Emergency Unlucky Holiday Day, Jon/Stephen
Fic: Emergency Unlucky Holiday Day
Author: Nakanna Lee
Pairing: Jon / Stephen
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: 2,100
Summary: Forget it, Jon thinks, it’s bad but it cannot have been that bad. They’re friends. It’s forgivable because of that. Or maybe not, because of that.
A/N: Meant for this to be posted on Friday the 13th, but it wasn't ready to go quite yet. Now it is. Happy Belated Friday the 13th, everyone. :)
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.
Stupid, Jon thinks. Fucking stupid.
So stupid that it’s humiliating just standing here. In the same spot where his idiocy ingrained itself into the air, the office, now pathetically empty. His notes are strewn across the desk, where Stephen sat just minutes ago.
Just… stupid.
If he could turn off his brain, he would. Forget it, he thinks, it’s bad but it cannot have been that bad. They’re friends. It’s forgivable because of that.
Or maybe not, because of that.
***
He’d spent that day making coffee and loitering around an all-but-empty office, catching up on a few things.
The few things did not need catching up-it was all killing-time bullshit, putting papers in new piles and rereading brainstorm ideas for next week he already had memorized. He made a note (beneath his original one) to call John Oliver and company over the weekend, making sure their segment escapades were filming all right.
He trusted them, though, and probably wouldn’t anyway.
He never did.
He used to call during Stephen’s, but that was because… Well. Because it was Stephen.
Jon’s cell had three missed calls, all from Tracey, but he pocketed the phone only. After a slow, uneasy moment it felt too heavy, noticeable, in his khakis, so he returned to his office. He’d put it in a pocket in his jacket, which he left draped over his office chair.
“Hello, Mr. High-Brow.”
Jon glanced up as he entered his office. He’d been staring into his coffee, debating whether or not this was his third or fourth cup of the day. Stephen was sitting on the edge of his desk. A pile of papers served as a cushion. His hair was a mess, absent of gel and the victim of blustery February weather.
“High-brow?” Jon repeated. “And move, what are you doing?”
“These are old notes. I checked before my fine buttocks descended.” Stephen kicked out his feet. His pants were inching up just a bit, and Jon could see his socks. “It sounds like you almost fixed the economy last night.”
“Are those wizards on your socks?”
“White wizards. Balrog on the back. So? The economy?”
“They put everything I say through the Smart-O-Meter to filter out most of the idiotic suggestions. My 18-24 demographic would be insulted otherwise. What are you doing here? It’s Friday.”
“The thirteenth. Ooh, spooky.” Stephen grinned. He’d moved on to flipping a blue pen in his hand.
Jon caught it in midair. “You stole that from me.”
“The pen?”
“The flip.”
***
Jon runs his fingers over the phone in his pocket. He can redial. He can clear out of the office, with its noise-devoured silence. He can see Tracey sitting at the kitchen table, her ankles crossed, frowning. But saying nothing. He can deal with the pinpricks of heat on the back of his neck giving away his guilt.
It’s stupid, Jon thinks, but it’s nothing. It became nothing.
But “nothing” is hard to get rid of.
***
Stephen smelled good this afternoon, something spicy and pepperminty. Jon imagined him brushing his teeth, whether he wiped his mouth on the towel before spitting, or if he used a cup for water or just the palm of his hand.
Now he nodded at Jon’s coffee. “What number is that? Double-digits yet?”
“Uh, four. I’m rounding up.”
“Voltaire used to drink forty a day.”
“Seriously?”
Stephen nodded. He tapped the rim of Jon’s mug, which seemed intimate somehow, and made Jon freeze.
“Someone else-” Stephen continued, “some famous philosopher, I can’t remember who now-he actually died of intestinal complications from too much coffee.”
Jon threw him a look. He took another sip, hyperaware of where Stephen’s finger had rested on the brim. He smacked his lips from the heat.
“Did you know,” Jon said, “that in China they invented coffee-flavored condoms?”
“The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup.”
Jon giggled. “Mr. Low-Brow.”
