Friend is a Four-Letter Word
Sorry, flist, for not updating sooner. Notes On A Scandal and Kinsey were distracting me... that and I'm pretty sure my roommate read some of my slash so I'm kind of having a panic attack. WHY DID HE USE MY COMPUTER? WHY? Ahem, here be the fic:
Title: Friend is a Four-Letter Word (Sleep Madness series: 5/?)
Author: Yours truly
Fandom: The Daily Show.
Pairing: Jon/Stephen
Rating: PG-13 for drunken happenings and language
Warning: This is still either AU or... the future!
A/N: Yeah, I steal Cake song titles. Jealous? Basically, this is, yet again, pretty damn angsty. It’s also quite a bit longer than the other chapters. And, OMG, plot development? Thanks to everyone who still reads this and likes it… Oh, and this is dedicated to mutantjules: I hope your wisdom teeth feel better, dahling. And thanks for giving me the idea to pick this up again :D
Length: 4701
Feedback: Always welcome with open arms and loads of metaphorical cookies.
Previous Chapters:
Sleep Madness
Vanderbilts are Like the Jedi
Bachelorhood
Like Brokeback Mountain... Only Gayer
Summary: Sometimes publicists have good ideas.
FRIEND IS A FOUR-LETTER WORD
Pain.
This is actually causing me physical pain.
You’d think something as abstract as speaking with someone couldn’t possibly cause this sort of tangible discomfort but, lucky me, it can and it is. The woman before me tilts her head, all smiles and fake spray tan and horribly bleached hair, and I force a smile back. Sure, my smile kind of blows, but I hope it’s the effort that counts.
I avoid doing these kinds of affairs as much as possible, because of the pain it causes and all. But sometimes publicists have to be publicists and mine, for some bizarre reason beyond all comprehension, decided this would be a good outlet to whore me out at.
I can’t really blame the poor woman. She’s been trying to get me to show my face for ages since the divorce. Unfortunately for her, I’m a stubborn asshole who more often than not has no qualms with ignoring her exhausted pleas of “Jon, it’ll only be this once” and “Jon, it’ll only be an hour” and “Jon, this is ridiculous and people are going to think you’ve either become a hermit or died.” She means well. She really does.
Hell, I probably wouldn’t even have a publicist except for the fact that it’s nice to have someone who knows how to make calls explaining why her boss called a man a dick on national television and somehow placates the people said actions piss off. I’ll never stop loving her for those moments.
Poor, poor woman.
But, no, she’s not a poor woman because she actually got me to go out to this stupidass whatever-the-fuck function this is. She’s not the one who has to dress in a suit (again) and talk to vapid, self-involved assholes (again) and eat the tiny finger food that somehow never really seems to constitute as a real meal. Luckily though the rich and famous never seem to go without booze, something for which I’m eternally grateful.
I nod again as the young woman (or old woman… you can’t really tell in this age of plastic surgery wonders) explains to me something intensely fascinating about one of her numerous cats. I try not to muse on how bad her apartment must reek of cat piss and if maybe the ammonia will get to her someday, causing her to die of an aneurysm.
This shouldn’t make me smile… but it does. Hell, I can’t always fight my asshole tendencies. Fortunately she seems to think this smile was in reaction to something particularly witty she imparted to me and I figure allowing that misguided notion to stand isn’t such a bad idea. I somehow doubt she would appreciate the fact that I was actually day-dreaming about her death brought on by her strange fixation with an animal that most likely just wants her to fuck the hell off.
I valiantly battle the urge to once again glance at my watch. Why am I here? Why do I allow my publicist to ever talk me into this shit? Usually I’m more resistant. Usually I fight it more. This time… I was pushed over like a top-heavy armless man on an incline. Why did I allow this to happen?
Glancing across the room, I see the reason. He suddenly grins at me like he knows exactly what fantasies of morbid doom I’m concocting for the woman I’m conversing with. When he glances back to the man talking to him animatedly he somehow manages to look interested though in the moment we made eye contact, I could see his expression said, “I know. I’m bored too.”
Of course it would be his damn fault that I’m here. When is Stephen not responsible for me doing stupid things? The Oscars (“Come on, Jon! It’ll be fun!”). That appearance on Crossfire (“Come on, Jon! It’ll be really fun!”). I would blame him for Doogal… but I think we all know that was my doing.
He’s smiling again and seems to be pleased that all he receives from me is a glower. Smug bastard. He doesn’t even have the decency to look appropriately miserable.
He had been in the room when the phone call had come in, my publicist begging me breathlessly to just please, this once, go to this charity function out in the Hamptons. I had, of course, balked impressively and told her that a.) the Hamptons are full of pretentious fuckwits and b.) charity functions are, again, full of pretentious fuckwits.
Stephen, from his spot where he was lounging on the couch and gluing a beeper to my remote (where he got a beeper is a mystery… he claims that once the beeper is hooked up, it’ll be easier to locate the remote. I didn’t comment on the fact that our living space isn’t nearly big enough to get anything that lost), overheard our conversation.
“That sounds fun!” he had said, glancing up from our now Frakenremote.
“Fun?” I asked, covering the mouthpiece. “Since when has this sort of shit been fun?”
He contemplated this. “Since now,” he answered easily, prying his hand from where it had become stuck with superglue to the beeper’s batteries. “Come on. My publicist has been trying to get me to go out forever too. We can kill two birds with one stone.”
“One, we have the same publicist,” I remarked, giving him a look. “And two, I don’t think I appreciate the fact that we are the birds in this scenario.”
“Jon,” Stephen countered seriously, putting down his contraption. “I need to get out. We need to get out. Just…” His voice became quiet. “I need this, okay?”
And with that, I was setting dates and making plans and continually kicking myself for getting so soft.
Ok, this is getting ridiculous. Why doesn’t Cat Lady get the point that I don’t give a flying fuck about Samson or Kitty-pants or Fru Fru or whatever-the-hell her cat’s name is? I hate cats and I hate her. Once I’m supreme dictator, all cats and the ladies obsessed with them will be punished to the lowest level of hell. Aka Wisconsin.
