VANDERBILTS ARE LIKE THE JEDI
Title: Vanderbilts are Like the Jedi (2/?)
Author: Mwah.
Fandom: The Daily Show.
Pairing: Jon/Stephen (I suppose it's preslash?)
Rating: PG for being harmless
Warning: Use of the word "va-jay-jay" and the objectification of Anderson Cooper. This is still either AU or... the future!
A/N: This is part two to "Sleep Madness", my first TDS RPS. Uh... this one is quite a bit longer and meanders a lot since it's based on actual conversations I have with people and follows how my stream of conciousness works. There's going to be even more coming once I actually find inspiration. Also, this thing has way too many references to pop culture. Sorry, I was just in that mind-set I guess.
Length: 4880
Feedback: Always welcome with open arms and loads of metaphorical cookies.
Previous Chapters: Sleep Madness
Summary: Visitors are a welcome distraction from insanity.
VANDERBILTS ARE LIKE THE JEDI
Knock, knock, knock.
“Jon?”
I don’t respond, instead opting to be emo and glower at the floor. Maybe if I don’t say anything, he’ll think I’m asleep and I can wallow in peace.
“Hellooo, Jonathan?”
There’s a pause.
“I know you’re still awake, blockhead.”
I sigh. “Door’s open…”
The door swings wide in my peripheral vision and a pair of beat-up loafers shuffle into sight. After the click of the door being closed and locked, silence reigns in the room as my visitor surveys the area.
“’Blockhead’?” I ask skeptically. “What, are you channeling Bart Simpson now?”
Stephen ignores me. “So… any reason why we’re on the floor then?” he asks, his voice soft and amused as he squats down on the carpet next to me.
I sigh into the rug, debating my answer.
“I was dancing.”
Even though I can’t see it, I know as sure as I’m circumcised that one of those eyebrows of his is arced in that graceful way that always seem to defy reason. Really, no one should make looking skeptical so elegant. “Dancing?” The question is simple and the amusement is becoming more obvious.
I sigh again and shift a little so I can see him better. “Yes. Dancing. I was dancing but then I got worn out, so I laid down. That… and things always seem better from the floor.”
“Oh, like the rampant dust bunnies that seem to have free range ‘round these parts?” Stephen laughs quietly as he scoots into a sitting position, the question about dancing lost forever in the progression of our banter. “Have I suddenly stumbled upon you regressing to some sort of childhood state?” He slips into an over-exaggerated Freudian accent. “Deed you do siz vhen you vere upset as ze child? Deed it help you vhen you vere feeling ze sad? Jah?”
I giggle slightly and look up at him. “Actually, I used to crawl under the sink.”
“Ah,” Stephen nods sagely. “Like A Christmas Story.”
I cock my head and turn a little more on my side. “What?”
“The little brother from A Christmas Story. Uh… Randy, I think. You know, he hides under the sink after Ralphie gets in a fight because he thinks,” he suddenly perfectly mimics the high-pitched whine of the holiday movie character, “’DADDY’S GONNA KILL RALPHIE.’”
I giggle harder, clamping my hands over my ears. “Oh, God, never do that again, for the love of Jesus, Mary and Moses.”
Stephen shrugs, his smile softening. “And why, young man, was your door open? Anyone could’ve wandered in here and… you know…” He suddenly grins. “Taken advantage of your person and whatnot.”
“Well, seeing as I left it open for you, I figured the only person I would have to fear a ravaging from would be yourself.”
Stephen’s grin turns even more wicked. “Well, the night is yet young. Who knows what could happen?” His expression turns a bit, melting into a frown. The changes that come over his countenance happen with such fluidity that often times I am caught off-guard. I find myself once more quickly trying to cope with this new look. “But seriously Jon, you need to be more careful. Anyone really could’ve come in.”
I snort into the rug. “Yeah, I’m sure anyone would break into my apartment to defile a short, pudgy, hairy, middle-aged, graying, Jewish comedian who can’t even be bothered to sit in a chair.”
Stephen’s expression softens. “To be fair, they wouldn’t be breaking in… they’d be walking in since your door was unlocked.” He then pauses and looks at me so fondly that I have to crush my face even more into the carpet below my head to avoid the stupid blush that threatens to come to my face. Girl. I am a giant, girly girl-man. I’m just awaiting the flowering of my motherfucking vay-jay-jay. “And seriously, who wouldn’t want to ravage you? Jewousity is all the rage. And I have it on good opinion that the whole gray thing is quite fetching. Although,” he says, tugging a bit on my sweatpants’ leg, “dressing all in gray is perhaps overdoing it.”
I open my mouth in an effort at a retort, only to be rewarded with one of the dust bunnies Stephen had been so kind to point out ending up lodged in my mouth. I spit in disgust, shoving myself slightly upright. I pull the offending particles out of my mouth and grimace. “I guess that’s what comes of never vacuuming.” Stephen makes a face, his forehead crinkling behind the bridge of his less-severe, non-TV-persona glasses. “And I like my gray outfit! It’s, you know… me. I think.”
Stephen smiles mildly. “I beg to differ.”
I find myself smiling back. “Okay then, what is me?”
Stephen shrugs, that goofy lop-sided grin coming over his face that’s two-parts amusement, three-parts affection, and one-part… who the hell knows what. “I’m not sure, but it’s certainly not gray, my friend.” Suddenly the grin turns wicked. “Maybe some sort of rainbow. Or lavender.”
I sigh and throw an arm over my eyes dramatically. “Well, thanks, that’s comforting.”
Stephen ignores my prima-Donna attitude and instead opts to lie down next to me, scooting down until our heads are level. “So, what’s on the radio now, Mr. DJ of the redhot midnight hours and cool, smooth tunes?”
I sigh again. “God… uh…” I turn my head away before chuckling embarrassedly. “’My Love’.”
Stephen’s eyebrows have shot into the fringe of his un-gelled hair by the time I finally look at him again. “Justin Timberlake? Really?” He giggles, a hand drifting up to cover his mouth, as per usual. I find myself wishing that for once he’d just let me watch him laugh. “And I thought O-Zone was bad… now here you are, lusting after the pretty member of Nsync.”
“Hey!” I start in my defense, though I’m laughing now too which makes my indignation a little less convincing. “He was a stellar break-out artist! And…” Finally, a groan of defeat exits my mouth and I throw my hands up above my head. “Fine. Fine! I’m gay for Timberlake. Who isn’t though, really? He’s like the new Johnny Depp! No man’s heterosexuality can stand intact in his presence.”
Stephen purses his lips and squints his eyes a little in thought. “Hmm… I always thought you were more gay for Anderson Cooper. Seriously, last interview I thought you two were going to throw the desk over and copulate like lovesick, gray-haired, news-obsessed, giggly bunnies. No lie.”
