Sleep Madness
Title: Sleep Madness
Author: Mwah.
Fandom: The Daily Show. Whoa for branching out...
Pairing: Jon/Stephen (I suppose it's preslash?)
Rating: PG for being harmless
Warning: Copious references to Kenny Loggins and bad music? Also it's either AU or... the future!
A/N: My first TDS RPS! Huzzah! I basically wrote this a couple of nights ago when I was completely cracked-out and couldn't sleep. I have rampant insomnia, and here are the fruits of such insanity. Yaaay. This is meant to be the first part of... well... something. If I ever get around to finishing it.
Length: 2114 (the shortest thing I've ever written. Amazing.)
Feedback: Always welcome with open arms and loads of metaphorical cookies.
Summary: There really should be an off-switch for your brain when you're trying to go to sleep.
Sleep Madness
It’s not fair, really. To have a song stuck like this, playing over and over in my head... it's just really not fair at all. Especially this song.
Almost paradise
We’re knocking on heaven’s door!
Almost paradise…
Come on. It’s just too cheesy and wrong and for the love of God, can someone please get Kevin Bacon’s stupid fucking voice out of my head? Did Kevin Bacon even really sing it? I have no idea. I haven’t seen Footloose in ages. Hell, I don’t even like Footloose! If I remember correctly, the only reason I ever saw it in the first place was to get laid. And I don’t even think that cunning plan of mine worked! So no good memories there, nuh uh, no how.
Besides the fact that the song is tiresome and just plain stupid, it’s also late at night. Like, really, really late. Like to the point that if I were to be honest with myself, I would just admit it’s morning but no. It’s not morning because that would make sleep futile and I’ll be damned if I let another night go to waste. So, to me, in my delusional, Bacon-induced delirium, I remain convinced that it is really just super-late at night and maybe if I hold out just a tiny bit longer, sweet sleep shall be mine and Footloose will be cursed back into whatever swirly vortex of doom from whence it came.
Instead I pick up the phone.
After a few tinny rings during which I almost convince myself to stop being an ass and just hang up already, there’s a click.
“Nngh… what? Hello?”
His voice is scratchy and obviously sleep-laden. I instantly feel bad.
“Sorry,” I groan, rubbing a weary hand over my face. I scrunch my eyes closed as the fucking refrain blasts through my head once more.
“Jon?” he mumbles. “Wha… are you okay?”
I sigh, sitting up straighter in my chair. “Oh God, you were asleep, sorry, just…”
A low chuckle reverberates on his end. “Yeah, well, it is…” there’s a small noise of surprise as he evidently realizes what insane hour I’m calling him at. “It’s fucking late is what it is.” His voice grows in strength as he shakes the sleep off. Apparently, humoring me is top priority in his world. My heart swells a little at hearing that he’s going to go with my assertion that it’s actually still just late at night and not morning yet.
It’s a stupid thing to get all gushy about, but what can ya do.
“Sorry…” I mutter again, glad for the distance that prevents him from seeing the tint rising to my cheeks that’s caused by my own asinine behavior. I mean, who does this? Probably just insane people. Or lovesick teenagers. I think I may go with the former on that one… it’s much less likely to open up any uncomfortable can of worms.
“Jon, God, shut up. It’s fine. Are you okay?” he repeats.
I sigh. “Yeah, just…” I rub my face again. “It’s, it’s fucking Footloose, man!”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Um… Footloose, huh?” We both pause for a second. “Jon,” he asks cautiously, “I know you gave up the stuff, but have you, er, been dabbling in some former habits of your’s?”
I fall into silent confusion until the meaning behind his words hits me and forces a helpless laugh from me. Okay, maybe less of a laugh and more of a giggle. A stupid, stupid girl-giggle that makes me feel like my dick might as well crawl up into my body for all the good it does me. “No, no. No. Seriously, no. I’m just… Kevin Bacon… his stupid song is keeping me awake!”
