Fic: Let The Eagle Stray. Part 3/4. PG.
Title: Let The Eagle Stray.
Series: TDS/TCR.
Rating: PG.
Part: 3/4.
Disclaimer: This is utter fiction based on the public personae that these people project. It is not meant to have anything to do with the people in question, whose lives are none of our business.
Notes: A Ladyhawke-inspired fic. For full summary and part one, see Part 1. Part 2 is here.
Tad sat down on the couch when Mr. Stewart left, rubbing his chin. Maybe it was all a joke, he thought. It was possible. His employer was a little too fond of mean pranks, after all, and Mr. Stewart seemed to have a soft spot for going along with Mr. Colbert's schemes. Tad pondered this while picking at the dog hairs that speckled the couch.
Only they weren't dog hairs, he realized as he held them up. The dog's hair had been stiff and tawny; these were human hairs, black and silver.
That, Tad decided, was far too eerie.
Laughter, distant and filtered through corridors and doorways, trickled into the room. Well, the show was on, and watching it would certainly be more fun than hanging around here and wondering whether his employer was playing an elaborate joke on him or whether his employer's friend was actually a weredog. Tad stood and headed for the door.
Before he could exit the room, however, a horrible noise came from the window. It took the basic theme of fingernails on a blackboard and refined it to spine-shivering heights. Tad ran to the window. He could just vaguely see long nails scratching at it. As he neared, the noise stopped, and the nails went away, replaced by a featureless black circle. A wetly reflective circle, bordered by pale, feathery hair.
It was, Tad realized, a bird's eye. A bald eagle eye, judging by the sheer size of the thing and the white feathers. He stepped back warily. It looked big. As had those wicked talons.
The eye disappeared, and the talon-screech started up again. However, it was soon accompanied by a sharp click, and the window came open.
Tad took no consolation from the fact that he had been exactly right. It was a large bald eagle that flew into the room, and it did indeed have very sharp talons that punctured the back of the beleaguered couch as the eagle perched there, glaring at Tad.
"Sqark," it said, with finality.
Tad fumbled at the door, but the bird let out a mighty screech, and Tad's backstage instincts took over. He leaned back against the door. That sound would disrupt the show if he opened it!
The bird screeched again, a little less loudly. It jerked its head towards the little fridge. The phrase "dead fish" flitted around in Tad's mind for a moment before settling into a very useful place.
Tad sidled towards the fridge, trying to maximize the distance between himself and the bird. It seemed to be glaring at him impatiently as he made his slow, shuffling way to the small refrigerator. He opened it. It was cluttered with pop cans and Tupperware containers with bits of half-eaten food within, but a foil-wrapped, vaguely fish-shaped package was set in a rather central place. Tad pulled it out and opened it, walking towards the eagle as he held it out, flat-palmed. The eagle leaned towards him, spreading its wings to keep its balance as it carved out a chunk with its wicked beak and slurped it down.
The bird made quick work of the fish, then settled back and turned its eye on Tad again. Tad balled up the foil and tossed it in the garbage. Maybe, he thought, now that it was fed, the bird would be quiet enough for him to slip outside. But the moment he put his hand on the knob, the eagle screeched. Tad sighed and dropped his hand. He sat on a chair off to the side and endured the eagle's steady stare.
He was trying to estimate the timing of the commercial breaks in order to make his own break when the door opened and a woman walked in. It was, he realized after a moment's confusion, his boss's wife. He had only seen her a few times in the past at social functions, and she had been rather done up. She was quite a different person in jeans and a leather jacket, and that different person was surprised to see Tad there. Evelyn, he remembered, after a quick dig through his memory.
"Hello," she said, a little shyly. The eagle, however, showed no shyness in flying over to her with a great flutter of wings and landing on her arm. The leather jacket made a great deal of sense, Tad noted, as the eagle's talons dug into the woman's arm.
"Hey," Tad said, waving. "Are you going to take... er.. Mr. Colbert home?"