“Hey, man, no one can resist a Vanderbilt. They have powers. Like the Jedi.”
“Ah, the force would indeed be strong with him. He’s like the really hot Yoda of cable news.”
“He’s like a wizard!”
“Actually,” Stephen counters seriously, “I’ve always thought he was more like an elf. All fair and stuff. He would definitely be from Loth Lorien. He’d be like… Galadriel and Celeborn’s son.”
I slowly turn my eyes on him and quirk an eyebrow. “Um, is this a fantasy of your’s? ‘CNN meets Lord of the Rings’ sort of deal?”
Stephen merely grins at me toothily. “Hey, it’s how I roll. I just work with what I’m given.”
I giggle again helplessly. “Oh, God, I just got the mental image of you dressed as that, uh… the guy who Viggo played and Anderson as the girly elf…” I snap my fingers as I remember. “Lego… mas?”
Stephen sighs in despair and his eyes roll skyward. “Legolas. And Aragorn, Jon. Viggo Mortensen played Aragorn. Aragorn. Son of Arathorn. The nine and thirtieth heir in the right line from Isildur. The founder of the House of Telcontar. Also known as Estel, the Dúnadan, Longshanks, Thorongil, Strider, Wingfoot, King Elessar, the 26th King of Arnor, 35th King of Gondor, the first High King of the Reunited Kingdom-“
“OKAY,” I interject, interrupting his gushing. “Jesus. Don’t blow a load on me over some Tolkien pretty boy.”
Stephen gasps in shock and horror, his eyes widening comically in front of me. “’Pretty boy’?” he sputters indignantly. “’Pretty boy’?! God, Jon, I… I don’t think I can see you anymore. I think we’re done here.” He begins to get up in a huff but I grab his arm, trying not to offend him further by giggling in his face.
“No, no Stephen! I’m sorry!” I protest, choking on my own laughter. “He’s manly! Very manly! Very heroic and manly and totally worth losing your heterosexuality over!”
He pauses, looking skeptical. I’m transfixed by the eyebrow again. “More worth becoming gay for than Justin Timberlake?”
“Yes,” I answer quickly. “Completely. My gayness is totally owned by your’s.”
He quirks his eyebrow further and I wonder briefly and not for the first time if the thing is its own sentient being. “Even better than Anderson?”
I pause. “But… but… he’s a Jedi.” I purse my lips in thought. “You know, he also could really be a ninja.”
Stephen lies back down, temper-tantrum apparently forgotten. “No, not a ninja. He would have to wear a mask then. That wouldn’t work since his powers come from not only his startling intelligence but also his drop-dead gorgeous Vanderbilt looks.”
“True,” I concede before lapsing into thought again. “Do you think Anderson would find it creepy how much we talk about being gay for him? And obsessing over him? And daydreaming about how his eyes are blue like the core of a glacier yet warm like sleeping in a pen full of puppies?”
Stephen snorts. “I doubt it. He’d probably be flattered. I think he may actually be gayer for you than you are for him.” He then frowns. “And I do not daydream about his eyes. I’m more partial to that giggle of his.” He turns his head and winks at me. “Reminds me of you.”
“Oh, well then, I suppose I’ll be flattered as well.”
We both fall into companionable silence, my body relaxing in his presence. It’s amazing how much The Crazy (as I call the psychosis of my insomnia) can be helped by just having someone else there. Just watching Tracey sleep used to keep me from falling too far into The Crazy hole… I guess I used to just feel reassured that someone else was there and that I wasn’t really alone; even if that other person was unconscious and I was staring at them like a creep.
Even though I still don’t feel near sleep, my mind is calming and “My Love” has been replaced by a far-more soothing rendition of the Righteous Brother’s “Unchained Melody”. Sure, it brings up disconcerting images of a shirtless Swayze, but such things really can’t be helped.
“Jon…” Stephen suddenly starts uneasily, breaking the comfortable calm of the room. “When… when did you know that Tracey was leaving you?”
I blink and look at him in surprise, a bit stunned from the sudden turn in conversation. “Uh… well, about the time she said ‘Jon, I’m leaving you.’” I pause for a moment, feeling that mass of blackness somewhere in my abdomen open up again as my thoughts turn to that which I have been avoiding. “When did I realize it? A few days after all my shit was packed up and I was hugging my son good-bye. That was when I realized it.” I suck in a breath and look away, composing myself. Stephen falls quiet and I turn my eyes on him again. “Stephen…” I say quietly, “why do you ask?”
He says nothing for what feels like an eternity and I wonder if he even heard me. I’m about to change the subject when he finally speaks.
“I’m worried. About Evie and me.”
My brow furrows and I struggle into a sitting position. “Seriously? I thought you guys were doing really well.”
Stephen’s frown deepens and he puts his hands behind his head, cupping his skull. “Uh, well… so did I.”
There’s an uneasy silence in the room. “Er…” I finally venture. “Then, uh, what’s making you think something’s the matter?”
Stephen’s hands move around to his face and he pulls his glasses off with a swift movement to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Um… Evie… she, uh… she’s left. Not permanently,” he adds hurriedly upon seeing the expression on my face, “but… she’s gone to her mom’s. Took the kids.”
“Jesus,” I breathe. “When?”
“Uh… a little over a week ago.”
My eyes boggle at him in shock. “Christ, Stephen! Why the fuck did you not tell me?”
One shoulder shrugs upward and he turns his head away from me sheepishly. “Well, I dunno… you’re going through all your stuff and… well… I just didn’t feel like being the guy going ‘Hey, I know you just got your heart ripped out in a brutal divorce but please help me out and tell me if you think I should really be worried about marriage problems I may not even be having.’” He sighs and rubs his eyes. “I just didn’t want to do that to you.”
“What,” I ask incredulously, “you think that you would be burdening me?”
He gives that half-assed shrug again and murmurs, “I guess.”
“Stephen,” I begin, feeling a bit flabbergasted. “Stephen. You… you really underestimate how much people care about you, don’t you?”
Stephen gives me a weak smile, the corners of his mouth twitching from the effort. “Well, I think that may be a case of the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Hey, man, I’m a self-hating Jew. I have an excuse.” He smiles a little hardier at that before his face falls into a frown again. “Plus,” I continue, “did it ever occur to you that perhaps it would be a good idea for me to focus on someone besides myself for once and stop wallowing in my own self-pity?”
Stephen sits up and leans against the wall, his eyes narrowing a bit. “You are not wallowing. If anything, you’ve been showing the classic signs of straight-up denial mixed with a little bit of acceptance. You,” he adds, jabbing his commanding finger at me, “are not following the correct sequence of steps for grieving, mister.”