There’s a pause again, only this time I know he’s smiling. It’s like the molecules or vibrations or whatever cosmic bullshit that makes up the essence of his smile are traveling through the phone and into the air around me.
Wow, maybe I am high.
He interrupts my reverie. “So… uh… thinking about Kevin Bacon is keeping you awake? I mean, I know he was pretty foxy when he sang ‘I'm Free’, but I hardly see it as a cause for insomnia.” I chuckle again. “Seriously, should I be getting jealous? He is quite the minx… I can hardly blame you.”
My laughter trails off. “No, no, it’s not Kevin Bacon per say. It’s just… I’ve had ‘Almost Paradise’ going through my head for a good three hours now and was just about ready to go and shoot Kenny Loggins. Or whoever the fuck wrote the fucking music to that fucking movie.”
“Yup, him, Dean Pitchford, Tom Snow, and Walter Bobbie.” Leave it to Stephen to know obscure facts about shitty musicals. “But it’s a classic, Jon. Even if it is causing you sleep madness. It’s a coming-of-age story! Complete with Loggins-inspired, impromptu-dancing! The wonders to behold for those who witness it far surpass any pain it’s caused you! Accept the Loggins-y love! To deny it shall only cause heartache!” I’m now unable to speak because his stupid tirade of enraptured reverence is making me laugh so hard my old lungs can hardly take it. “Besides,” he finishes seriously, the tone of child-like awe leaving his voice. “Bacon’s ass is the cat’s pajamas in those jeans.”
I gasp out something to the effect of “you are so incredibly gay that it almost hurts my brain,” only less coherent and more laughing than actual words. I can tell that my amusement pleases him but suddenly he pulls a switcharoo on me.
“Jon… are you really okay? I hardly see having a Footloose-inspired crisis as a basis of making a call at… oh, let’s just not name this ungodly hour.”
His serious tone catches me off-guard and I find myself playing with the sleeve of one of my numerous gray shirts. Stephen once told me that I apparently wanted to live in a black and white movie. Something to do with me secretly jonesing for James Dean.
I, of course, told him it was to make my hair seem darker by comparison. We both knew though that deep down, it was really just because I liked to blend in. Not in an obvious way, just in that “okay, I’ve had the limelight, now I’m going to bask in all of my grayscale glory” sort of way. I guess it all goes with that self-deprecation thing. And the Jewy-ness. I can only handle being praised for so long before I expect someone to ask me why I did my hair “like that” or why I can’t be a real comedian like Jerry Seinfeld or Mel Brooks or Woody Allen or get a real job and stop it with this joking business.
Tracey always said I did it to influence my eye color. I never really thought that made any sense, seeing as blue eyes are much better than gray, but Tracey said that wearing the gray was a good mask. It could prevent my eyes from changing to any other color, that wall of gray.
“Jon.” I still don’t answer. “It’s Tracey, isn’t it?”
I groan inwardly but only let out a small sigh. “Actually, it’s ‘Ebony and Ivory’ now.”
Stephen pauses before letting out a low chuckle. “Stevie Wonder, huh? Never thought it was Paul McCartney’s best work.”
I do let out a groan this time. “My brain is picking up a radio signal tonight or something.”
This time, Stephen doesn’t laugh. “Jon.”
A heavy sigh whooshes out of me. “Yeah, I know, avoiding the question with humor; emotional deflection of comedians, 101.” I can feel his smile again, only this time there’s sadness in it. “Okay, okay. It may have something to do with the fact that my wife of some amount of happy years has decided to leave me, alone, in my shitty new apartment. The shitty new apartment I now have because I couldn’t bear to leave her homeless in the motherfucking settlement, even though she’s the one who left me to pursue a relationship with a British horse podiatrist or horse spinal surgeon or horse whatever and took our kids with her. Except she didn’t really take them anywhere, seeing as, in reality, she didn’t really even leave me, she more kicked me out.” I just breathe for a moment. My rant has left me feeling oddly empty and worn out. Not tired, because noooo, that would be too fair for me to actually feel like sleeping.