My evil thoughts again make me smile and unfortunately this time Cat Lady has just gotten finished describing her oldest cat’s encounter with a raccoon, which led to his too-early demise. Whoops.
She looks at me as if I’ve just slapped her. Pity that isn’t the case.
“Is something funny?” she demands, voice sharp.
Unfortunately I’ve had a bit too much to drink so my only response is a very articulate, “Uh…”
Smooth, Stewart. Very smooth.
And she’s outta here! Storming off, no less. Well, there’s one more person who will report to the masses that I’m a dull-witted jerkoff. Hooray!
“Well,” suddenly comes a voice to my right, “that wasn’t very polite.”
Stephen is at my side, looking down at me with equal parts amusement and derision. He pulls it off stupidly well. Though I’m not sure I appreciate how much taller he is than me at the moment. Perhaps it just feels that way because he’s standing so close? But I’m not too inclined to distance myself at the moment, height difference or no.
So I snort in response. “That was more polite than me informing her of what kind of fate I was concocting for her and her fucking cats.”
“Aha,” he murmurs, his head bent close to mine. He smells like laundry detergent, his cologne, heady red wine, and… something. Something Stephen-esque. Eau du Stephen. It’s nice and now I’m even less inclined to back away. It escapes me that perhaps this isn’t a good sign. “I knew I saw that evil glint in your eye. The one you get whenever you see Geraldo Rivera and moustache clippers within ten feet of each other. Or a chainsaw and Tucker Carlson.”
I snort again, perhaps for the first time realizing how drunk I’m getting… but Stephen’s eyes are drooping a bit and his smile is even easier than usual so, somehow, I brush off my worry. Oh, alcohol. Sweet sweet inebriation.
“I wasn’t nearly drunk enough to have a real conversation concerning the merits of clumping kitty litter versus silica gel kitty litter…” Upon hearing my own words, I groan and drop my head into the hand that’s not gripping my Jack and Coke for dear life. “Oh my God. I actually absorbed some of what we were talking about.” Looking to Stephen desperately, I grab a bit at his lapels. Due to the whole, you know, drunk thing, I stumble a bit which causes Stephen to hoist me up at the elbow so I don’t fall over. This action makes one of those goofy, lop-sided smiles to spread over his face and I ignore the strange, serpentine roil it causes in my stomach. “Help me,” I whisper dramatically.
“There’s no helping you now,” he replies, looking down at me like he’s sad I’ve been lost to the world of Cat Women. “Now there only lies a future ahead for you full of cats… and kitty litter… and, uh, ball… toy… things…” He trails off and giggles a little, glancing at the drink that’s in the hand that’s not still holding me up. “Oh lord, I think I’m farther gone than I originally thought.”
“Nyahaha,” I cackle, swaying a bit with Stephen’s hand connected to my arm as the fulcrum. “My plans to get you wasted are coming to fruition!”
Stephen raises an eyebrow and suddenly he’s the character, looking down on me with pity. “Why, Jon?” he asks sadly. “So you could take advantage of me?”
I shrug as if it means nothing. “Of course,” I answer flippantly, covering my sudden nervousness by taking a gulp of the drink I’ve still managed to hold on to.
And then the character’s gone. Stephen grins at me; that wicked look in his eye again. How can such a good little Catholic boy manage to look like the very devil himself? “You don’t need to get me drunk to do that, Jon,” he offers with disconcerting ease.
And, just like that, there’s a slightly awkward hum in the air. Oh, God. Were we both just being serious? From the look on Stephen’s face, it would almost seem like it.
There’s always been a line there for us… the line between humor and truth. But I guess that’s the case for all comedy, isn’t it? One of us nudges the line, the other nudges back. Now though… now it’s like we’re kicking the line… trying to eliminate it all together.
It could be the alcohol, but part of me finds this intensely exciting. The other part of me, the significantly less drunk part, finds it frightening to a degree I can’t really deal with.
So, in my second smooth act of the night, I let out a strained if mildly insane laugh and take another rather desperate gulp from my cup. This makes the ice to slide down and hit me in the nose, causing me to sputter and yank it away from my face. “Shit,” I mutter, not sure if I’m cursing the situation or my issues with coordination.
“Whoa there,” Stephen giggles, removing his hand from my elbow to put his fist over his mouth. I fight the urge to pull it away just so I can see his smile.
“Jesus,” I sigh, examining the state of my now-wet shirt and empty glass. “Awesome. No more drinky for me, I guess.”
Stephen just giggles again, taking my cup and placing it in his own before setting it on the table. Suddenly we’re both empty-handed and the absence of that small barrier seems astronomical. He’s smiling again, only this time softer and with a slightly far-away look in his eyes.
“Here, you uh…” He reaches out hesitantly, brushing his fingers along my cheek. I just stare at him as he flashes me a grin and shows me his hand. “You had some, er, stuff. On your face.”
“Well,” I answer distractedly, “I did just have a massive spaz-out and dump my drink all over myself. So I guess that would make sense.” My airways are starting to feel constricted, like there’s some sort of snake wound around my neck. I pull at my tie, a strange mix of alcohol and bizarre confusion making my face heat up. “God, I hate this fucking suit,” I grumble, the suffocating feeling getting worse.
“Yeah, well, you make it work. However much you tug at it like a five-year-old.” He grins down at me goofily and, as if of its own volition, his hand lands on my shoulder before sliding down to my upper arm.
To be honest, I’m not a huge touchy-feely guy, especially with other dudes. I do a lot more of the masculine back-slapping with my other guy friends but with Stephen… somehow we’ve always had a more tactile relationship. So really, considering how much he randomly touches me, this shouldn’t bother me. And I suppose it doesn’t. I’m just hyper-aware of it and somehow the room gets even smaller.
“I think we should leave.” His voice cuts through my paranoia-laden daydream and I look up at him, startled. “This party blows. I think we’ve fulfilled our duty to appear in public, right? Besides, I think I just saw Bob Novak come in and I want to get you out of here before you start a fist fight and he bites you and you turn into one of his minions of the night.”
“What?” I demand, twisting my body and searching in the direction he was looking. “Novak’s here?” When I look back to Stephen for my answer though, all I find is him giving me an innocent smile.