I sigh and do something forbidden in the world of comedians; I cut through the humor and go straight for the problem. “Stephen, why did Evie leave?”
His finger is still outstretched as he gapes at me in surprise. He quickly puts it away after noticing that it is still sitting out there in the world, pointing accusingly at me. “Uh…” he mutters, eyes sliding away from mine. “I’m just… I’m not even really sure. She said she needed ‘space’… something that used to make sense to me until it was used as an excuse to get away from me.”
“Is there… you know, any reason for her to be…”
“Wanting to get away from me?”
“Yeah… I guess.”
“Well, she sure as hell doesn’t have a good reason if she has any. If anything, she doesn’t need to get away from me because I’m barely ever home!” A flush has crept into his cheeks and he pauses, making uneasy eye contact with me and offering a slightly ill-looking smile. “Or so I’ve been told.”
“Jesus Stephen…” I mutter, rubbing my eyes with my hand while running my free hand through my Jewfro. “I didn’t know things were getting so bad…”
“Well,” he mutters blankly, “I guess I didn’t know either. She just kind of… blew up on me. And said that I’m not ‘emotionally available’ anymore and work too much. Which I personally don’t get seeing as I’ve been home more lately than I have been in years.” He sighs and blinks rapidly, laying his glasses next to his head on the floor. “I don’t know, Jon. It just… it all feels off. Do you…” He’s all hesitation again. “Do you think she’s cheating on me?”
I take a deep breath and bite my lip, trying to seriously consider his question and not just automatically tell him of course not. I’m not honestly sure of what to say. “I don’t know, man. I mean… does she go out a lot?”
“Well, she goes out with her friends sometimes and that sort of thing. Visits her sister. Things like that.”
“Have you, er…” I could do without being so awkward. “Found anything? Clothes or something that aren’t your’s? Weird phone calls?”
“No,” Stephen says after taking a moment to mull my questions over. “I mean, I really don’t think she’s sleeping with anyone. I think.”
“Uh, well Stephen, not to sound too ‘Dr. Phil’ or anything but… well, a physical affair isn’t the only way of cheating. There’s emotional too. I mean… Tracey never slept with Dr. Doo-fucka-little before we divorced, but she sure as hell had something with him. She even told me on multiple occasions about what a ‘cool guy’ he was.” My mouth clamps shut and I try to restrain myself from going into a tirade about the stupid Horse Man. “Sorry, I won’t go into a bitching session. But do you think there’s something going on?”
Stephen’s eyes are peering upward and he offers me an off-kilter smile that makes my heart drop somewhere near my shoes in compassion for my friend. “I don’t know, Jon. She never talks about anyone else.” He suddenly grunts in despair and his hands fly to his scalp, gripping his hair hard until his knuckles are white. “Fuck, I should be talking about this with her, Godamnit!” He screws his eyes shut before opening one and looking at me apologetically. “Not that you aren’t good to talk to.”
The grin on my face is almost as pathetic as his but I try anyways. “Listen, I understand man. This is all… it sucks. Plain and simple.”
“I just… I wish she would talk to me!” he groans, flabbergasted. “Every time, she just… she cries, Jon. She cries. It makes me feel like such a dick. I can’t… I can’t figure it out. I thought things were going okay, going well actually, and then BAM I get sideswiped.” His expressive forehead scrunches up and he looks near tears. “Sorry, sorry. I’m feeling a bit… lost. That’s all. I’m sure it’s just regular marital problems.”
“Stephen, you know I’m here whenever you need to talk, even if I seem to be absolutely useless when it comes to actually helping. Besides, letting the worry fester… it’s not healthy.”
The grin that fills his face causes the corners of his eyes to crinkle, the tears there glistening even brighter. “You are helping. And when did you get so mature?”
A sigh escapes me and I lie back down next to him, putting my hands behind my head. “Age does it to you. Anderson’s not the only one who’s like Yoda.” I squint my eyes in thought. “Though he may be a bit of a hotter version than me.”
I can’t see his face because we’re both looking at the ceiling but I can tell he’s smiling again. “Maybe it’s the gray hair. For each one, you get an ounce of wisdom.”
“Well, wait a few years and maybe you’ll ‘gain some wisdom’ like Anderson and myself.”
“Hey,” he says in that faux-serious way of his, “don’t count on it old man. This hair will stay jet black until the day I die.”
I turn on my side and pretend to peer at his head. “Well, maybe but… wait,” I gasp. “What’s that?”
He looks over at me and narrows his eyes, probably partly from not having his glasses on but mostly from suspicion. “What?”
“Oh my God!” My hands go to my mouth in horror before I yank a hair out of his head, causing him to yelp and grab his head. “IT’S AN OUNCE OF WISDOM!”
“What?” he shrieks, clambering for the hair in my hand as I cackle evilly. “GIVE IT, JONATHAN STEWART!” He finally pries it from me and inspects it before sending me a look of shocked hatred. “You… you asshole…” he breathes.
I continue to laugh helplessly, curling into myself. “You… you should have seen your face…” I gasp. He looks murderous.
“I hate you forever.”
I giggle that stupid girl-laugh and grin at him. “Concerned with your appearance much, Mr. Colbert?” I pronounce the hard “t”, causing the look he’s giving me to go from the “Scott Peterson” look-of-death to a more “Charles Manson, Hitler and Stalin combined” look. I can’t help but find this hilarious.
“I,” Stephen explains severely, “have an image to maintain. Unlike some people.”
I continue to grin at him, my giggles subsiding. “What happened to gray being ‘fetching’?”
He honest-to-God sticks his nose in the air, looking for all the world like a huffy five-year-old girl. “I was just saying that to make you feel better.”
“Aw,” I stick out my bottom lip in a mock pout. “And here I was thinking I really was pretty and all the boys just didn’t know what they were missing.”
Stephen rubs his head, still looking severely injured. “Am I bleeding? I feel like I’m bleeding. It’s not bleeding is it?”
My eyes roll skyward and I sit up to examine his head. “For the love of God, you’re not bleeding. But… holy shit, I was just kidding before, but…”
His eyes fly wide and he clutches his hair. “What? What?”
I flop on the ground again, giggling hysterically. “I always thought you were humble, Stephen! What the hell?” I manage to get out.
He manages to somehow look more injured and sticks his tongue out at me. “I like my hair, okay? It distracts from… you know…” he despairingly fingers his wacky ear, “this.”
My head tilts to the side as I gaze at the unique appendage. “I like your ear,” I answer honestly. “It adds character.”
