Lusitania
Title: Lusitania (I May Be Sinking)
Description: Because when Stephen and "Stephen" don't line up just right, Jon will clutch that mic tight and be the straight-man.
Pairing: Jon/Stephen/"Stephen"
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Like everybody else, I've always been intrigued with Stephen's id and wondered about the possibility of him forgetting which one goes where. And who better to align the pieces than our wuvable, self-deprecating batman Jon? =) Imagine them a little younger, perhaps the first year Stephen had his show, and remember: a straight-man is also known as a "stooge" or "feed"
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 are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Sometimes Stephen loses himself behind those lense-free glasses - love burned over by the frozen wayside and Jon has to knock before entering. The walnut door shudders with the gasps and shivers that reverberate against its grains. His hand slides across the heated wood and the kindling pops beneath his fingers, crackling between each knuckle. Skin is melting and Stephen can’t remember his lines, so duly practiced and polished to fit inside his throat. Outside the lights are blinding, bulbous hubcaps screaming towards him and Stephen screams right back, the inner raw voice gripping his esophagus tight - choking back the tears in place of anger that sizzles with every sputter and seethe. And he can’t find the docile, mild man who doesn’t need to hide behind mascarades, who embraces his flaws and lets Jon hold his hand when it all disappears, lights fading to black.
But now he’s splayed across his office desk, hands gripping the edges tight and papers strewn about like shards of glass. The mirror is already bracing for fists and Stephen isn’t sure whether he revels in this madness, lapping up each bout of chaos like hot molasses, or is utterly terrified how the character fits perfectly into his polo and jeans. Jon puts his ear to the door when the knock is unanswered, but can only detect his thrumming veins vibrating unsteadily - thin lips drawn together to hold back the guttural cry of come back please.
"Stephen."
The voice behind the door snaps "Say it."
Jon is still in his suit, the candescent testament to the nineties with brown threading and too-long ties. The drooping sleeves make him feel more boy-playing-father behind the polished desk than distinguished, but the bruised eyes and gaunt visage in the mirror remind him that no, this isn’t pretend. He’s looking down at his shined black shoes, hand still flat against the door because the pundit thinks maybe he can still reach for that flickering star. It is warm beneath him.
Jon keeps staring at his shoes, "I don’t know what you want me to say."
Stephen pushes the chair against the wall, out of his way, and rushes to the door - finger pointing at the Jon he can not see, refuses to see, all the while. "Come on Jon, you’re always the straight man in the act, aren’t you?"
Over the past few weeks, in those pre-dawn hours looking into the mirror (one he secretly kept after Kilborn’s demise), grey slowly seemed to proceed a hostage-takeover of Jon’s crow-black locks. Stephen had found him holed up in his office studying the box of hair dye for men intently, and scoffed, ripping the carton away from his hands. "You can’t be like one of them. You’re not. Show them what happens, don’t - don’t you ever lie like them."
So, Jon told the truth while Stephen silently hid his Black Satin dye and never aged.
He closed his eyes, three am wearing down on his shoulders, crushing his back into official arthritis, and prayed his hand wouldn’t slip. "This isn’t an act, Stephen."
"I’m not Stephen."
Jon’s hand curled into a fist and the heat escaped, "Then who are you?"
There was a distinctive pause, a whistling canyon between them, the expanse of dead air and broken promises. The lines of anger carved within his face slowly faded and Stephen was left with a solo act, lips whispering into the crack of the door because that’s all he would allow for himself to succumb. The flannel shirt was hugging close to his chest and Stephen yearned for a hard-pressed suit and a straight tie - shield and sword.
Jon could hear his breath through the door and almost grabbed hold of the knob, almost swung the door open wide - almost gathered his shadowed friend in his arms to attempt to make him whole. Almost, almost. His hand stayed upon the door in a clenched fist and he knew Stephen’s lips were pressing against the wood as he heard him mutter softly, "I’m not your Stephen."
Almost a movie star.
Almost a Letterman.
Almost a one-hit-wonder.
