear dissipated just a bit. “Alright?”
Author: t3h Shishu
Series: TCR
Pairing: "Stephen"/"Stephen" (red!tie/blue!tie)
Rating: G
Warnings: Total fluff
Disclaimer: Well, I wish I owned this lovely character. But I don't. I just write about him.
Summary: MUHAH. I'm back! Okay, so I have still been here, but now I'm continuing that drabble series I was doing. So I decided to write again in lieu of popularish demand my history paper being over a week late the fact it's summer, and I've got time on my hands. I think I may actually end up doing a drabble for every prompt. And "Love is a full Length Mirror" is probably on hold, until I find the piece of paper I scribbled the first paragraph for that pimp!Jon fic.....but yeah, you don't care.
This one takes place the day Stephen gets back during the strike.
Think
As far as producing his show was concerned, Stephen knew he did it all by himself, anyway. But the writers had to have some purpose, or what would they be striking about? That’s what really scared him, whatever it was that their job was. The break was nice; he didn’t want to face that rejection, from the Democrats, of all people, and now he had some responsibility to some ominous labor that wasn’t being done. Damn those unions.
Stephen contemplated his situation, what to do, how he would do it, if the world could survive without his saving. And it was then he realized what that deathly task his “writers” were actually doing: thinking.
“NO!” He screamed out loud, fearful of the very prospect. Instead of seeing his show as one huge spoonful of truth, it began to divide into teaspoons, one, two, three, four, five acts. Each segment was becoming calculated, when he pre-taped this, when they would brainstorm that. “That’s not how my show works, no! I won’t stand for that!”
Stephen stood up from his chair, scrunching the imaginary papers on his desk, and squinting his eyes tightly. He clenched his teeth, as he sat upon the brink of tears. “Focus, man, come on…”
“I heard Papa Bear say something interesting, today,” a voice, uncanny and soothing, interjected from nowhere. Stephen opened his eyes, large and crusted with unshed tears. It was his counterpart, red-tied and cool, as usual. “And you could also say something about how these Hollywood commies are daring to hold a strike in this post-9/11 world.”
Before he could wipe them away, the other Stephen was at his face, fingers wiping away the salty remnants from his face. “I...I...yeah. We can do that,” he responded uneasily.
“I’m going to be here to help you.” He smiled something genuine, held the other’s chin lightly, and the blue-tie Stephen’s fear dissipated just a bit. “Alright?”