“Ah, ‘character’ is one of those evil words like ‘thought-provoking’ or ‘facts.’” I can tell he’s going into the Colbert Report persona because that’s the only time I ever hear Stephen say the word “fact” like it’s some sort of burning venereal disease.
“No,” I continue, pursuing the issue, “no, really, it’s… distinctive. It’s you. Honest to God, I wouldn’t talk to you if you didn’t have it.”
“Why,” he smirks down at me, “because that one sign of imperfection allows you to see through my blinding flawlessness and know that I truly am human and I may in fact allow you to spend time in my magnificent presence?”
A silence fills the room as I stare at him blankly.
Finally, I sigh.
“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly it.”
He grins in triumph. “Hah, I thought so.” He continues to smile goofily at me and I grin back and we just sort of stare at each other for a moment, soaking up each other’s presence.
“So,” he finally says. “Does your ass hurt? Because mine sure does. We’re too old to be rolling around on the floor like this.”
I test my backside and realize, yes, it is incredibly sore. “I guess I could be a good host and offer to let you sit on my couch.”
“Yes, I suppose you could.”
A pregnant pause.
“Well?”
I cock my head and think about it.
“Jon,” he begins, rolling his eyes in annoyance, “may I please sit on your couch?”
I grin. “Of course, Stephen.” As we get up, I stretch and stifle a yawn. Stephen’s finger is suddenly jutted out at me as his other hand flies to his mouth in delighted shock.
“You yawned!”
I look around the room, searching for why this is so miraculous. “Yeah. And?”
“You. Yawned.”
“Yeah, well, I’m tired…” I trail off as I realize what I’m saying. “Holy shit! I’m tired!”
“Nyahahahah!” Stephen cackles in triumph, managing to sound only mildly deranged. “I did it! I made you tired!” He begins to do a horrifying little jig, complete with copious ass-wiggling and very white finger-dancing. I grab his shoulders in an effort to stop the madness.
“Okay, yes, good for you, you win the prize,” I say soothingly, shaking him a bit to knock some sense into him. He finally stops but continues to grin maniacally.
“Ooh, what did I win?” His eyebrows wag up and down and his grin suddenly looks more like a leer.
“Uh… my undying love and affection?”
Stephen deflates, looking a little put-out. “Jon. I already have that.”
I struggle and fail at keeping myself from rolling my eyes. “Oh right, sorry, my bad.” Another yawn stretches my jaw and Stephen points at me again.
“AHA! I am so made of awesome. I have done what countless sleep clinics have failed to do! And in only…” his eyes quickly glance at his watch, peering closely at the face seeing as his glasses are still on the floor, “two hours! Ahahahah!” He almost begins to dance again, but I grab his arm and halt any decent into insanity.
“Yes, okay…” I rub my hands over my face and let out a tired half-giggle. “Please don’t dance again.”
When I look back at him, his triumphant posturing has disappeared and he’s now looking at me curiously. “Wow, you actually are tired.” He’s bending to pick up his discarded spectacles and fixes them back on his face. “I guess I’ll, you know, let you actually go to bed then…” He glances at his watch again and runs a hand through his now-unruly hair while puffing his cheeks out as he exhales. “Hell, it’s late… I really should get out of your hair…”
I look up at my wall clock, realizing that, yes, the ungodly hour has gotten even ungodlier. “Stephen,” I say as an idea hits me, “why don’t you just crash here? I mean, that way you don’t have to drive all the way back to New Jersey…”
“Well…” he eyes the door and looks back at me, “just, without traffic, it’s not going to be that bad.”
“Still, we don’t want you falling asleep at the wheel, now do we?” I cock my head at him coyly.
He furrows his brow and scratches his head before crossing his arms. “It is late… and I am tired.” As I yawn again, he smiles lightly at me. “And so are you.” His face suddenly looks shy and he pushes his glasses up in that nervous tic-way of his. “You sure it’s cool if I stay here?”
“Christ, Stephen,” I laugh, “you came all the way here to help me with my sleep madness and now you’re worried about putting me out?” He smiles sheepishly and gives the one-shouldered shrug. “Of course it’s cool. Uh… but,” I explain, “you’ll have to sleep on the couch because I haven’t really done laundry in a while so my sheets are kinda…”
He laughs, patting me on the back as we make the short journey to my small living room/family room/dining room/kitchen. “Don’t worry about it, just don’t tell me the details. Those I don’t need to hear. Just give me a pillow and I can sleep anywhere!” He flops down on the couch and eyes the surrounding area. “So Jon… I know you’re not a millionaire or anything but…”
Searching for a pillow in my linen closet, I sigh. “Yeah, I know.”
“The settlement didn’t fuck you that badly, did it?” It’s not said unkindly but there’s a hint of seriousness to the question.
I sigh again. “No, no… let’s just say it’s my way of punishing myself further.”
While retrieving the pillow after I try (and fail) to throw it to him, he eyes the room again. “Wow… I do believe, Mr. Stewart, that you are quite the masochist.”
I give him a sad grin, feeling a bit disheartened about how obvious my misery is made through my shitty living conditions. “Well, I’m… it’s not permanent.”
We make eye contact for a moment and he suddenly flashes me an encouraging smile. “I know.” His one eye winks at me and he smiles hardier. “Hence me giving you a hard time.”
I smile back feeling a little better. “Uh, so, do you need anything else? Here’s a blanket…” I give him the ratty old thing and he drapes it across himself like it’s some sort of lovely imperial comforter.
“Nope, think I’m set.”
I pause in the doorway. “Nothing to drink?”
“Nope.”
“A brandy before retiring?”
His mouth widens into a bigger smile as he catches what I’m getting at. “No.”
“Warm milk, perhaps?”
We’re both grinning like idiots now. “Nope.”
My dramatic pause is indeed an Oscar-worthy performance. “Ovaltine?”
His giggle is contagious and soon we’re both laughing like fools.
“Good night, Jon,” Stephen manages to say with conviction, though he’s still laughing.
“Night Stephen,” I giggle, heading into my room. “I’m right through here if you need anything.”
“Goodniiight,” comes the sing-song reply from the adjacent room.
As I lay in bed, I can’t help the stupid bubbly feeling of overwhelming joy from somehow managing to find someone who miraculously can talk with me about Anderson Cooper, marital issues, and shitty music with all while understanding the fine nuances of Young Frankenstein.
I go to sleep immediately, smile firmly on my face with only the music of Stephen’s light snore filling my ears to serenade me.
LE FIN
*OTHER SIDE NOTES: All references I made either came from Wikipedia or my brain so... blame Wikipedia if anything is wrong. Silly quasi-encyclopedia. Also, Young Frankenstein is a bitchin' movie, a fact that I was reminded of a few weeks ago. Seriously. Just thought I'd share.