“Made you look,” he sings, wiggling his fingers in my face.
I jerk my head back and bat them away. “Man,” I huff, crossing my arms since I have nothing to do with my hands anymore. Besides touch Stephen. And part of my brain is telling me I’ve really had enough of that tonight. “I was getting all jazzed up to do something crazy. Like hit him in the head with a piano bench.”
“Yeah, but that necessitates actually being able to pick up the piano bench,” Stephen replies, his face matter-of-fact and condescending. I sock him in the shoulder, causing him to wince before pouting. A few of the older woman who appear to all be followers of the Church of Barbara Walters due to their identical hairdos and matching dress suits glance our way.
Oh, their haughty expressions read. The comedians.
“All right, hotshot.” Stephen grabs my elbow and starts steering me towards the door. “I see you eyeing those ladies and, yes, they do all look like Walters clones, but I don’t think they’re going to be floored by your scathing wit anytime soon.”
“You just don’t want me to make you look bad in front of them,” I retort, ignoring the way my words sound just the tiniest bit slurred. “Those types are your target audience since they think you’re serious. And,” I add, accentuating my words with a smirk, “they think you’re cute.”
“You’re just jealous because none of your fans are here to impress,” he shoots back, his face dancing with amusement. He’s leaning close to me now, his arm clinging to mine as he guides me to the door. “But I’m sure there’s a field around here somewhere with some teenagers hotboxing in their parents’ van.”
“First off,” I reply, sounding drunk even to myself, “fuck you,” this causes some shocked stares to be sent our way before recognition sets in and the eye rolls begin, “and secondly, my viewers just happen to be some of the most educated people out there. Like, the most politically-aware. They just have… questionable extracurricular habits.”
He chuckles and I give a start as I realize we’re no longer inside; the cool air hitting my face makes me feel more awake but not much more sober. “You do realize you essentially just admitted to paying attention to what the media says about your show, right?” His eyes scan the parking lot before sliding towards me, the corners of his mouth quirking up.
Stunned, I furrow my brow and open my mouth. “I…” A sigh whooshes out of me and I cross my arms in a huff. “Damnit.”
“Ha ha,” Stephen croons, “you caaaaare. Jon Stewart caaaaaares. Jon is a media whoooore.”
“Hey,” I reply sharply, sticking my finger in his face, “there’s only one hooker who can work our particular corner and that’s you, Mr. Stephen Tyrone Colbert.”
“Dr. Stephen Tyrone Colbert,” he corrects smugly. “And that’s escort, Jon. Not hooker.”
“You’re the one who said media whore,” I point out, a sour expression crossing my face.
He just grins. “True and true.” He glances around the parking lot again, a crease forming between his eyebrows. His facial expressions change with such fluidity that I’m transfixed for a moment until I realize I’m staring. He doesn’t seem to notice, thank God, so I attempt to cover up my sudden indiscretion with a subtle cough into my fist. “Where the fuck did I park my car?” he murmurs, ignoring my awkward hacking.
“Um… weren’t we next to that Jag?” I ask, rubbing a tired hand across my face. The reviving air seems to have lost its power, leaving me feeling dull and sleepy again.
He surveys the lot, biting his lip. “Uh… no Jag. Dammit.” He takes out his keys and begins walking, pressing the alarm button every once and cursing quietly to himself as I trail a few feet behind. I shove my hands into my pockets and decide to see how straight I can walk, missing Stephen’s warm presence next to me.
“You sure you’re okay to drive?” I feel compelled to ask.
He sends me a grin over his shoulder and presses the alarm button again. “I’m better off driving then you.”
“That’s always a good jump in logic…” I mutter, kicking a stone. He just grins again. “But really, if you’re not cool, we can just get a taxi or something…” It looks like it’s rained since we’ve been inside, giving the pavement a rather ethereal glow. It’s pretty in an odd way.
“All the way back to the city? That’ll cost a fortune…”
I stop and examine his back. “We could just go to a hotel.”
He halts but doesn’t turn around. “…Really?” he asks after a moment, a strange element present in his voice. I chose to ignore it.
“Yeah… I mean, wouldn’t you like sleeping in a bed for a change?”
He finally glances back at me; appraising eyes sweeping me up and down as if he’s considering me for the first time. I stop myself from swallowing since the look makes my mouth go inexplicably dry. “Yeah,” he replies, breaking the silence. “Sure.” He turns around begins to walk again. “I found the car, by the way.”
“Oh,” I say, any other words failing me. It doesn’t even occur to me to bring up the taxi again.
~~~~~~~
The car ride is mostly quiet until I break the silence when we turn down a strange exit. “Where are we going?”
Stephen spares me a brief glance. “Hotel, remember?”
I feel as if something doesn’t add up, but say nothing. Wasn’t there another step in there? Wasn’t there a reason for the hotel? The answer escapes me so I just press my forehead against the passenger side window again and watch as my breath fogs the glass.
In what feels like a matter of seconds, Stephen’s putting the car into park and opening the door for me. I stagger out of the car, Stephen’s arm firmly grabbing mine to prevent me from gracefully taking a nosedive into the pavement. He doesn’t look my way as he leads me to the hotel entrance. I find myself released once we’re through the doors, his stride purposeful as he makes his way towards the front desk. I hang back, blinking in the sudden bright light.
“Hi!” Stephen greets the maitre de, turning on that million-watt smile of his. The young woman behind the counter smiles back, her eyes shy and enamored. He seems to have that affect on people a lot. There’s a flash of recognition there too, her eyes glancing quickly towards me before her face becomes professional again.
“Hello, sir. How may I help you this evening?” she asks, tucking a strand of blond hair back behind her ear.
“Yes, well, I’d like a room for the night if you all aren’t too full.”
“Well, sir, it just so happens that we’ve got quite a few vacancies this evening. Will that room be for the both of you or…?” She glances towards me again, a look flickering in her eyes that seems both knowing and amused at the same time.