Fingers loosen and his heart is leaping into his mouth, pumping veins bitter and tart as he runs each digit across the cool metal. Jon wonders if the pain behind his eyes are the beginnings of a tumor or a guttural plea to take it back, please. His tongue is saturated with words he wants to cast aside, maybe a few landing on target and making a difference - but each one tastes stale and piercingly rehearsed. "Who are you?" He’s stuck in repetition, broken record shards poking at his feet.
All the sentences with hope and comfort are locked within his throat because Jon doesn’t really know who’s in trouble here - the feed or the dynamo.
Stephen’s lips slowly drag across the wood as the tension in his head seeps between all the cracks and malevolent splinters. The imprint of the picture against his hand tugs at each vulnerable string to his lovely facade. Five smiles too identical and four of them he can’t remember ever loving. But there’s Jon, the palpable heat coming through the door; and as he is slumped forward on his knees, feeling more child than man, he desperately claws at the grains - digs his fingers in deep because he doesn’t want to forget Jon like the strange, happy faces beside him in the golden frame. He can’t lose Jon.
His reply is lost within the air vents beside him, "I don’t know, I don’t know. Say it, Jon..."
Lost, lost.
But Jon hears him because he’s just as broken. The lock is still barring each gentle glance and sigh he aims at the door, but he checks again anyways, jiggling the knob just so - in case this was all an elaborate misunderstanding. Jon was tempted to twist and jerk until the hinges groaned, but stayed where he was - perpetual hunchback of a dreary dawn. His mind is racing, yet trudging along slowly, desperately trying to line up all the catalysts, all the impetuses to this sweet demise, but can only remember tonight. Anger seeming more real than mocked. Heart slathered upon the desk rather than dangled just above its grasp. Bemused glances, caged eyes and a weary countenance as laughter pervaded his tirades, hushed his scorn and trickled within all the dignities of his beliefs. Jon could see it. He saw it.
He fucking saw it.
And Jon had felt it - the way his friend clutched the sides of his head tight a little too early, not realizing he still had three seconds until commercial; the pain radiated his skull and licked his spine. And Jon had ran, Allison’s voice in his ear trying to assure him it was just an act because that was all it ever was (all he ever was), but he gnawed at the receiver as he ripped open the studio door -
"It’s never an act when half of himself is stitched within the script, Allison."
The stage whispered with a gargled fluidity, audience toeing the threshold of the scarlet exit but still looking back, wondering if their fallen hero had truly lost his wings or would lift his head again and smile brashly - security blocked their view. And Stephen was too late, wrenching his hands away from his face to laugh along with them, hollow breath escaping his lungs, but merely mingled with empty seats. And Jon had reached, hand almost touching his shoulder as the younger man sat frozen in blank time at the desk, but Stephen was too quick, always too aware. "They laughed."
And Jon wanted so terribly to console and wrap his arms tight around his friend until the character fled from the harsh bidding of reality, letting Stephen breathe - but Jon had only chewed on his words with numb fingers and watched as Stephen (but not his Stephen) jerked the swivel chair back and rushed towards his office. And Jon followed because he would in both worlds - straight-man Jon Stewart and Jonathon Stuart Leibowitz.
"Tell me ..."
Jon looks up from reverie and is unsure of whether or not the bolt locking him out had shifted. His tie is crumbled from nervously tugging at each pinstripe and his shoes are thoroughly scuffed from pacing the floor tiles. He waits because he knows Stephen-the-hero will always stress his point. He’s not disappointed.
A ruffling of fabric, "Tell me I’m real."
The wet sentence dribbles along Jon’s cheek, blue eyes darkening to a somber grey as the lie is ready to fly happily from his lips.
"Yeah... don't worry man." The falsehood tastes sweet and he can hear the announcer drawl above him 'and the stooge strikes again' --
Stephen's hair is soft upon the crook of his neck, door swung open and picture frame in a million pieces. The words are burning his esophagus, but Jon can't lie again -- so he just keeps murmuring don't worry, don't worry --
don't worry,
Because tomorrow you'll be brand new.