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.
Pairing: Jon/Stephen (I suppose it's preslash?)
Rating: PG for being harmless
Warning: Use of the word "va-jay-jay" and the objectification of Anderson Cooper. This is still either AU or... the future!
A/N: This is part two to "Sleep Madness", my first TDS RPS. Uh... this one is quite a bit longer and meanders a lot since it's based on actual conversations I have with people and follows how my stream of conciousness works. There's going to be even more coming once I actually find inspiration. Also, this thing has way too many references to pop culture. Sorry, I was just in that mind-set I guess.
Length: 4880
Feedback: Always welcome with open arms and loads of metaphorical cookies.
Previous Chapters: Sleep Madness
Summary: Visitors are a welcome distraction from insanity.
VANDERBILTS ARE LIKE THE JEDI
Knock, knock, knock.
“Jon?”
I don’t respond, instead opting to be emo and glower at the floor. Maybe if I don’t say anything, he’ll think I’m asleep and I can wallow in peace.
“Hellooo, Jonathan?”
There’s a pause.
“I know you’re still awake, blockhead.”
I sigh. “Door’s open…”
The door swings wide in my peripheral vision and a pair of beat-up loafers shuffle into sight. After the click of the door being closed and locked, silence reigns in the room as my visitor surveys the area.
“’Blockhead’?” I ask skeptically. “What, are you channeling Bart Simpson now?”
Stephen ignores me. “So… any reason why we’re on the floor then?” he asks, his voice soft and amused as he squats down on the carpet next to me.
I sigh into the rug, debating my answer.
“I was dancing.”
Even though I can’t see it, I know as sure as I’m circumcised that one of those eyebrows of his is arced in that graceful way that always seem to defy reason. Really, no one should make looking skeptical so elegant. “Dancing?” The question is simple and the amusement is becoming more obvious.
I sigh again and shift a little so I can see him better. “Yes. Dancing. I was dancing but then I got worn out, so I laid down. That… and things always seem better from the floor.”
“Oh, like the rampant dust bunnies that seem to have free range ‘round these parts?” Stephen laughs quietly as he scoots into a sitting position, the question about dancing lost forever in the progression of our banter. “Have I suddenly stumbled upon you regressing to some sort of childhood state?” He slips into an over-exaggerated Freudian accent. “Deed you do siz vhen you vere upset as ze child? Deed it help you vhen you vere feeling ze sad? Jah?”
I giggle slightly and look up at him. “Actually, I used to crawl under the sink.”
“Ah,” Stephen nods sagely. “Like A Christmas Story.”
I cock my head and turn a little more on my side. “What?”
“The little brother from A Christmas Story. Uh… Randy, I think. You know, he hides under the sink after Ralphie gets in a fight because he thinks,” he suddenly perfectly mimics the high-pitched whine of the holiday movie character, “’DADDY’S GONNA KILL RALPHIE.’”
I giggle harder, clamping my hands over my ears. “Oh, God, never do that again, for the love of Jesus, Mary and Moses.”
Stephen shrugs, his smile softening. “And why, young man, was your door open? Anyone could’ve wandered in here and… you know…” He suddenly grins. “Taken advantage of your person and whatnot.”
“Well, seeing as I left it open for you, I figured the only person I would have to fear a ravaging from would be yourself.”
Stephen’s grin turns even more wicked. “Well, the night is yet young. Who knows what could happen?” His expression turns a bit, melting into a frown. The changes that come over his countenance happen with such fluidity that often times I am caught off-guard. I find myself once more quickly trying to cope with this new look. “But seriously Jon, you need to be more careful. Anyone really could’ve come in.”
I snort into the rug. “Yeah, I’m sure anyone would break into my apartment to defile a short, pudgy, hairy, middle-aged, graying, Jewish comedian who can’t even be bothered to sit in a chair.”
Stephen’s expression softens. “To be fair, they wouldn’t be breaking in… they’d be walking in since your door was unlocked.” He then pauses and looks at me so fondly that I have to crush my face even more into the carpet below my head to avoid the stupid blush that threatens to come to my face. Girl. I am a giant, girly girl-man. I’m just awaiting the flowering of my motherfucking vay-jay-jay. “And seriously, who wouldn’t want to ravage you? Jewousity is all the rage. And I have it on good opinion that the whole gray thing is quite fetching. Although,” he says, tugging a bit on my sweatpants’ leg, “dressing all in gray is perhaps overdoing it.”
I open my mouth in an effort at a retort, only to be rewarded with one of the dust bunnies Stephen had been so kind to point out ending up lodged in my mouth. I spit in disgust, shoving myself slightly upright. I pull the offending particles out of my mouth and grimace. “I guess that’s what comes of never vacuuming.” Stephen makes a face, his forehead crinkling behind the bridge of his less-severe, non-TV-persona glasses. “And I like my gray outfit! It’s, you know… me. I think.”
Stephen smiles mildly. “I beg to differ.”
I find myself smiling back. “Okay then, what is me?”
Stephen shrugs, that goofy lop-sided grin coming over his face that’s two-parts amusement, three-parts affection, and one-part… who the hell knows what. “I’m not sure, but it’s certainly not gray, my friend.” Suddenly the grin turns wicked. “Maybe some sort of rainbow. Or lavender.”
I sigh and throw an arm over my eyes dramatically. “Well, thanks, that’s comforting.”
Stephen ignores my prima-Donna attitude and instead opts to lie down next to me, scooting down until our heads are level. “So, what’s on the radio now, Mr. DJ of the redhot midnight hours and cool, smooth tunes?”
I sigh again. “God… uh…” I turn my head away before chuckling embarrassedly. “’My Love’.”
Stephen’s eyebrows have shot into the fringe of his un-gelled hair by the time I finally look at him again. “Justin Timberlake? Really?” He giggles, a hand drifting up to cover his mouth, as per usual. I find myself wishing that for once he’d just let me watch him laugh. “And I thought O-Zone was bad… now here you are, lusting after the pretty member of Nsync.”
“Hey!” I start in my defense, though I’m laughing now too which makes my indignation a little less convincing. “He was a stellar break-out artist! And…” Finally, a groan of defeat exits my mouth and I throw my hands up above my head. “Fine. Fine! I’m gay for Timberlake. Who isn’t though, really? He’s like the new Johnny Depp! No man’s heterosexuality can stand intact in his presence.”
Stephen purses his lips and squints his eyes a little in thought. “Hmm… I always thought you were more gay for Anderson Cooper. Seriously, last interview I thought you two were going to throw the desk over and copulate like lovesick, gray-haired, news-obsessed, giggly bunnies. No lie.”