Just as Stephen is nodding, I step forward. “Actually, Stephen… I mean, we’ve got enough money. Why not splurge on two rooms?” I’m not sure why, but the silent exchange I’ve just had with the girl has left me feeling disconcerted and ill at ease, making me suddenly want to be as far from Stephen as possible. Although I also can’t help but feel troubled by the fact that this desire is simultaneously coupled with a burning need for the exact opposite to occur.
A look almost like disappointment crosses Stephen’s face before he smiles again, only this time a little too brightly. “All right, why not indeed?” He hands the girl his card as she glances between the two of us, that question still in her eyes.
“Stephen, you don’t have to pay for me…” I begin to protest.
He only lets out a noise of annoyance and takes the receipt to sign without looking at me. “Jon, shut up. I owe you, remember?”
I scuff my shoe on the floor and huff a breath out my nose, avoiding the girl’s eyes. “Will that be all for the evening, Mr. Colbert?” She pronounces the name correctly, subtly conveying that she knows exactly who we are.
“No, that’s all, miss. Thanks so much.”
She hands him the keys, a smile almost like a smirk quirking up the corners of her mouth. “Your rooms are the next floor up, right next to the elevators. Oh… and they’re adjoining,” she adds this last statement almost like an afterthought, carefully resetting her glasses on her nose and going back to type on her computer. I resist the urge to glower at her; for what I’m entirely sure. “Have a nice evening, gentlemen.”
“You too!” Stephen replies, not a care in the world.
“Yeah, you too,” I mutter, following him towards the elevator and ignoring the way the girl’s face blooms into a full-blown smirk once she thinks we’re no longer looking.
“She was nice, wasn’t she?” he asks once the door closes.
“Peachy,” I reply, earning a glance from Stephen.
He ignores my sarcasm but watches me as I let my eyes close, my head resting against the wall of the elevator.
“You okay?” he murmurs after a moment.
“Mmm,” I hum, shrugging with one shoulder.
He lets out a sigh as the door bings, signaling our arrival to the floor. “Come on,” he says quietly, tugging at my elbow again. “I’ll walk you to your room.”
I don’t argue and allow him to guide me down the hall. As he swipes the card and props open the door, he keeps a hand on my elbow to steady my staggering gait. Once inside, I stare into the interior of the room, feeling a slight pang of guilt when I realize he’s paid for a king-sized bed. The door shuts behind us and suddenly Stephen’s hands are on my shoulders, easing my coat off. His warm hands seem to melt away the tension in my shoulders I didn’t realize I have and I unconsciously let out a sigh.
Stephen chuckles behind me, his voice husky. “You okay?” he asks again, only this time sounding amused rather than concerned.
“Yeah, just tired,” I murmur, standing in the middle of the room with my eyes shut.
“You’re sleeping on your feet,” he giggles, setting his hands on my shoulders again, fingers slowly digging in to massage the muscles there. I let out another sigh, this one a little more akin to a moan and take a step back. Stephen, seemingly wanting to close the distance as well, simultaneously takes a step forward, causing his chest to bump into my back.
I sigh again, letting my head fall back into the crook of his neck as he continues to rub my shoulders.
“Jon…” he breathes, his hands stilling, the breath leaving his nose ruffling my hair.
“Yeah?” I reply gruffly.
“I…” His hands are suddenly pushing me forwards and around, fingers flexing and relaxing where the rest on my shoulders. One of his hands travels up to my face, lightly brushing it like before… only his expression is different this time.
Heart rate picking up, I place a hand in the middle of his chest and, in one bold move, shove him backward until he’s against the door, my other hand going around to the back of his neck to pull his face down towards mine. Not thinking, not breathing, I bring his head down that extra half-inch and crush our mouths together. Tears form in my eyes and blood rushes through my ears as if I’m falling from a great height before I push myself more firmly against my friend, feeling my heart beat even faster as he kisses back.
His hand, the one not cupping my face, kneads my back before slipping down to tug my shirt from my pants. It’s when his warm fingers touch my bare skin that suddenly reality seems to crash down around me.
Oh my God. What am I doing? This is Stephen. Stephen. Am I trying to ruin everything? We fucking live together and… and…
“Fuck,” I murmur, releasing his mouth. He looks startled for a moment, blinking down at me with dazed eyes. “Oh, God…” I groan, pulling back, my body feeling rigid with panic. “Shit…”
His hands leap from me as if burned as I lean against the wall next to us. “Jon…?” he asks quietly, still panting.
“Oh, God…” I just groan again, letting my head fall into my hands. I’ve fucked this up. I’ve fucked us up. How could I do this? How do I sabotage everything in my life?
“Jon,” Stephen repeats urgently.
“I’m so sorry Stephen,” I murmur, feeling hot tears of shame gathering in my eyes. “I just… I can’t…”
Stephen’s hand drops from where it was beginning to stretch out to touch me, to comfort me. He’s looks away, eyes closing briefly before he regards me again. “It’s all right, Jon,” he whispers, his voice low. “We’re drunk. It’s all right.”
I slide down the wall, shaking my head miserably. “No, yeah, but… you… you drove… you were fine to drive…”
“Drinking and driving and drinking and fucking are two completely different things,” he replies, his voice unintentionally cold. I can’t make myself look up at him so he drops into a crouch beside me. “Shit, I’m sorry… It’s all right, Jon,” he murmurs again, patting me on the back, his touch completely different from before.
“Stephen…” I whisper again, feeling desperate to make him understand.
“We’re friends, Jon,” he interrupts me. “We’ll always be friends.”
I’m not sure why, but it’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard him say.
“Stephen…” I try again, attempting to wrap my inebriated mind around what’s happened. What’s happening. What is happening? Oh, God…
“Go to bed Jon,” Stephen murmurs, his voice not unkind. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Without another word, he stands and lets himself out. I stare at where he stood, the sensation of his mouth on mine still lingering. Fighting the urge to let the tears in my eyes fall, I crawl to my bed and collapse there, gazing at the ceiling until I pass into oblivion.
My sleep is dreamless.
END.
*Endnote: Again, thanks for the ongoing support, everyone. I’ve been in a bit of a funk and, upon asking mutantjules what she wanted as a get-well present and having her suggest this I realized that this is my cure-all for writer’s block. Anyway, I believe there will be two more chapters left and perhaps an epilogue? Maybe.