Evelyn broke out into a broad, sunny grin. "I'm starting to wonder who doesn't know." She shook her head. "I told him it was a mistake to be on the cover of the book, but he insisted, and it wouldn't do to have a daytime photo with a dog." She stroked the eagle's head with a finger, and it closed its eyes. "Yes."
"Do you miss him at night?" Tad asked. He cringed at the words once they were already out. The question was entirely too personal.
She looked at Tad, and her grin faded a bit. "All he'd have to do is apologize. But it's like pulling teeth." She turned a frustrated look on the blissfully inattentive eagle.
"Gee... I'm sorry." Tad stuck his hands in his pockets, feeling useless. He dug around for something worthwhile to offer. "I could try to talk to him. You know, when he's... not a bird."
Evelyn's smile became sad. "Thanks. I think I have more success talking to him when he is a bird." She sighed, stroking the eagle's head again. "I can't even get him to come directly home. He always comes here, and I have to drive over and get him." She looked at Tad again, and said, without a trace of irony, "It's only a short flight to Jersey, you know."
A week later, Tad was beginning to think that Evelyn was right. His boss was in no mood to listen to any of Tad's gentle hints about kindness and forgiveness and the quality of mercy not being strained. Tad had endured a rather intimate lunch in order to avoid losing his job.
He wondered, not for the first time, why he should care. But the answer was always the same - it wasn't right. It wasn't right for Jon to suffer for Stephen's stubbornness. It wasn't even right for Stephen to suffer for his own stubbornness. And oh, did Tad wish he could be more convincing on that point.
He also was worried about the days when the dog stayed in the Colbert Report studios during the daytime. He somehow tended to end up scratching the dog's ears while it sat on his lap, and at some point, he would realize what he was doing and feel like a pervert. Mr. Colbert apparently agreed; whenever he saw Tad petting the dog, he would irately send Tad off on some errand or another.
It started to prey on Tad's mind. How to get the most stubborn and unapologetic man in creation to apologize?
Series: TDS/TCR.
Rating: PG.
Part: 3/4.
Disclaimer: This is utter fiction based on the public personae that these people project. It is not meant to have anything to do with the people in question, whose lives are none of our business.
Notes: A Ladyhawke-inspired fic. For full summary and part one, see Part 1. Part 2 is here.
Tad sat down on the couch when Mr. Stewart left, rubbing his chin. Maybe it was all a joke, he thought. It was possible. His employer was a little too fond of mean pranks, after all, and Mr. Stewart seemed to have a soft spot for going along with Mr. Colbert's schemes. Tad pondered this while picking at the dog hairs that speckled the couch.
Only they weren't dog hairs, he realized as he held them up. The dog's hair had been stiff and tawny; these were human hairs, black and silver.
That, Tad decided, was far too eerie.
Laughter, distant and filtered through corridors and doorways, trickled into the room. Well, the show was on, and watching it would certainly be more fun than hanging around here and wondering whether his employer was playing an elaborate joke on him or whether his employer's friend was actually a weredog. Tad stood and headed for the door.
Before he could exit the room, however, a horrible noise came from the window. It took the basic theme of fingernails on a blackboard and refined it to spine-shivering heights. Tad ran to the window. He could just vaguely see long nails scratching at it. As he neared, the noise stopped, and the nails went away, replaced by a featureless black circle. A wetly reflective circle, bordered by pale, feathery hair.
It was, Tad realized, a bird's eye. A bald eagle eye, judging by the sheer size of the thing and the white feathers. He stepped back warily. It looked big. As had those wicked talons.
The eye disappeared, and the talon-screech started up again. However, it was soon accompanied by a sharp click, and the window came open.
Tad took no consolation from the fact that he had been exactly right. It was a large bald eagle that flew into the room, and it did indeed have very sharp talons that punctured the back of the beleaguered couch as the eagle perched there, glaring at Tad.