“Hey, man, no one can resist a Vanderbilt. They have powers. Like the Jedi.”
“Ah, the force would indeed be strong with him. He’s like the really hot Yoda of cable news.”
“He’s like a wizard!”
“Actually,” Stephen counters seriously, “I’ve always thought he was more like an elf. All fair and stuff. He would definitely be from Loth Lorien. He’d be like… Galadriel and Celeborn’s son.”
I slowly turn my eyes on him and quirk an eyebrow. “Um, is this a fantasy of your’s? ‘CNN meets Lord of the Rings’ sort of deal?”
Stephen merely grins at me toothily. “Hey, it’s how I roll. I just work with what I’m given.”
I giggle again helplessly. “Oh, God, I just got the mental image of you dressed as that, uh… the guy who Viggo played and Anderson as the girly elf…” I snap my fingers as I remember. “Lego… mas?”
Stephen sighs in despair and his eyes roll skyward. “Legolas. And Aragorn, Jon. Viggo Mortensen played Aragorn. Aragorn. Son of Arathorn. The nine and thirtieth heir in the right line from Isildur. The founder of the House of Telcontar. Also known as Estel, the Dúnadan, Longshanks, Thorongil, Strider, Wingfoot, King Elessar, the 26th King of Arnor, 35th King of Gondor, the first High King of the Reunited Kingdom-“
“OKAY,” I interject, interrupting his gushing. “Jesus. Don’t blow a load on me over some Tolkien pretty boy.”
Stephen gasps in shock and horror, his eyes widening comically in front of me. “’Pretty boy’?” he sputters indignantly. “’Pretty boy’?! God, Jon, I… I don’t think I can see you anymore. I think we’re done here.” He begins to get up in a huff but I grab his arm, trying not to offend him further by giggling in his face.
“No, no Stephen! I’m sorry!” I protest, choking on my own laughter. “He’s manly! Very manly! Very heroic and manly and totally worth losing your heterosexuality over!”
He pauses, looking skeptical. I’m transfixed by the eyebrow again. “More worth becoming gay for than Justin Timberlake?”
“Yes,” I answer quickly. “Completely. My gayness is totally owned by your’s.”
He quirks his eyebrow further and I wonder briefly and not for the first time if the thing is its own sentient being. “Even better than Anderson?”
I pause. “But… but… he’s a Jedi.” I purse my lips in thought. “You know, he also could really be a ninja.”
Stephen lies back down, temper-tantrum apparently forgotten. “No, not a ninja. He would have to wear a mask then. That wouldn’t work since his powers come from not only his startling intelligence but also his drop-dead gorgeous Vanderbilt looks.”
“True,” I concede before lapsing into thought again. “Do you think Anderson would find it creepy how much we talk about being gay for him? And obsessing over him? And daydreaming about how his eyes are blue like the core of a glacier yet warm like sleeping in a pen full of puppies?”
Stephen snorts. “I doubt it. He’d probably be flattered. I think he may actually be gayer for you than you are for him.” He then frowns. “And I do not daydream about his eyes. I’m more partial to that giggle of his.” He turns his head and winks at me. “Reminds me of you.”
“Oh, well then, I suppose I’ll be flattered as well.”
We both fall into companionable silence, my body relaxing in his presence. It’s amazing how much The Crazy (as I call the psychosis of my insomnia) can be helped by just having someone else there. Just watching Tracey sleep used to keep me from falling too far into The Crazy hole… I guess I used to just feel reassured that someone else was there and that I wasn’t really alone; even if that other person was unconscious and I was staring at them like a creep.
Even though I still don’t feel near sleep, my mind is calming and “My Love” has been replaced by a far-more soothing rendition of the Righteous Brother’s “Unchained Melody”. Sure, it brings up disconcerting images of a shirtless Swayze, but such things really can’t be helped.
“Jon…” Stephen suddenly starts uneasily, breaking the comfortable calm of the room. “When… when did you know that Tracey was leaving you?”
I blink and look at him in surprise, a bit stunned from the sudden turn in conversation. “Uh… well, about the time she said ‘Jon, I’m leaving you.’” I pause for a moment, feeling that mass of blackness somewhere in my abdomen open up again as my thoughts turn to that which I have been avoiding. “When did I realize it? A few days after all my shit was packed up and I was hugging my son good-bye. That was when I realized it.” I suck in a breath and look away, composing myself. Stephen falls quiet and I turn my eyes on him again. “Stephen…” I say quietly, “why do you ask?”
He says nothing for what feels like an eternity and I wonder if he even heard me. I’m about to change the subject when he finally speaks.
“I’m worried. About Evie and me.”
My brow furrows and I struggle into a sitting position. “Seriously? I thought you guys were doing really well.”
Stephen’s frown deepens and he puts his hands behind his head, cupping his skull. “Uh, well… so did I.”
There’s an uneasy silence in the room. “Er…” I finally venture. “Then, uh, what’s making you think something’s the matter?”
Stephen’s hands move around to his face and he pulls his glasses off with a swift movement to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Um… Evie… she, uh… she’s left. Not permanently,” he adds hurriedly upon seeing the expression on my face, “but… she’s gone to her mom’s. Took the kids.”
“Jesus,” I breathe. “When?”
“Uh… a little over a week ago.”
My eyes boggle at him in shock. “Christ, Stephen! Why the fuck did you not tell me?”
One shoulder shrugs upward and he turns his head away from me sheepishly. “Well, I dunno… you’re going through all your stuff and… well… I just didn’t feel like being the guy going ‘Hey, I know you just got your heart ripped out in a brutal divorce but please help me out and tell me if you think I should really be worried about marriage problems I may not even be having.’” He sighs and rubs his eyes. “I just didn’t want to do that to you.”
“What,” I ask incredulously, “you think that you would be burdening me?”
He gives that half-assed shrug again and murmurs, “I guess.”
“Stephen,” I begin, feeling a bit flabbergasted. “Stephen. You… you really underestimate how much people care about you, don’t you?”
Stephen gives me a weak smile, the corners of his mouth twitching from the effort. “Well, I think that may be a case of the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Hey, man, I’m a self-hating Jew. I have an excuse.” He smiles a little hardier at that before his face falls into a frown again. “Plus,” I continue, “did it ever occur to you that perhaps it would be a good idea for me to focus on someone besides myself for once and stop wallowing in my own self-pity?”
Stephen sits up and leans against the wall, his eyes narrowing a bit. “You are not wallowing. If anything, you’ve been showing the classic signs of straight-up denial mixed with a little bit of acceptance. You,” he adds, jabbing his commanding finger at me, “are not following the correct sequence of steps for grieving, mister.”