As always, comment and friend if you want!
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 entities, 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.
Title: Friend is a Four-Letter Word (Sleep Madness series: 5/?)
Author: Yours truly
Fandom: The Daily Show.
Pairing: Jon/Stephen
Rating: PG-13 for drunken happenings and language
Warning: This is still either AU or... the future!
A/N: Yeah, I steal Cake song titles. Jealous? Basically, this is, yet again, pretty damn angsty. It’s also quite a bit longer than the other chapters. And, OMG, plot development? Thanks to everyone who still reads this and likes it… Oh, and this is dedicated to mutantjules: I hope your wisdom teeth feel better, dahling. And thanks for giving me the idea to pick this up again :D
Length: 4701
Feedback: Always welcome with open arms and loads of metaphorical cookies.
Previous Chapters:
Sleep Madness
Vanderbilts are Like the Jedi
Bachelorhood
Like Brokeback Mountain... Only Gayer
Summary: Sometimes publicists have good ideas.
FRIEND IS A FOUR-LETTER WORD
Pain.
This is actually causing me physical pain.
You’d think something as abstract as speaking with someone couldn’t possibly cause this sort of tangible discomfort but, lucky me, it can and it is. The woman before me tilts her head, all smiles and fake spray tan and horribly bleached hair, and I force a smile back. Sure, my smile kind of blows, but I hope it’s the effort that counts.
I avoid doing these kinds of affairs as much as possible, because of the pain it causes and all. But sometimes publicists have to be publicists and mine, for some bizarre reason beyond all comprehension, decided this would be a good outlet to whore me out at.
I can’t really blame the poor woman. She’s been trying to get me to show my face for ages since the divorce. Unfortunately for her, I’m a stubborn asshole who more often than not has no qualms with ignoring her exhausted pleas of “Jon, it’ll only be this once” and “Jon, it’ll only be an hour” and “Jon, this is ridiculous and people are going to think you’ve either become a hermit or died.” She means well. She really does.
Hell, I probably wouldn’t even have a publicist except for the fact that it’s nice to have someone who knows how to make calls explaining why her boss called a man a dick on national television and somehow placates the people said actions piss off. I’ll never stop loving her for those moments.
Poor, poor woman.
But, no, she’s not a poor woman because she actually got me to go out to this stupidass whatever-the-fuck function this is. She’s not the one who has to dress in a suit (again) and talk to vapid, self-involved assholes (again) and eat the tiny finger food that somehow never really seems to constitute as a real meal. Luckily though the rich and famous never seem to go without booze, something for which I’m eternally grateful.
I nod again as the young woman (or old woman… you can’t really tell in this age of plastic surgery wonders) explains to me something intensely fascinating about one of her numerous cats. I try not to muse on how bad her apartment must reek of cat piss and if maybe the ammonia will get to her someday, causing her to die of an aneurysm.
This shouldn’t make me smile… but it does. Hell, I can’t always fight my asshole tendencies. Fortunately she seems to think this smile was in reaction to something particularly witty she imparted to me and I figure allowing that misguided notion to stand isn’t such a bad idea. I somehow doubt she would appreciate the fact that I was actually day-dreaming about her death brought on by her strange fixation with an animal that most likely just wants her to fuck the hell off.
I valiantly battle the urge to once again glance at my watch. Why am I here? Why do I allow my publicist to ever talk me into this shit? Usually I’m more resistant. Usually I fight it more. This time… I was pushed over like a top-heavy armless man on an incline. Why did I allow this to happen?
Glancing across the room, I see the reason. He suddenly grins at me like he knows exactly what fantasies of morbid doom I’m concocting for the woman I’m conversing with. When he glances back to the man talking to him animatedly he somehow manages to look interested though in the moment we made eye contact, I could see his expression said, “I know. I’m bored too.”
Of course it would be his damn fault that I’m here. When is Stephen not responsible for me doing stupid things? The Oscars (“Come on, Jon! It’ll be fun!”). That appearance on Crossfire (“Come on, Jon! It’ll be really fun!”). I would blame him for Doogal… but I think we all know that was my doing.
He’s smiling again and seems to be pleased that all he receives from me is a glower. Smug bastard. He doesn’t even have the decency to look appropriately miserable.
He had been in the room when the phone call had come in, my publicist begging me breathlessly to just please, this once, go to this charity function out in the Hamptons. I had, of course, balked impressively and told her that a.) the Hamptons are full of pretentious fuckwits and b.) charity functions are, again, full of pretentious fuckwits.
Stephen, from his spot where he was lounging on the couch and gluing a beeper to my remote (where he got a beeper is a mystery… he claims that once the beeper is hooked up, it’ll be easier to locate the remote. I didn’t comment on the fact that our living space isn’t nearly big enough to get anything that lost), overheard our conversation.
“That sounds fun!” he had said, glancing up from our now Frakenremote.
“Fun?” I asked, covering the mouthpiece. “Since when has this sort of shit been fun?”
He contemplated this. “Since now,” he answered easily, prying his hand from where it had become stuck with superglue to the beeper’s batteries. “Come on. My publicist has been trying to get me to go out forever too. We can kill two birds with one stone.”
“One, we have the same publicist,” I remarked, giving him a look. “And two, I don’t think I appreciate the fact that we are the birds in this scenario.”
“Jon,” Stephen countered seriously, putting down his contraption. “I need to get out. We need to get out. Just…” His voice became quiet. “I need this, okay?”
And with that, I was setting dates and making plans and continually kicking myself for getting so soft.
Ok, this is getting ridiculous. Why doesn’t Cat Lady get the point that I don’t give a flying fuck about Samson or Kitty-pants or Fru Fru or whatever-the-hell her cat’s name is? I hate cats and I hate her. Once I’m supreme dictator, all cats and the ladies obsessed with them will be punished to the lowest level of hell. Aka Wisconsin.
My evil thoughts again make me smile and unfortunately this time Cat Lady has just gotten finished describing her oldest cat’s encounter with a raccoon, which led to his too-early demise. Whoops.