I rub my eyes. “So, yeah, that may have something to do with me not being able to sleep.”
Stephen shifts and I can hear him moving something indistinctly. “Jon…” he starts, sounding a little helpless. I want him to make a joke… almost so badly it hurts. Because now the tears are pricking at the corners of my eyes and, dammit, he just sounds so concerned. I can’t handle it. Not while my emotions are all over the fucking place and parts of me hurt that I had forgotten were there since my dad left all those years ago.
“Jon… I’m really just…” Please, Stephen, be funny. Just make it all funny again. “Do you want me to come over?”
I swallow whatever emotions are rising in my throat and let out a choked laugh. “What? No. No… that’s insane, it’s way too late.” Hopefully I don’t sound as desperate to his ears as I do to mine. “I don’t want to drag you into my world of sleep madness.”
Stephen laughs a little. “At least it sounds quite musical.”
I groan. “Actually, it’s changed to ‘How Lucky to be a Woman’… you might want to stay as far away from me as humanly possible.”
This earns a full-out laugh. “Oh God, not Bye Bye Birdie? That really is a sign of sleep madness.” We both become quiet; me silently praying that he’ll decide to come over while simultaneously berating myself for being such a selfish girl who should really just go to bed already, and Stephen… just thinking, apparently. “Well, I mean… we can always get together tomorrow?”
I nod until I remember he can’t see it. “Yeah, no yeah, that works fine. We can get together tomorrow night.”
“Are… are you sure?” He still sounds really uncertain.
“God, Stephen yes, it’s fine. I mean, I highly doubt this is going to inspire me to go and get a shotgun to finish off Ann Margaret so you really have nothing to worry about. We’ll just see each other tomorrow. Then I can pour my heart out, okay?” I keep the tone light, trying to really show him it really is fine and ignoring the fact that part of me is just crying out Make him come here, you stupid idiot.
Stephen lets out an odd noise, a sort of half-grunt that somehow very accurately describes just how displeased he is with the whole situation and the helplessness he’s most likely feeling at the moment. “Alright…” he finally concedes, sounding almost suspicious. “But if I hear that a crazed fake news host mowed down one of Broadway’s finest with a sawed-off rifle tomorrow morning, I’ll only have myself to blame.”
I chuckle around the lump in my throat. “Duly noted.”
“Okay…” he hesitates again. “I guess good night, Jon.”
“Night Stephen.”
The line goes dead but I still hold the receiver to my ear, listening to the buzz of silence on the other end. I sigh, placing the phone back into the cradle.
My-a hee!
My-a hoo!
My-a ho!
My-a hah hah!
I groan before grabbing a pillow to scream into. Not. Fucking. Numa Numa. Upbeat Germanic techno is so not going to help my situation.
I’m suddenly startled from my attempt to smother myself in order to escape the horrors of O-Zone when my phone rings. The noise makes me jump a good foot; the song skipping a beat in my head.
“Stephen?” I ask, knowing that it’s him.
“What’s the verdict?” enquires the amused voice on the other end.
“That ‘Numa Numa’ song. I knew only bad things would come from watching too many online videos.”
Stephen groans. “Oh. My. God. O-Zone? Alright, that’s a clear sign of a crisis. I’m coming over.”
Before I can utter a single word of dissent, the line disconnects and I’m left alone again, only this time not for long and I strangely no longer feel like strangling myself or all of the members of O-Zone, but I rather want to dance to the manic tempo playing through my head.
So I do.
I suppose I can only hope that Stephen won’t be completely horrified to find his very middle-aged, very Jewish, and very painfully white friend shaking his ass to a really bad techno song that can only be heard in his head.
After all, it’s not called sleep madness for nothing.
-END-
~*~Note~*~ Sorry if I got my references wrong on my song facts because... well, I'm lazy and did about the least amount of research possible. That and middle-aged white men really shouldn't know all of those details anyways.
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual persons is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
Any mention of 'The Daily Show', 'The Colbert Report', 'Viacom', any associated entites, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976 and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material.