I sigh and do something forbidden in the world of comedians; I cut through the humor and go straight for the problem. “Stephen, why did Evie leave?”
His finger is still outstretched as he gapes at me in surprise. He quickly puts it away after noticing that it is still sitting out there in the world, pointing accusingly at me. “Uh…” he mutters, eyes sliding away from mine. “I’m just… I’m not even really sure. She said she needed ‘space’… something that used to make sense to me until it was used as an excuse to get away from me.”
“Is there… you know, any reason for her to be…”
“Wanting to get away from me?”
“Yeah… I guess.”
“Well, she sure as hell doesn’t have a good reason if she has any. If anything, she doesn’t need to get away from me because I’m barely ever home!” A flush has crept into his cheeks and he pauses, making uneasy eye contact with me and offering a slightly ill-looking smile. “Or so I’ve been told.”
“Jesus Stephen…” I mutter, rubbing my eyes with my hand while running my free hand through my Jewfro. “I didn’t know things were getting so bad…”
“Well,” he mutters blankly, “I guess I didn’t know either. She just kind of… blew up on me. And said that I’m not ‘emotionally available’ anymore and work too much. Which I personally don’t get seeing as I’ve been home more lately than I have been in years.” He sighs and blinks rapidly, laying his glasses next to his head on the floor. “I don’t know, Jon. It just… it all feels off. Do you…” He’s all hesitation again. “Do you think she’s cheating on me?”
I take a deep breath and bite my lip, trying to seriously consider his question and not just automatically tell him of course not. I’m not honestly sure of what to say. “I don’t know, man. I mean… does she go out a lot?”
“Well, she goes out with her friends sometimes and that sort of thing. Visits her sister. Things like that.”
“Have you, er…” I could do without being so awkward. “Found anything? Clothes or something that aren’t your’s? Weird phone calls?”
“No,” Stephen says after taking a moment to mull my questions over. “I mean, I really don’t think she’s sleeping with anyone. I think.”
“Uh, well Stephen, not to sound too ‘Dr. Phil’ or anything but… well, a physical affair isn’t the only way of cheating. There’s emotional too. I mean… Tracey never slept with Dr. Doo-fucka-little before we divorced, but she sure as hell had something with him. She even told me on multiple occasions about what a ‘cool guy’ he was.” My mouth clamps shut and I try to restrain myself from going into a tirade about the stupid Horse Man. “Sorry, I won’t go into a bitching session. But do you think there’s something going on?”
Stephen’s eyes are peering upward and he offers me an off-kilter smile that makes my heart drop somewhere near my shoes in compassion for my friend. “I don’t know, Jon. She never talks about anyone else.” He suddenly grunts in despair and his hands fly to his scalp, gripping his hair hard until his knuckles are white. “Fuck, I should be talking about this with her, Godamnit!” He screws his eyes shut before opening one and looking at me apologetically. “Not that you aren’t good to talk to.”
The grin on my face is almost as pathetic as his but I try anyways. “Listen, I understand man. This is all… it sucks. Plain and simple.”
“I just… I wish she would talk to me!” he groans, flabbergasted. “Every time, she just… she cries, Jon. She cries. It makes me feel like such a dick. I can’t… I can’t figure it out. I thought things were going okay, going well actually, and then BAM I get sideswiped.” His expressive forehead scrunches up and he looks near tears. “Sorry, sorry. I’m feeling a bit… lost. That’s all. I’m sure it’s just regular marital problems.”
“Stephen, you know I’m here whenever you need to talk, even if I seem to be absolutely useless when it comes to actually helping. Besides, letting the worry fester… it’s not healthy.”
The grin that fills his face causes the corners of his eyes to crinkle, the tears there glistening even brighter. “You are helping. And when did you get so mature?”
A sigh escapes me and I lie back down next to him, putting my hands behind my head. “Age does it to you. Anderson’s not the only one who’s like Yoda.” I squint my eyes in thought. “Though he may be a bit of a hotter version than me.”
I can’t see his face because we’re both looking at the ceiling but I can tell he’s smiling again. “Maybe it’s the gray hair. For each one, you get an ounce of wisdom.”
“Well, wait a few years and maybe you’ll ‘gain some wisdom’ like Anderson and myself.”
“Hey,” he says in that faux-serious way of his, “don’t count on it old man. This hair will stay jet black until the day I die.”
I turn on my side and pretend to peer at his head. “Well, maybe but… wait,” I gasp. “What’s that?”
He looks over at me and narrows his eyes, probably partly from not having his glasses on but mostly from suspicion. “What?”
“Oh my God!” My hands go to my mouth in horror before I yank a hair out of his head, causing him to yelp and grab his head. “IT’S AN OUNCE OF WISDOM!”
“What?” he shrieks, clambering for the hair in my hand as I cackle evilly. “GIVE IT, JONATHAN STEWART!” He finally pries it from me and inspects it before sending me a look of shocked hatred. “You… you asshole…” he breathes.
I continue to laugh helplessly, curling into myself. “You… you should have seen your face…” I gasp. He looks murderous.
“I hate you forever.”
I giggle that stupid girl-laugh and grin at him. “Concerned with your appearance much, Mr. Colbert?” I pronounce the hard “t”, causing the look he’s giving me to go from the “Scott Peterson” look-of-death to a more “Charles Manson, Hitler and Stalin combined” look. I can’t help but find this hilarious.
“I,” Stephen explains severely, “have an image to maintain. Unlike some people.”
I continue to grin at him, my giggles subsiding. “What happened to gray being ‘fetching’?”
He honest-to-God sticks his nose in the air, looking for all the world like a huffy five-year-old girl. “I was just saying that to make you feel better.”
“Aw,” I stick out my bottom lip in a mock pout. “And here I was thinking I really was pretty and all the boys just didn’t know what they were missing.”
Stephen rubs his head, still looking severely injured. “Am I bleeding? I feel like I’m bleeding. It’s not bleeding is it?”
My eyes roll skyward and I sit up to examine his head. “For the love of God, you’re not bleeding. But… holy shit, I was just kidding before, but…”
His eyes fly wide and he clutches his hair. “What? What?”
I flop on the ground again, giggling hysterically. “I always thought you were humble, Stephen! What the hell?” I manage to get out.
He manages to somehow look more injured and sticks his tongue out at me. “I like my hair, okay? It distracts from… you know…” he despairingly fingers his wacky ear, “this.”
My head tilts to the side as I gaze at the unique appendage. “I like your ear,” I answer honestly. “It adds character.”
“Ah, ‘character’ is one of those evil words like ‘thought-provoking’ or ‘facts.’” I can tell he’s going into the Colbert Report persona because that’s the only time I ever hear Stephen say the word “fact” like it’s some sort of burning venereal disease.