“I spent Wednesday’s show shoving a camera up my butt. Your words have no power over me.”
“So why are you here, if not to be verbally abused?”
“It’s Friday. Why are you here?”
“The coffee’s better.”
“Ah-huh.”
Jon hadn’t expected it to sound convincing, so he really hadn’t tried. “And you?”
“You’re here.”
“But you didn’t know that before you came by, did you?”
Stephen grinned only, blinking and looking away for a second. Then he dug a small box out of his pocket and handed it to Jon. It was wrapped in blue with an orange bow.
“Mr. Workaholic,” he said. “Happy Friday the Thirteenth.”
***
It’s worse because the irreversible didn’t happen.
It’s worse because he dodged a bullet, but wants to dive back in front.
***
“Oh,” Jon said. He laughed, putting down his coffee beside Stephen, and examined the gift. “I thought you were going to say Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“No.” Stephen dragged the word out. “That would be tomorrow. By the way those are Mets colors.”
“I noticed.”
“Good.”
“I, uh.” Jon’s frown tilted into a smirk. “I didn’t get you anything. I didn’t realize it was Emergency Unlucky Holiday Day.”
Stephen smiled and Jon found reason to look elsewhere.
“It’s actually Emergency Make Your Ex-Boss Feel Weird and Uncomfortable Day. So you don’t need to give, only receive.”
Jon shifted from foot to foot in front of Stephen. He laughed again, trying to remember if Stephen had ever gotten him something before. He knew he hadn’t. Just as he had never bought Stephen anything, either.
“Sorry, I’m horrible with the official gift-giving, gift-opening etiquette. Do you want me to open it now or what?”
Stephen shrugged. Jon saw him hold back a smile, like he knew the ending to a joke. “Open it.”
“I don’t like that tone, Mr. Colbert. It’s… suspicious.”
“Open it.” Stephen broke into a grin, holding Jon’s eye contact. After a moment he stretched out his leg and lightly kicked Jon’s.
Jon ignored the shiver that went all the way through his system. He’d just ripped off the bow when he stopped.
“You know, I think I’m going to wait until I get home.”
“Oh. Well. Your loss.”
Jon had hoped he could make Stephen act irrationally angry, hyperbolically so, because it was always funny. But Stephen was far from character this afternoon, too warm, when even his mischievousness was glowing and sincere.
After a pause, Stephen picked up Jon’s coffee and drank from it. Jon watched Stephen’s neck as he swallowed.
A shrill, muffled ring interrupted. Stephen looked around, but Jon’s glance towards his coat gave it away. The sound carried on.
“You…going to get that?” asked Stephen.
Jon hesitated. He knew Stephen recognized the ring-too long working together, grabbing lunch together, finding reasons to hang around late together. He thought he’d had the reasons sorted out well enough, but that didn’t explain away the slow, sharp ache in his stomach now.
Jon frowned, then tore open the rest of his gift. The phone died in the process.
***
He stands immobile in the room, waiting for time to determine his next move. It’s getting late. He needs either to go home or find an excuse. Both involve confrontation. He wonders how much she knows.
It’s difficult to defend impulses he isn’t sure about having in the first place.
He thinks of the flowers he has yet to buy for tomorrow, whether they scream guilty. Tracey was never big on holidays. Jon wonders if the gesture would be lost on her.
If he’s already lost to her.
***
Beneath the wrapping paper was a small box, like the kind jewelry came in.
“You proposing?” Jon asked.
Stephen’s eyebrows rose over the top of the coffee. “Can I?”
“Betrothed to Clooney, so, no.” He popped open the lid.
Inside where the ring should have been was a strip of paper. Written crookedly across the blue lines was the word FREEBIE.
“Wow, thank you Stephen, just what I always wanted,” Jon said. “A memento of your handwriting. I’ll treasure it forever.”
“It is what it says.” Stephen nodded at the box. He set down the coffee, now half gone. “You pick.”
“I pick what?”
“What you get.” Stephen laughed when Jon just stared at him. “What? I can’t get you something?”