"Sqark," it said, with finality.
Tad fumbled at the door, but the bird let out a mighty screech, and Tad's backstage instincts took over. He leaned back against the door. That sound would disrupt the show if he opened it!
The bird screeched again, a little less loudly. It jerked its head towards the little fridge. The phrase "dead fish" flitted around in Tad's mind for a moment before settling into a very useful place.
Tad sidled towards the fridge, trying to maximize the distance between himself and the bird. It seemed to be glaring at him impatiently as he made his slow, shuffling way to the small refrigerator. He opened it. It was cluttered with pop cans and Tupperware containers with bits of half-eaten food within, but a foil-wrapped, vaguely fish-shaped package was set in a rather central place. Tad pulled it out and opened it, walking towards the eagle as he held it out, flat-palmed. The eagle leaned towards him, spreading its wings to keep its balance as it carved out a chunk with its wicked beak and slurped it down.
The bird made quick work of the fish, then settled back and turned its eye on Tad again. Tad balled up the foil and tossed it in the garbage. Maybe, he thought, now that it was fed, the bird would be quiet enough for him to slip outside. But the moment he put his hand on the knob, the eagle screeched. Tad sighed and dropped his hand. He sat on a chair off to the side and endured the eagle's steady stare.
He was trying to estimate the timing of the commercial breaks in order to make his own break when the door opened and a woman walked in. It was, he realized after a moment's confusion, his boss's wife. He had only seen her a few times in the past at social functions, and she had been rather done up. She was quite a different person in jeans and a leather jacket, and that different person was surprised to see Tad there. Evelyn, he remembered, after a quick dig through his memory.
"Hello," she said, a little shyly. The eagle, however, showed no shyness in flying over to her with a great flutter of wings and landing on her arm. The leather jacket made a great deal of sense, Tad noted, as the eagle's talons dug into the woman's arm.
"Hey," Tad said, waving. "Are you going to take... er.. Mr. Colbert home?"
Evelyn broke out into a broad, sunny grin. "I'm starting to wonder who doesn't know." She shook her head. "I told him it was a mistake to be on the cover of the book, but he insisted, and it wouldn't do to have a daytime photo with a dog." She stroked the eagle's head with a finger, and it closed its eyes. "Yes."
"Do you miss him at night?" Tad asked. He cringed at the words once they were already out. The question was entirely too personal.
She looked at Tad, and her grin faded a bit. "All he'd have to do is apologize. But it's like pulling teeth." She turned a frustrated look on the blissfully inattentive eagle.
"Gee... I'm sorry." Tad stuck his hands in his pockets, feeling useless. He dug around for something worthwhile to offer. "I could try to talk to him. You know, when he's... not a bird."
Evelyn's smile became sad. "Thanks. I think I have more success talking to him when he is a bird." She sighed, stroking the eagle's head again. "I can't even get him to come directly home. He always comes here, and I have to drive over and get him." She looked at Tad again, and said, without a trace of irony, "It's only a short flight to Jersey, you know."
A week later, Tad was beginning to think that Evelyn was right. His boss was in no mood to listen to any of Tad's gentle hints about kindness and forgiveness and the quality of mercy not being strained. Tad had endured a rather intimate lunch in order to avoid losing his job.
He wondered, not for the first time, why he should care. But the answer was always the same - it wasn't right. It wasn't right for Jon to suffer for Stephen's stubbornness. It wasn't even right for Stephen to suffer for his own stubbornness. And oh, did Tad wish he could be more convincing on that point.
He also was worried about the days when the dog stayed in the Colbert Report studios during the daytime. He somehow tended to end up scratching the dog's ears while it sat on his lap, and at some point, he would realize what he was doing and feel like a pervert. Mr. Colbert apparently agreed; whenever he saw Tad petting the dog, he would irately send Tad off on some errand or another.
It started to prey on Tad's mind. How to get the most stubborn and unapologetic man in creation to apologize?