She looks at me as if I’ve just slapped her. Pity that isn’t the case.
“Is something funny?” she demands, voice sharp.
Unfortunately I’ve had a bit too much to drink so my only response is a very articulate, “Uh…”
Smooth, Stewart. Very smooth.
And she’s outta here! Storming off, no less. Well, there’s one more person who will report to the masses that I’m a dull-witted jerkoff. Hooray!
“Well,” suddenly comes a voice to my right, “that wasn’t very polite.”
Stephen is at my side, looking down at me with equal parts amusement and derision. He pulls it off stupidly well. Though I’m not sure I appreciate how much taller he is than me at the moment. Perhaps it just feels that way because he’s standing so close? But I’m not too inclined to distance myself at the moment, height difference or no.
So I snort in response. “That was more polite than me informing her of what kind of fate I was concocting for her and her fucking cats.”
“Aha,” he murmurs, his head bent close to mine. He smells like laundry detergent, his cologne, heady red wine, and… something. Something Stephen-esque. Eau du Stephen. It’s nice and now I’m even less inclined to back away. It escapes me that perhaps this isn’t a good sign. “I knew I saw that evil glint in your eye. The one you get whenever you see Geraldo Rivera and moustache clippers within ten feet of each other. Or a chainsaw and Tucker Carlson.”
I snort again, perhaps for the first time realizing how drunk I’m getting… but Stephen’s eyes are drooping a bit and his smile is even easier than usual so, somehow, I brush off my worry. Oh, alcohol. Sweet sweet inebriation.
“I wasn’t nearly drunk enough to have a real conversation concerning the merits of clumping kitty litter versus silica gel kitty litter…” Upon hearing my own words, I groan and drop my head into the hand that’s not gripping my Jack and Coke for dear life. “Oh my God. I actually absorbed some of what we were talking about.” Looking to Stephen desperately, I grab a bit at his lapels. Due to the whole, you know, drunk thing, I stumble a bit which causes Stephen to hoist me up at the elbow so I don’t fall over. This action makes one of those goofy, lop-sided smiles to spread over his face and I ignore the strange, serpentine roil it causes in my stomach. “Help me,” I whisper dramatically.
“There’s no helping you now,” he replies, looking down at me like he’s sad I’ve been lost to the world of Cat Women. “Now there only lies a future ahead for you full of cats… and kitty litter… and, uh, ball… toy… things…” He trails off and giggles a little, glancing at the drink that’s in the hand that’s not still holding me up. “Oh lord, I think I’m farther gone than I originally thought.”
“Nyahaha,” I cackle, swaying a bit with Stephen’s hand connected to my arm as the fulcrum. “My plans to get you wasted are coming to fruition!”
Stephen raises an eyebrow and suddenly he’s the character, looking down on me with pity. “Why, Jon?” he asks sadly. “So you could take advantage of me?”
I shrug as if it means nothing. “Of course,” I answer flippantly, covering my sudden nervousness by taking a gulp of the drink I’ve still managed to hold on to.
And then the character’s gone. Stephen grins at me; that wicked look in his eye again. How can such a good little Catholic boy manage to look like the very devil himself? “You don’t need to get me drunk to do that, Jon,” he offers with disconcerting ease.
And, just like that, there’s a slightly awkward hum in the air. Oh, God. Were we both just being serious? From the look on Stephen’s face, it would almost seem like it.
There’s always been a line there for us… the line between humor and truth. But I guess that’s the case for all comedy, isn’t it? One of us nudges the line, the other nudges back. Now though… now it’s like we’re kicking the line… trying to eliminate it all together.
It could be the alcohol, but part of me finds this intensely exciting. The other part of me, the significantly less drunk part, finds it frightening to a degree I can’t really deal with.
So, in my second smooth act of the night, I let out a strained if mildly insane laugh and take another rather desperate gulp from my cup. This makes the ice to slide down and hit me in the nose, causing me to sputter and yank it away from my face. “Shit,” I mutter, not sure if I’m cursing the situation or my issues with coordination.
“Whoa there,” Stephen giggles, removing his hand from my elbow to put his fist over his mouth. I fight the urge to pull it away just so I can see his smile.
“Jesus,” I sigh, examining the state of my now-wet shirt and empty glass. “Awesome. No more drinky for me, I guess.”
Stephen just giggles again, taking my cup and placing it in his own before setting it on the table. Suddenly we’re both empty-handed and the absence of that small barrier seems astronomical. He’s smiling again, only this time softer and with a slightly far-away look in his eyes.
“Here, you uh…” He reaches out hesitantly, brushing his fingers along my cheek. I just stare at him as he flashes me a grin and shows me his hand. “You had some, er, stuff. On your face.”
“Well,” I answer distractedly, “I did just have a massive spaz-out and dump my drink all over myself. So I guess that would make sense.” My airways are starting to feel constricted, like there’s some sort of snake wound around my neck. I pull at my tie, a strange mix of alcohol and bizarre confusion making my face heat up. “God, I hate this fucking suit,” I grumble, the suffocating feeling getting worse.
“Yeah, well, you make it work. However much you tug at it like a five-year-old.” He grins down at me goofily and, as if of its own volition, his hand lands on my shoulder before sliding down to my upper arm.
To be honest, I’m not a huge touchy-feely guy, especially with other dudes. I do a lot more of the masculine back-slapping with my other guy friends but with Stephen… somehow we’ve always had a more tactile relationship. So really, considering how much he randomly touches me, this shouldn’t bother me. And I suppose it doesn’t. I’m just hyper-aware of it and somehow the room gets even smaller.
“I think we should leave.” His voice cuts through my paranoia-laden daydream and I look up at him, startled. “This party blows. I think we’ve fulfilled our duty to appear in public, right? Besides, I think I just saw Bob Novak come in and I want to get you out of here before you start a fist fight and he bites you and you turn into one of his minions of the night.”
“What?” I demand, twisting my body and searching in the direction he was looking. “Novak’s here?” When I look back to Stephen for my answer though, all I find is him giving me an innocent smile.
“Made you look,” he sings, wiggling his fingers in my face.