Jon bit back his “Why?” Jokes were more familiar, reliable and safe.
“Isn’t that a cop-out?” Jon said. “Like, an aunt giving you a gift card instead of a sweater with monkeys on it?”
“With monkeys?”
“And you wonder why I don’t do holidays.”
Stephen grinned. “Well I figured this way you can actually get something you like. Or want.” He held out his hand, offering. “I can get you a monkey sweater.”
Jon stared at him. Tried to gauge his expression. “Vacation.”
“Sadly, that’s not in my jurisdiction.”
“Can I wish for more wishes?”
“Mr. Selfish today, are we?” Stephen smiled, crossing his ankles and stretching out his legs. Jon looked at his socks again, the hem of his pants, and at the wrinkles in fabric that gathered around his knees and thighs.
He paused.
“Tonight,” Jon said.
Stephen kept smiling. “Tonight what?”
“Just…” Blood soared to his ears. He ignored it. The word sounded too light to be real. “Tonight.”
***
Stupid.
Jon can’t shake it. The writhing turns to cramping in his stomach. He reshapes the words in his mouth, muttering them back to himself. When is that suggestion ever a good idea? When is it worth risking?
He thinks of Stephen’s socks, stupid, of Tracey’s ankles crossed beneath the table.
He thinks of missed messages.
***
The air seemed dry, thin, caught in something. Jon took shallow breaths through his nose, careful of the silence and simultaneously dreading its continuance or breaking. He was just about to crack a joke and shatter it himself when Stephen blinked.
The smile was slowly pulling down into a straight line across his face. A small swath of wrinkles appeared in the middle of his forehead, but there wasn’t concern or confusion in his brows, only more warmth, and something dark, something that Jon had never seen Stephen direct towards him.
He slid off the desk, straightening out his pants with the palms of his hands. He glanced at Jon. Took a step in.
Jon jumped a little, moving back. They both froze. He exchanged his frown for a smile, something forgivable and forgettable, but nervous, and tried to say something. Instead Stephen tilted his head and pecked Jon’s mouth.
Quick. Over.
“I don’t.” Jon stopped. He’d worked out a sentence that no longer fit.
Stephen looked confused, then worried suddenly. “Sorry. I thought-”
“No, no.” Jon frowned, oblivious to what either of them meant. “Uh.”
“Yeah.” Stephen stared down at his shoes. It was such a childish gesture that Jon could have hit him. He caught himself, surprised, never having that thought about Stephen before.
Other thoughts, though. Yes.
It was embarrassing, that being angry with him should seem the more inappropriate.
“It was a joke,” Stephen said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to be weird.”
“It wasn’t-I mean it was, but-” Jon faltered.
“Just forget it. It was stupid.”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry. Um.” Stephen looked around as if for his coat, but he was already wearing it. “I’m late already, I should go.”
***
The memory of the whole conversation loses clarity. Embarrassment blurs its edges. Jon can remember the heat in his stomach, the burn beneath his skin, but not specific, stuttered words anymore.
He glances at the clock. It was only ten minutes ago. Stephen probably is barely out of the building.
A ghostly pressure returns to his lips. He wonders what would have happened if he opened his mouth, or touched Stephen’s hair, or hit him. All are foreign options.
He wipes a hand across his face. When the phone rings this time, his shoulders jump to his ears. He curses quietly and, fumbling, answers it without looking.
He thinks of what to tell her.
“Hello?”
“Hey.”
“Stephen?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “Come outside.”
***
Jon walks with him around the block for a bit, ignoring the people passing on the street. They talk. Half-sentences, all about anything but, as if testing to make sure dialogue still works the same way it always did between them.
As they loop back towards the studio, they’re walking closer, and Stephen’s shoulder keeps nearing Jon’s. Their hands come close. Jon moves his hands to his pockets. It’s not that he’s not interested; he’s just not sure how far it goes.
His fingers knock into the gift box he put in his coat. The phone lies in his other pocket, but he doesn’t touch that one.
Or how far it can go.
So once inside the building again, he takes Stephen by the shoulders to find out.
end