Fic: The Bad Beginning
I thought about writing out the entire "first episode", but decided against it. Instead, this is a thematic little piece of events that would be in the first episode/chapter/act/unit of at least one incarnation of PASJ: the first meeting between Jon and Stephen.
The title is shamelessly purloined from Lemony Snicket.
Moral of the story: If you crumple up an embarrassing piece of paper and throw it over your shoulder, and it his someone on your head, this is clearly your True Love. Don't fight it!
Title: The Bad Beginning
Rating: G. No warnings whatsoever. Fluffy like whoa.
Disclaimer: Fiction. Bears no resemblance to the real people whose names it uses. Claims no ownership of anything Sailory; that was all Naoko-hime's idea.
The Bad Beginning
Jon Stewart had spent all morning writing and rewriting the same introduction. He only had one chance to make a first impression on The Daily Show's viewers: to convince them that, while not Craig, he was still funny, and they shouldn't start channel-flipping after the first five minutes.
It didn't help that Jon had no idea where anything was in his new office. Ten minutes slipped away while he was looking for white-out, before he gave up and started just scribbling out bits he didn't like.
When half the page was covered in angry blue lines, the pen died. With an inarticulate groan of frustration Jon crumpled the paper into a ball and lobbed it over his shoulder.
"Hey!" protested a voice from behind him. "Watch where you throw things, big guy!"
Jon spun around on his chair - which, because it had legs and not wheels, made an excruciating screeching sound at the action - and flinched. Then he flinched again, because Stephen Colbert was standing in the doorway, unfolding the mutilated script.
"Sorry - that's just trash - let me get that . . ." Jon stood up and reached for the paper.
The correspondent nonchalantly pulled it away, holding it just out of Jon's reach above his head as he read it. "'Welcome to the Daily Show! I'm your new host, Jon Stewart, and I'm going to do my best to fill Craig's shoes.' I think you'd need four feet to do that."
"All right, Stephen, enough with the size jokes," protested Jon, trying to sound nonchalant but stepping back to keep himself from jumping for the draft. "I've heard them all before, believe me."
"And yet, you can't seem to avoid setting them up," countered Stephen, skimming the rest of the speech. "'We're going to be making a few small changes around the studio . . .' Starting with you, I assume?"
He'd relaxed his guard, and his arm, so Jon took an impulsive leap and snatched the paper out of Stephen's hand. Falling back, he fought down a look of triumph with his best professional expression. "Did you want to see me about something?"
Stephen was either the better actor of the two or he just didn't care that much; his one raised eyebrow never budged from its position of ironic detachment. "Just wanted to look over the new host," he said calmly, eyes skimming up and down Jon's body in a way that made him feel inexplicably uncomfortable. "But," he added, using one hand to measure the line from his eye level to the top of Jon's hair, "it seems like I'll be doing that a lot."
"If you'll excuse me," replied Jon flatly, "I have a speech to finish here." He moved unsubtly to close the door.
"You do that," replied Stephen, backing out. "Later, big guy."
Jon shut the door a fraction too hard, then leaned against it to take a deep breath, one hand unconsciously crushing the much-abused draft in his hands.
So that was Stephen Colbert. The man on whom the odds had been to get Craig's job, until Jon had been hired. One of his correspondents.
"Jerk," he muttered.
♦ · ♦ · ♦ · ♦ · ♦
The mysterious masked man disappeared into the night, flag-lined cape flapping, while Junior - the talking eagle who had started this whole mess - poked around in the ashes of the demon.
"It's dead," he concluded. "Well done, Sailor Jon . . . Sailor Jon?"
Jon was still staring after his rescuer. Self-consciously, he took the tie of his short-skirted uniform and patted his forehead.
"Ohhh," he murmured to himself, "he's handsome."
The title is shamelessly purloined from Lemony Snicket.
Moral of the story: If you crumple up an embarrassing piece of paper and throw it over your shoulder, and it his someone on your head, this is clearly your True Love. Don't fight it!
Title: The Bad Beginning
Rating: G. No warnings whatsoever. Fluffy like whoa.
Disclaimer: Fiction. Bears no resemblance to the real people whose names it uses. Claims no ownership of anything Sailory; that was all Naoko-hime's idea.
The Bad Beginning
Jon Stewart had spent all morning writing and rewriting the same introduction. He only had one chance to make a first impression on The Daily Show's viewers: to convince them that, while not Craig, he was still funny, and they shouldn't start channel-flipping after the first five minutes.
It didn't help that Jon had no idea where anything was in his new office. Ten minutes slipped away while he was looking for white-out, before he gave up and started just scribbling out bits he didn't like.
When half the page was covered in angry blue lines, the pen died. With an inarticulate groan of frustration Jon crumpled the paper into a ball and lobbed it over his shoulder.
"Hey!" protested a voice from behind him. "Watch where you throw things, big guy!"
Jon spun around on his chair - which, because it had legs and not wheels, made an excruciating screeching sound at the action - and flinched. Then he flinched again, because Stephen Colbert was standing in the doorway, unfolding the mutilated script.
"Sorry - that's just trash - let me get that . . ." Jon stood up and reached for the paper.
The correspondent nonchalantly pulled it away, holding it just out of Jon's reach above his head as he read it. "'Welcome to the Daily Show! I'm your new host, Jon Stewart, and I'm going to do my best to fill Craig's shoes.' I think you'd need four feet to do that."
"All right, Stephen, enough with the size jokes," protested Jon, trying to sound nonchalant but stepping back to keep himself from jumping for the draft. "I've heard them all before, believe me."
"And yet, you can't seem to avoid setting them up," countered Stephen, skimming the rest of the speech. "'We're going to be making a few small changes around the studio . . .' Starting with you, I assume?"
He'd relaxed his guard, and his arm, so Jon took an impulsive leap and snatched the paper out of Stephen's hand. Falling back, he fought down a look of triumph with his best professional expression. "Did you want to see me about something?"
Stephen was either the better actor of the two or he just didn't care that much; his one raised eyebrow never budged from its position of ironic detachment. "Just wanted to look over the new host," he said calmly, eyes skimming up and down Jon's body in a way that made him feel inexplicably uncomfortable. "But," he added, using one hand to measure the line from his eye level to the top of Jon's hair, "it seems like I'll be doing that a lot."
"If you'll excuse me," replied Jon flatly, "I have a speech to finish here." He moved unsubtly to close the door.
"You do that," replied Stephen, backing out. "Later, big guy."
Jon shut the door a fraction too hard, then leaned against it to take a deep breath, one hand unconsciously crushing the much-abused draft in his hands.
So that was Stephen Colbert. The man on whom the odds had been to get Craig's job, until Jon had been hired. One of his correspondents.
"Jerk," he muttered.
♦ · ♦ · ♦ · ♦ · ♦
The mysterious masked man disappeared into the night, flag-lined cape flapping, while Junior - the talking eagle who had started this whole mess - poked around in the ashes of the demon.
"It's dead," he concluded. "Well done, Sailor Jon . . . Sailor Jon?"
Jon was still staring after his rescuer. Self-consciously, he took the tie of his short-skirted uniform and patted his forehead.
"Ohhh," he murmured to himself, "he's handsome."