Description: Because when Stephen and "Stephen" don't line up just right, Jon will clutch that mic tight and be the straight-man.
Pairing: Jon/Stephen/"Stephen"
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Like everybody else, I've always been intrigued with Stephen's id and wondered about the possibility of him forgetting which one goes where. And who better to align the pieces than our wuvable, self-deprecating batman Jon? =) Imagine them a little younger, perhaps the first year Stephen had his show, and remember: a straight-man is also known as a "stooge" or "feed"
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 are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Sometimes Stephen loses himself behind those lense-free glasses - love burned over by the frozen wayside and Jon has to knock before entering. The walnut door shudders with the gasps and shivers that reverberate against its grains. His hand slides across the heated wood and the kindling pops beneath his fingers, crackling between each knuckle. Skin is melting and Stephen can’t remember his lines, so duly practiced and polished to fit inside his throat. Outside the lights are blinding, bulbous hubcaps screaming towards him and Stephen screams right back, the inner raw voice gripping his esophagus tight - choking back the tears in place of anger that sizzles with every sputter and seethe. And he can’t find the docile, mild man who doesn’t need to hide behind mascarades, who embraces his flaws and lets Jon hold his hand when it all disappears, lights fading to black.
But now he’s splayed across his office desk, hands gripping the edges tight and papers strewn about like shards of glass. The mirror is already bracing for fists and Stephen isn’t sure whether he revels in this madness, lapping up each bout of chaos like hot molasses, or is utterly terrified how the character fits perfectly into his polo and jeans. Jon puts his ear to the door when the knock is unanswered, but can only detect his thrumming veins vibrating unsteadily - thin lips drawn together to hold back the guttural cry of come back please.
"Stephen."
The voice behind the door snaps "Say it."
Jon is still in his suit, the candescent testament to the nineties with brown threading and too-long ties. The drooping sleeves make him feel more boy-playing-father behind the polished desk than distinguished, but the bruised eyes and gaunt visage in the mirror remind him that no, this isn’t pretend. He’s looking down at his shined black shoes, hand still flat against the door because the pundit thinks maybe he can still reach for that flickering star. It is warm beneath him.
Jon keeps staring at his shoes, "I don’t know what you want me to say."
Stephen pushes the chair against the wall, out of his way, and rushes to the door - finger pointing at the Jon he can not see, refuses to see, all the while. "Come on Jon, you’re always the straight man in the act, aren’t you?"
Over the past few weeks, in those pre-dawn hours looking into the mirror (one he secretly kept after Kilborn’s demise), grey slowly seemed to proceed a hostage-takeover of Jon’s crow-black locks. Stephen had found him holed up in his office studying the box of hair dye for men intently, and scoffed, ripping the carton away from his hands. "You can’t be like one of them. You’re not. Show them what happens, don’t - don’t you ever lie like them."
So, Jon told the truth while Stephen silently hid his Black Satin dye and never aged.
He closed his eyes, three am wearing down on his shoulders, crushing his back into official arthritis, and prayed his hand wouldn’t slip. "This isn’t an act, Stephen."
"I’m not Stephen."
Jon’s hand curled into a fist and the heat escaped, "Then who are you?"
There was a distinctive pause, a whistling canyon between them, the expanse of dead air and broken promises. The lines of anger carved within his face slowly faded and Stephen was left with a solo act, lips whispering into the crack of the door because that’s all he would allow for himself to succumb. The flannel shirt was hugging close to his chest and Stephen yearned for a hard-pressed suit and a straight tie - shield and sword.
Jon could hear his breath through the door and almost grabbed hold of the knob, almost swung the door open wide - almost gathered his shadowed friend in his arms to attempt to make him whole. Almost, almost. His hand stayed upon the door in a clenched fist and he knew Stephen’s lips were pressing against the wood as he heard him mutter softly, "I’m not your Stephen."
Almost a movie star.
Almost a Letterman.
Almost a one-hit-wonder.