I jerk my head back and bat them away. “Man,” I huff, crossing my arms since I have nothing to do with my hands anymore. Besides touch Stephen. And part of my brain is telling me I’ve really had enough of that tonight. “I was getting all jazzed up to do something crazy. Like hit him in the head with a piano bench.”
“Yeah, but that necessitates actually being able to pick up the piano bench,” Stephen replies, his face matter-of-fact and condescending. I sock him in the shoulder, causing him to wince before pouting. A few of the older woman who appear to all be followers of the Church of Barbara Walters due to their identical hairdos and matching dress suits glance our way.
Oh, their haughty expressions read. The comedians.
“All right, hotshot.” Stephen grabs my elbow and starts steering me towards the door. “I see you eyeing those ladies and, yes, they do all look like Walters clones, but I don’t think they’re going to be floored by your scathing wit anytime soon.”
“You just don’t want me to make you look bad in front of them,” I retort, ignoring the way my words sound just the tiniest bit slurred. “Those types are your target audience since they think you’re serious. And,” I add, accentuating my words with a smirk, “they think you’re cute.”
“You’re just jealous because none of your fans are here to impress,” he shoots back, his face dancing with amusement. He’s leaning close to me now, his arm clinging to mine as he guides me to the door. “But I’m sure there’s a field around here somewhere with some teenagers hotboxing in their parents’ van.”
“First off,” I reply, sounding drunk even to myself, “fuck you,” this causes some shocked stares to be sent our way before recognition sets in and the eye rolls begin, “and secondly, my viewers just happen to be some of the most educated people out there. Like, the most politically-aware. They just have… questionable extracurricular habits.”
He chuckles and I give a start as I realize we’re no longer inside; the cool air hitting my face makes me feel more awake but not much more sober. “You do realize you essentially just admitted to paying attention to what the media says about your show, right?” His eyes scan the parking lot before sliding towards me, the corners of his mouth quirking up.
Stunned, I furrow my brow and open my mouth. “I…” A sigh whooshes out of me and I cross my arms in a huff. “Damnit.”
“Ha ha,” Stephen croons, “you caaaaare. Jon Stewart caaaaaares. Jon is a media whoooore.”
“Hey,” I reply sharply, sticking my finger in his face, “there’s only one hooker who can work our particular corner and that’s you, Mr. Stephen Tyrone Colbert.”
“Dr. Stephen Tyrone Colbert,” he corrects smugly. “And that’s escort, Jon. Not hooker.”
“You’re the one who said media whore,” I point out, a sour expression crossing my face.
He just grins. “True and true.” He glances around the parking lot again, a crease forming between his eyebrows. His facial expressions change with such fluidity that I’m transfixed for a moment until I realize I’m staring. He doesn’t seem to notice, thank God, so I attempt to cover up my sudden indiscretion with a subtle cough into my fist. “Where the fuck did I park my car?” he murmurs, ignoring my awkward hacking.
“Um… weren’t we next to that Jag?” I ask, rubbing a tired hand across my face. The reviving air seems to have lost its power, leaving me feeling dull and sleepy again.
He surveys the lot, biting his lip. “Uh… no Jag. Dammit.” He takes out his keys and begins walking, pressing the alarm button every once and cursing quietly to himself as I trail a few feet behind. I shove my hands into my pockets and decide to see how straight I can walk, missing Stephen’s warm presence next to me.
“You sure you’re okay to drive?” I feel compelled to ask.
He sends me a grin over his shoulder and presses the alarm button again. “I’m better off driving then you.”
“That’s always a good jump in logic…” I mutter, kicking a stone. He just grins again. “But really, if you’re not cool, we can just get a taxi or something…” It looks like it’s rained since we’ve been inside, giving the pavement a rather ethereal glow. It’s pretty in an odd way.
“All the way back to the city? That’ll cost a fortune…”
I stop and examine his back. “We could just go to a hotel.”
He halts but doesn’t turn around. “…Really?” he asks after a moment, a strange element present in his voice. I chose to ignore it.
“Yeah… I mean, wouldn’t you like sleeping in a bed for a change?”
He finally glances back at me; appraising eyes sweeping me up and down as if he’s considering me for the first time. I stop myself from swallowing since the look makes my mouth go inexplicably dry. “Yeah,” he replies, breaking the silence. “Sure.” He turns around begins to walk again. “I found the car, by the way.”
“Oh,” I say, any other words failing me. It doesn’t even occur to me to bring up the taxi again.
~~~~~~~
The car ride is mostly quiet until I break the silence when we turn down a strange exit. “Where are we going?”
Stephen spares me a brief glance. “Hotel, remember?”
I feel as if something doesn’t add up, but say nothing. Wasn’t there another step in there? Wasn’t there a reason for the hotel? The answer escapes me so I just press my forehead against the passenger side window again and watch as my breath fogs the glass.
In what feels like a matter of seconds, Stephen’s putting the car into park and opening the door for me. I stagger out of the car, Stephen’s arm firmly grabbing mine to prevent me from gracefully taking a nosedive into the pavement. He doesn’t look my way as he leads me to the hotel entrance. I find myself released once we’re through the doors, his stride purposeful as he makes his way towards the front desk. I hang back, blinking in the sudden bright light.
“Hi!” Stephen greets the maitre de, turning on that million-watt smile of his. The young woman behind the counter smiles back, her eyes shy and enamored. He seems to have that affect on people a lot. There’s a flash of recognition there too, her eyes glancing quickly towards me before her face becomes professional again.
“Hello, sir. How may I help you this evening?” she asks, tucking a strand of blond hair back behind her ear.
“Yes, well, I’d like a room for the night if you all aren’t too full.”
“Well, sir, it just so happens that we’ve got quite a few vacancies this evening. Will that room be for the both of you or…?” She glances towards me again, a look flickering in her eyes that seems both knowing and amused at the same time.
Just as Stephen is nodding, I step forward. “Actually, Stephen… I mean, we’ve got enough money. Why not splurge on two rooms?” I’m not sure why, but the silent exchange I’ve just had with the girl has left me feeling disconcerted and ill at ease, making me suddenly want to be as far from Stephen as possible. Although I also can’t help but feel troubled by the fact that this desire is simultaneously coupled with a burning need for the exact opposite to occur.