Author: Mwah.
Fandom: The Daily Show. Whoa for branching out...
Pairing: Jon/Stephen (I suppose it's preslash?)
Rating: PG for being harmless
Warning: Copious references to Kenny Loggins and bad music? Also it's either AU or... the future!
A/N: My first TDS RPS! Huzzah! I basically wrote this a couple of nights ago when I was completely cracked-out and couldn't sleep. I have rampant insomnia, and here are the fruits of such insanity. Yaaay. This is meant to be the first part of... well... something. If I ever get around to finishing it.
Length: 2114 (the shortest thing I've ever written. Amazing.)
Feedback: Always welcome with open arms and loads of metaphorical cookies.
Summary: There really should be an off-switch for your brain when you're trying to go to sleep.
Sleep Madness
It’s not fair, really. To have a song stuck like this, playing over and over in my head... it's just really not fair at all. Especially this song.
Almost paradise
We’re knocking on heaven’s door!
Almost paradise…
Come on. It’s just too cheesy and wrong and for the love of God, can someone please get Kevin Bacon’s stupid fucking voice out of my head? Did Kevin Bacon even really sing it? I have no idea. I haven’t seen Footloose in ages. Hell, I don’t even like Footloose! If I remember correctly, the only reason I ever saw it in the first place was to get laid. And I don’t even think that cunning plan of mine worked! So no good memories there, nuh uh, no how.
Besides the fact that the song is tiresome and just plain stupid, it’s also late at night. Like, really, really late. Like to the point that if I were to be honest with myself, I would just admit it’s morning but no. It’s not morning because that would make sleep futile and I’ll be damned if I let another night go to waste. So, to me, in my delusional, Bacon-induced delirium, I remain convinced that it is really just super-late at night and maybe if I hold out just a tiny bit longer, sweet sleep shall be mine and Footloose will be cursed back into whatever swirly vortex of doom from whence it came.
Instead I pick up the phone.
After a few tinny rings during which I almost convince myself to stop being an ass and just hang up already, there’s a click.
“Nngh… what? Hello?”
His voice is scratchy and obviously sleep-laden. I instantly feel bad.
“Sorry,” I groan, rubbing a weary hand over my face. I scrunch my eyes closed as the fucking refrain blasts through my head once more.
“Jon?” he mumbles. “Wha… are you okay?”
I sigh, sitting up straighter in my chair. “Oh God, you were asleep, sorry, just…”
A low chuckle reverberates on his end. “Yeah, well, it is…” there’s a small noise of surprise as he evidently realizes what insane hour I’m calling him at. “It’s fucking late is what it is.” His voice grows in strength as he shakes the sleep off. Apparently, humoring me is top priority in his world. My heart swells a little at hearing that he’s going to go with my assertion that it’s actually still just late at night and not morning yet.
It’s a stupid thing to get all gushy about, but what can ya do.
“Sorry…” I mutter again, glad for the distance that prevents him from seeing the tint rising to my cheeks that’s caused by my own asinine behavior. I mean, who does this? Probably just insane people. Or lovesick teenagers. I think I may go with the former on that one… it’s much less likely to open up any uncomfortable can of worms.
“Jon, God, shut up. It’s fine. Are you okay?” he repeats.
I sigh. “Yeah, just…” I rub my face again. “It’s, it’s fucking Footloose, man!”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Um… Footloose, huh?” We both pause for a second. “Jon,” he asks cautiously, “I know you gave up the stuff, but have you, er, been dabbling in some former habits of your’s?”
I fall into silent confusion until the meaning behind his words hits me and forces a helpless laugh from me. Okay, maybe less of a laugh and more of a giggle. A stupid, stupid girl-giggle that makes me feel like my dick might as well crawl up into my body for all the good it does me. “No, no. No. Seriously, no. I’m just… Kevin Bacon… his stupid song is keeping me awake!”
There’s a pause again, only this time I know he’s smiling. It’s like the molecules or vibrations or whatever cosmic bullshit that makes up the essence of his smile are traveling through the phone and into the air around me.