“No,” I continue, pursuing the issue, “no, really, it’s… distinctive. It’s you. Honest to God, I wouldn’t talk to you if you didn’t have it.”
“Why,” he smirks down at me, “because that one sign of imperfection allows you to see through my blinding flawlessness and know that I truly am human and I may in fact allow you to spend time in my magnificent presence?”
A silence fills the room as I stare at him blankly.
Finally, I sigh.
“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly it.”
He grins in triumph. “Hah, I thought so.” He continues to smile goofily at me and I grin back and we just sort of stare at each other for a moment, soaking up each other’s presence.
“So,” he finally says. “Does your ass hurt? Because mine sure does. We’re too old to be rolling around on the floor like this.”
I test my backside and realize, yes, it is incredibly sore. “I guess I could be a good host and offer to let you sit on my couch.”
“Yes, I suppose you could.”
A pregnant pause.
“Well?”
I cock my head and think about it.
“Jon,” he begins, rolling his eyes in annoyance, “may I please sit on your couch?”
I grin. “Of course, Stephen.” As we get up, I stretch and stifle a yawn. Stephen’s finger is suddenly jutted out at me as his other hand flies to his mouth in delighted shock.
“You yawned!”
I look around the room, searching for why this is so miraculous. “Yeah. And?”
“You. Yawned.”
“Yeah, well, I’m tired…” I trail off as I realize what I’m saying. “Holy shit! I’m tired!”
“Nyahahahah!” Stephen cackles in triumph, managing to sound only mildly deranged. “I did it! I made you tired!” He begins to do a horrifying little jig, complete with copious ass-wiggling and very white finger-dancing. I grab his shoulders in an effort to stop the madness.
“Okay, yes, good for you, you win the prize,” I say soothingly, shaking him a bit to knock some sense into him. He finally stops but continues to grin maniacally.
“Ooh, what did I win?” His eyebrows wag up and down and his grin suddenly looks more like a leer.
“Uh… my undying love and affection?”
Stephen deflates, looking a little put-out. “Jon. I already have that.”
I struggle and fail at keeping myself from rolling my eyes. “Oh right, sorry, my bad.” Another yawn stretches my jaw and Stephen points at me again.
“AHA! I am so made of awesome. I have done what countless sleep clinics have failed to do! And in only…” his eyes quickly glance at his watch, peering closely at the face seeing as his glasses are still on the floor, “two hours! Ahahahah!” He almost begins to dance again, but I grab his arm and halt any decent into insanity.
“Yes, okay…” I rub my hands over my face and let out a tired half-giggle. “Please don’t dance again.”
When I look back at him, his triumphant posturing has disappeared and he’s now looking at me curiously. “Wow, you actually are tired.” He’s bending to pick up his discarded spectacles and fixes them back on his face. “I guess I’ll, you know, let you actually go to bed then…” He glances at his watch again and runs a hand through his now-unruly hair while puffing his cheeks out as he exhales. “Hell, it’s late… I really should get out of your hair…”
I look up at my wall clock, realizing that, yes, the ungodly hour has gotten even ungodlier. “Stephen,” I say as an idea hits me, “why don’t you just crash here? I mean, that way you don’t have to drive all the way back to New Jersey…”
“Well…” he eyes the door and looks back at me, “just, without traffic, it’s not going to be that bad.”
“Still, we don’t want you falling asleep at the wheel, now do we?” I cock my head at him coyly.
He furrows his brow and scratches his head before crossing his arms. “It is late… and I am tired.” As I yawn again, he smiles lightly at me. “And so are you.” His face suddenly looks shy and he pushes his glasses up in that nervous tic-way of his. “You sure it’s cool if I stay here?”
“Christ, Stephen,” I laugh, “you came all the way here to help me with my sleep madness and now you’re worried about putting me out?” He smiles sheepishly and gives the one-shouldered shrug. “Of course it’s cool. Uh… but,” I explain, “you’ll have to sleep on the couch because I haven’t really done laundry in a while so my sheets are kinda…”
He laughs, patting me on the back as we make the short journey to my small living room/family room/dining room/kitchen. “Don’t worry about it, just don’t tell me the details. Those I don’t need to hear. Just give me a pillow and I can sleep anywhere!” He flops down on the couch and eyes the surrounding area. “So Jon… I know you’re not a millionaire or anything but…”
Searching for a pillow in my linen closet, I sigh. “Yeah, I know.”
“The settlement didn’t fuck you that badly, did it?” It’s not said unkindly but there’s a hint of seriousness to the question.
I sigh again. “No, no… let’s just say it’s my way of punishing myself further.”
While retrieving the pillow after I try (and fail) to throw it to him, he eyes the room again. “Wow… I do believe, Mr. Stewart, that you are quite the masochist.”
I give him a sad grin, feeling a bit disheartened about how obvious my misery is made through my shitty living conditions. “Well, I’m… it’s not permanent.”
We make eye contact for a moment and he suddenly flashes me an encouraging smile. “I know.” His one eye winks at me and he smiles hardier. “Hence me giving you a hard time.”
I smile back feeling a little better. “Uh, so, do you need anything else? Here’s a blanket…” I give him the ratty old thing and he drapes it across himself like it’s some sort of lovely imperial comforter.
“Nope, think I’m set.”
I pause in the doorway. “Nothing to drink?”
“Nope.”
“A brandy before retiring?”
His mouth widens into a bigger smile as he catches what I’m getting at. “No.”
“Warm milk, perhaps?”
We’re both grinning like idiots now. “Nope.”
My dramatic pause is indeed an Oscar-worthy performance. “Ovaltine?”
His giggle is contagious and soon we’re both laughing like fools.
“Good night, Jon,” Stephen manages to say with conviction, though he’s still laughing.
“Night Stephen,” I giggle, heading into my room. “I’m right through here if you need anything.”
“Goodniiight,” comes the sing-song reply from the adjacent room.
As I lay in bed, I can’t help the stupid bubbly feeling of overwhelming joy from somehow managing to find someone who miraculously can talk with me about Anderson Cooper, marital issues, and shitty music with all while understanding the fine nuances of Young Frankenstein.
I go to sleep immediately, smile firmly on my face with only the music of Stephen’s light snore filling my ears to serenade me.
LE FIN
*OTHER SIDE NOTES: All references I made either came from Wikipedia or my brain so... blame Wikipedia if anything is wrong. Silly quasi-encyclopedia. Also, Young Frankenstein is a bitchin' movie, a fact that I was reminded of a few weeks ago. Seriously. Just thought I'd share.
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.