A look almost like disappointment crosses Stephen’s face before he smiles again, only this time a little too brightly. “All right, why not indeed?” He hands the girl his card as she glances between the two of us, that question still in her eyes.
“Stephen, you don’t have to pay for me…” I begin to protest.
He only lets out a noise of annoyance and takes the receipt to sign without looking at me. “Jon, shut up. I owe you, remember?”
I scuff my shoe on the floor and huff a breath out my nose, avoiding the girl’s eyes. “Will that be all for the evening, Mr. Colbert?” She pronounces the name correctly, subtly conveying that she knows exactly who we are.
“No, that’s all, miss. Thanks so much.”
She hands him the keys, a smile almost like a smirk quirking up the corners of her mouth. “Your rooms are the next floor up, right next to the elevators. Oh… and they’re adjoining,” she adds this last statement almost like an afterthought, carefully resetting her glasses on her nose and going back to type on her computer. I resist the urge to glower at her; for what I’m entirely sure. “Have a nice evening, gentlemen.”
“You too!” Stephen replies, not a care in the world.
“Yeah, you too,” I mutter, following him towards the elevator and ignoring the way the girl’s face blooms into a full-blown smirk once she thinks we’re no longer looking.
“She was nice, wasn’t she?” he asks once the door closes.
“Peachy,” I reply, earning a glance from Stephen.
He ignores my sarcasm but watches me as I let my eyes close, my head resting against the wall of the elevator.
“You okay?” he murmurs after a moment.
“Mmm,” I hum, shrugging with one shoulder.
He lets out a sigh as the door bings, signaling our arrival to the floor. “Come on,” he says quietly, tugging at my elbow again. “I’ll walk you to your room.”
I don’t argue and allow him to guide me down the hall. As he swipes the card and props open the door, he keeps a hand on my elbow to steady my staggering gait. Once inside, I stare into the interior of the room, feeling a slight pang of guilt when I realize he’s paid for a king-sized bed. The door shuts behind us and suddenly Stephen’s hands are on my shoulders, easing my coat off. His warm hands seem to melt away the tension in my shoulders I didn’t realize I have and I unconsciously let out a sigh.
Stephen chuckles behind me, his voice husky. “You okay?” he asks again, only this time sounding amused rather than concerned.
“Yeah, just tired,” I murmur, standing in the middle of the room with my eyes shut.
“You’re sleeping on your feet,” he giggles, setting his hands on my shoulders again, fingers slowly digging in to massage the muscles there. I let out another sigh, this one a little more akin to a moan and take a step back. Stephen, seemingly wanting to close the distance as well, simultaneously takes a step forward, causing his chest to bump into my back.
I sigh again, letting my head fall back into the crook of his neck as he continues to rub my shoulders.
“Jon…” he breathes, his hands stilling, the breath leaving his nose ruffling my hair.
“Yeah?” I reply gruffly.
“I…” His hands are suddenly pushing me forwards and around, fingers flexing and relaxing where the rest on my shoulders. One of his hands travels up to my face, lightly brushing it like before… only his expression is different this time.
Heart rate picking up, I place a hand in the middle of his chest and, in one bold move, shove him backward until he’s against the door, my other hand going around to the back of his neck to pull his face down towards mine. Not thinking, not breathing, I bring his head down that extra half-inch and crush our mouths together. Tears form in my eyes and blood rushes through my ears as if I’m falling from a great height before I push myself more firmly against my friend, feeling my heart beat even faster as he kisses back.
His hand, the one not cupping my face, kneads my back before slipping down to tug my shirt from my pants. It’s when his warm fingers touch my bare skin that suddenly reality seems to crash down around me.
Oh my God. What am I doing? This is Stephen. Stephen. Am I trying to ruin everything? We fucking live together and… and…
“Fuck,” I murmur, releasing his mouth. He looks startled for a moment, blinking down at me with dazed eyes. “Oh, God…” I groan, pulling back, my body feeling rigid with panic. “Shit…”
His hands leap from me as if burned as I lean against the wall next to us. “Jon…?” he asks quietly, still panting.
“Oh, God…” I just groan again, letting my head fall into my hands. I’ve fucked this up. I’ve fucked us up. How could I do this? How do I sabotage everything in my life?
“Jon,” Stephen repeats urgently.
“I’m so sorry Stephen,” I murmur, feeling hot tears of shame gathering in my eyes. “I just… I can’t…”
Stephen’s hand drops from where it was beginning to stretch out to touch me, to comfort me. He’s looks away, eyes closing briefly before he regards me again. “It’s all right, Jon,” he whispers, his voice low. “We’re drunk. It’s all right.”
I slide down the wall, shaking my head miserably. “No, yeah, but… you… you drove… you were fine to drive…”
“Drinking and driving and drinking and fucking are two completely different things,” he replies, his voice unintentionally cold. I can’t make myself look up at him so he drops into a crouch beside me. “Shit, I’m sorry… It’s all right, Jon,” he murmurs again, patting me on the back, his touch completely different from before.
“Stephen…” I whisper again, feeling desperate to make him understand.
“We’re friends, Jon,” he interrupts me. “We’ll always be friends.”
I’m not sure why, but it’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard him say.
“Stephen…” I try again, attempting to wrap my inebriated mind around what’s happened. What’s happening. What is happening? Oh, God…
“Go to bed Jon,” Stephen murmurs, his voice not unkind. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Without another word, he stands and lets himself out. I stare at where he stood, the sensation of his mouth on mine still lingering. Fighting the urge to let the tears in my eyes fall, I crawl to my bed and collapse there, gazing at the ceiling until I pass into oblivion.
My sleep is dreamless.
END.
*Endnote: Again, thanks for the ongoing support, everyone. I’ve been in a bit of a funk and, upon asking mutantjules what she wanted as a get-well present and having her suggest this I realized that this is my cure-all for writer’s block. Anyway, I believe there will be two more chapters left and perhaps an epilogue? Maybe.
As always, comment and friend if you want!
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 entities, 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.