Fingers loosen and his heart is leaping into his mouth, pumping veins bitter and tart as he runs each digit across the cool metal. Jon wonders if the pain behind his eyes are the beginnings of a tumor or a guttural plea to take it back, please. His tongue is saturated with words he wants to cast aside, maybe a few landing on target and making a difference - but each one tastes stale and piercingly rehearsed. "Who are you?" He’s stuck in repetition, broken record shards poking at his feet.
All the sentences with hope and comfort are locked within his throat because Jon doesn’t really know who’s in trouble here - the feed or the dynamo.
Stephen’s lips slowly drag across the wood as the tension in his head seeps between all the cracks and malevolent splinters. The imprint of the picture against his hand tugs at each vulnerable string to his lovely facade. Five smiles too identical and four of them he can’t remember ever loving. But there’s Jon, the palpable heat coming through the door; and as he is slumped forward on his knees, feeling more child than man, he desperately claws at the grains - digs his fingers in deep because he doesn’t want to forget Jon like the strange, happy faces beside him in the golden frame. He can’t lose Jon.
His reply is lost within the air vents beside him, "I don’t know, I don’t know. Say it, Jon..."
Lost, lost.
But Jon hears him because he’s just as broken. The lock is still barring each gentle glance and sigh he aims at the door, but he checks again anyways, jiggling the knob just so - in case this was all an elaborate misunderstanding. Jon was tempted to twist and jerk until the hinges groaned, but stayed where he was - perpetual hunchback of a dreary dawn. His mind is racing, yet trudging along slowly, desperately trying to line up all the catalysts, all the impetuses to this sweet demise, but can only remember tonight. Anger seeming more real than mocked. Heart slathered upon the desk rather than dangled just above its grasp. Bemused glances, caged eyes and a weary countenance as laughter pervaded his tirades, hushed his scorn and trickled within all the dignities of his beliefs. Jon could see it. He saw it.
He fucking saw it.
And Jon had felt it - the way his friend clutched the sides of his head tight a little too early, not realizing he still had three seconds until commercial; the pain radiated his skull and licked his spine. And Jon had ran, Allison’s voice in his ear trying to assure him it was just an act because that was all it ever was (all he ever was), but he gnawed at the receiver as he ripped open the studio door -
"It’s never an act when half of himself is stitched within the script, Allison."
The stage whispered with a gargled fluidity, audience toeing the threshold of the scarlet exit but still looking back, wondering if their fallen hero had truly lost his wings or would lift his head again and smile brashly - security blocked their view. And Stephen was too late, wrenching his hands away from his face to laugh along with them, hollow breath escaping his lungs, but merely mingled with empty seats. And Jon had reached, hand almost touching his shoulder as the younger man sat frozen in blank time at the desk, but Stephen was too quick, always too aware. "They laughed."
And Jon wanted so terribly to console and wrap his arms tight around his friend until the character fled from the harsh bidding of reality, letting Stephen breathe - but Jon had only chewed on his words with numb fingers and watched as Stephen (but not his Stephen) jerked the swivel chair back and rushed towards his office. And Jon followed because he would in both worlds - straight-man Jon Stewart and Jonathon Stuart Leibowitz.
"Tell me ..."
Jon looks up from reverie and is unsure of whether or not the bolt locking him out had shifted. His tie is crumbled from nervously tugging at each pinstripe and his shoes are thoroughly scuffed from pacing the floor tiles. He waits because he knows Stephen-the-hero will always stress his point. He’s not disappointed.
A ruffling of fabric, "Tell me I’m real."
The wet sentence dribbles along Jon’s cheek, blue eyes darkening to a somber grey as the lie is ready to fly happily from his lips.
"Yeah... don't worry man." The falsehood tastes sweet and he can hear the announcer drawl above him 'and the stooge strikes again' --
Stephen's hair is soft upon the crook of his neck, door swung open and picture frame in a million pieces. The words are burning his esophagus, but Jon can't lie again -- so he just keeps murmuring don't worry, don't worry --
don't worry,
Because tomorrow you'll be brand new.