Wow, maybe I am high.
He interrupts my reverie. “So… uh… thinking about Kevin Bacon is keeping you awake? I mean, I know he was pretty foxy when he sang ‘I'm Free’, but I hardly see it as a cause for insomnia.” I chuckle again. “Seriously, should I be getting jealous? He is quite the minx… I can hardly blame you.”
My laughter trails off. “No, no, it’s not Kevin Bacon per say. It’s just… I’ve had ‘Almost Paradise’ going through my head for a good three hours now and was just about ready to go and shoot Kenny Loggins. Or whoever the fuck wrote the fucking music to that fucking movie.”
“Yup, him, Dean Pitchford, Tom Snow, and Walter Bobbie.” Leave it to Stephen to know obscure facts about shitty musicals. “But it’s a classic, Jon. Even if it is causing you sleep madness. It’s a coming-of-age story! Complete with Loggins-inspired, impromptu-dancing! The wonders to behold for those who witness it far surpass any pain it’s caused you! Accept the Loggins-y love! To deny it shall only cause heartache!” I’m now unable to speak because his stupid tirade of enraptured reverence is making me laugh so hard my old lungs can hardly take it. “Besides,” he finishes seriously, the tone of child-like awe leaving his voice. “Bacon’s ass is the cat’s pajamas in those jeans.”
I gasp out something to the effect of “you are so incredibly gay that it almost hurts my brain,” only less coherent and more laughing than actual words. I can tell that my amusement pleases him but suddenly he pulls a switcharoo on me.
“Jon… are you really okay? I hardly see having a Footloose-inspired crisis as a basis of making a call at… oh, let’s just not name this ungodly hour.”
His serious tone catches me off-guard and I find myself playing with the sleeve of one of my numerous gray shirts. Stephen once told me that I apparently wanted to live in a black and white movie. Something to do with me secretly jonesing for James Dean.
I, of course, told him it was to make my hair seem darker by comparison. We both knew though that deep down, it was really just because I liked to blend in. Not in an obvious way, just in that “okay, I’ve had the limelight, now I’m going to bask in all of my grayscale glory” sort of way. I guess it all goes with that self-deprecation thing. And the Jewy-ness. I can only handle being praised for so long before I expect someone to ask me why I did my hair “like that” or why I can’t be a real comedian like Jerry Seinfeld or Mel Brooks or Woody Allen or get a real job and stop it with this joking business.
Tracey always said I did it to influence my eye color. I never really thought that made any sense, seeing as blue eyes are much better than gray, but Tracey said that wearing the gray was a good mask. It could prevent my eyes from changing to any other color, that wall of gray.
“Jon.” I still don’t answer. “It’s Tracey, isn’t it?”
I groan inwardly but only let out a small sigh. “Actually, it’s ‘Ebony and Ivory’ now.”
Stephen pauses before letting out a low chuckle. “Stevie Wonder, huh? Never thought it was Paul McCartney’s best work.”
I do let out a groan this time. “My brain is picking up a radio signal tonight or something.”
This time, Stephen doesn’t laugh. “Jon.”
A heavy sigh whooshes out of me. “Yeah, I know, avoiding the question with humor; emotional deflection of comedians, 101.” I can feel his smile again, only this time there’s sadness in it. “Okay, okay. It may have something to do with the fact that my wife of some amount of happy years has decided to leave me, alone, in my shitty new apartment. The shitty new apartment I now have because I couldn’t bear to leave her homeless in the motherfucking settlement, even though she’s the one who left me to pursue a relationship with a British horse podiatrist or horse spinal surgeon or horse whatever and took our kids with her. Except she didn’t really take them anywhere, seeing as, in reality, she didn’t really even leave me, she more kicked me out.” I just breathe for a moment. My rant has left me feeling oddly empty and worn out. Not tired, because noooo, that would be too fair for me to actually feel like sleeping.
I rub my eyes. “So, yeah, that may have something to do with me not being able to sleep.”
Stephen shifts and I can hear him moving something indistinctly. “Jon…” he starts, sounding a little helpless. I want him to make a joke… almost so badly it hurts. Because now the tears are pricking at the corners of my eyes and, dammit, he just sounds so concerned. I can’t handle it. Not while my emotions are all over the fucking place and parts of me hurt that I had forgotten were there since my dad left all those years ago.
“Jon… I’m really just…” Please, Stephen, be funny. Just make it all funny again. “Do you want me to come over?”
I swallow whatever emotions are rising in my throat and let out a choked laugh. “What? No. No… that’s insane, it’s way too late.” Hopefully I don’t sound as desperate to his ears as I do to mine. “I don’t want to drag you into my world of sleep madness.”
Stephen laughs a little. “At least it sounds quite musical.”
I groan. “Actually, it’s changed to ‘How Lucky to be a Woman’… you might want to stay as far away from me as humanly possible.”
This earns a full-out laugh. “Oh God, not Bye Bye Birdie? That really is a sign of sleep madness.” We both become quiet; me silently praying that he’ll decide to come over while simultaneously berating myself for being such a selfish girl who should really just go to bed already, and Stephen… just thinking, apparently. “Well, I mean… we can always get together tomorrow?”
I nod until I remember he can’t see it. “Yeah, no yeah, that works fine. We can get together tomorrow night.”
“Are… are you sure?” He still sounds really uncertain.
“God, Stephen yes, it’s fine. I mean, I highly doubt this is going to inspire me to go and get a shotgun to finish off Ann Margaret so you really have nothing to worry about. We’ll just see each other tomorrow. Then I can pour my heart out, okay?” I keep the tone light, trying to really show him it really is fine and ignoring the fact that part of me is just crying out Make him come here, you stupid idiot.
Stephen lets out an odd noise, a sort of half-grunt that somehow very accurately describes just how displeased he is with the whole situation and the helplessness he’s most likely feeling at the moment. “Alright…” he finally concedes, sounding almost suspicious. “But if I hear that a crazed fake news host mowed down one of Broadway’s finest with a sawed-off rifle tomorrow morning, I’ll only have myself to blame.”
I chuckle around the lump in my throat. “Duly noted.”
“Okay…” he hesitates again. “I guess good night, Jon.”
“Night Stephen.”
The line goes dead but I still hold the receiver to my ear, listening to the buzz of silence on the other end. I sigh, placing the phone back into the cradle.
My-a hee!
My-a hoo!
My-a ho!
My-a hah hah!
I groan before grabbing a pillow to scream into. Not. Fucking. Numa Numa. Upbeat Germanic techno is so not going to help my situation.
I’m suddenly startled from my attempt to smother myself in order to escape the horrors of O-Zone when my phone rings. The noise makes me jump a good foot; the song skipping a beat in my head.
“Stephen?” I ask, knowing that it’s him.
“What’s the verdict?” enquires the amused voice on the other end.
“That ‘Numa Numa’ song. I knew only bad things would come from watching too many online videos.”
Stephen groans. “Oh. My. God. O-Zone? Alright, that’s a clear sign of a crisis. I’m coming over.”
Before I can utter a single word of dissent, the line disconnects and I’m left alone again, only this time not for long and I strangely no longer feel like strangling myself or all of the members of O-Zone, but I rather want to dance to the manic tempo playing through my head.
So I do.
I suppose I can only hope that Stephen won’t be completely horrified to find his very middle-aged, very Jewish, and very painfully white friend shaking his ass to a really bad techno song that can only be heard in his head.
After all, it’s not called sleep madness for nothing.
-END-
~*~Note~*~ Sorry if I got my references wrong on my song facts because... well, I'm lazy and did about the least amount of research possible. That and middle-aged white men really shouldn't know all of those details anyways.
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual persons is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
Any mention of 'The Daily Show', 'The Colbert Report', 'Viacom', any associated entites, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976 and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material.