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laliandraAND THAT DATE WAS CARO'S BIRTHDAY!
I am so sorry bb, that your birthday story is SO APPALLINGLY LATE! I am made of fail when it comes to deadlines...
BUT ANYWAY. Here is your story, and I hope you like it. It's not NorthByNorthWestern(or isn't it?!) but it is very much Fake News and Relevant to Our Interests.
A Million Maybes AKA The fic where Jon and Stephen get drunk, watch Doctor Who, discuss parallel universes and in parallel universes they watch Doctor Who...
Warnings: Some swearing! And some horizontal shenanigans. References to other AUs that I love because I love them. AND A LOT OF GRATUITOUS DOCTOR WHO GEEKERY. :D
Dedicated, of course, to the most lovely Caro, with best wishes and best love and best hopes for the kind of kick awesome year you deserve.
With most heartfelt thanks to Colline for the beta-ing, and for universe number 3.
1.
They have to make an effort, these days, so they arrange a night where it will be just them and beer and a movie, or something.
“I’m leaving that part up to you,” Jon says when he calls to confirm the time, “and I will provide the locale, and maybe some chips. If you’re lucky.”
“Evie is calling it our ‘Date Night’,” Stephen laughs.
“Really? That’s just what Tracey said.” They both laugh again, easy as always, easier when they’re here, with no character or cameras to care about.
“Our wives are wise beyond measure. So, what are you thinking, entertainment wise?”
“Oh you’ll see. Trust in my superior judgment, Stewart.”
“If you’ll trust me in my superior knowledge of chips,” Jon replies, voice carefully levelled out, no hint of a giggle. It’s a survival skill, and one that usually goes out of the window when Stephen is around.
“I dunno, chips are serious business” Stephen says, “but I trust you so, all right. You buy the chips, I’ll bring the DVDs.”
So Jon has no one to blame but himself when Stephen turns up with the box set of Doctor Who (“New Who, Jon, this is New Who”) for them to watch, in the room that Jon uses as study and den and retreat and office. He would call it his writing room, because that’s what it really is, but that sounds way too pretentious, like he is actually some sort of craftsman and not just a cog in a pithy one liner machine. One of the bigger, shinier cogs. But still.
“You will love it,” Stephen assures him, eyes shining with the fervent ardour of a true geek, “Trust me.”
Jon can’t argue with that, because they’ve said that to each other so often over the years that it has become almost a watchword, an in-joke with a soul.
So they settle in on the couch, it’s old and the leather is worn and cracked and it was a total bitch to get up all the stairs to the apartment, but Jon can slouch happily and Stephen has finally stopped bouncing around talking about nines and tens and TV movies and looms and settled in.
And Jon does love it. Somehow. The ‘Doctor’ is mad and interesting, plus extremely well acted, the girl is great, and yeah, kinda hot and the plot is just the right side of silly and somewhere in amongst the laughing and the running there is this love story. Jon thinks he must have become a romantic in his old age or something because by the time Stephen looks at his watch and swears at how late it is, he cares.
“Um, so can we watch the rest next time?” he asks and Stephen looks smug and delighted and agrees.
It becomes their thing. Not that they don’t already have a million and five things. Stephen sends Jon emails filling in the background, and his mutterings start to make sense. Apart from the looms. And they manage to find a time when they are both free to carry on with the series, which is no mean feat.
“If I had known this was all it took to get you to clear your schedule, I would have guilted you into watching it years ago,” Stephen says when Jon makes an executive decision to miss a meeting about advertising, and Jon is about to make an apology when Stephen says, shifting gears in a heartbeat in that way of his, “Don’t. I get it. Of course I do, we’re in the same boat.” His voice is warm in a way it never is when he is joking, so Jon doesn’t make a pun straight back, just says, “Oh fine then. So, Saturday?” and Stephen agrees and adds “exactly how many nautical jokes are you mentally making right now?” and Jon laughs and has to admit to many.
Despite all this newfound knowledge of “The Who’verse” (That is what I’m calling it okay, Jon. Who is the Who expert, here?”) it’s still a shock when the Doctor dies, and then, well, doesn’t. Jon blames the beer; he doesn’t drink all that much these days, so blaming the beer seems completely logical. It’s not that he has got caught up in the story, not at all.
Stephen does not look as impressed with Jon’s flawless reasoning as he should, just looks at the screen and then at Jon, expression caught between mocking and pleased.
“I liked Nine, but Ten is brilliant,” he says, in a contented tone, “I think he is my favourite.”
It takes a few episodes for Jon to realise exactly why that is, and when he does he can’t believe it took him more than a few minutes of the man bouncing around places in a smart suit and sometime glasses, being completely delighted by everything new and shiny, caring about causes with all his heart and generally being Stephen Colbert.
“So this is why you almost wore chucks with your suit to the last Emmys,” he says, dryly amused, and gets an Eyebrow in return.
“It’s a good look. I’m not denying it’s a good look. And the hair. Very swishy.”
“Do not make hair jokes.” Stephen says firmly.
Sometimes they only have time to fit in a single episode in amongst doing everything in the world, or so it seems sometimes. They scribble down ideas for The Toss beforehand, or run over each other scripts, Stephen still ducking his head slightly as he hands over what he’s written for Jon to read, still, after all this time and the legions of fans. And the awards. And the Presidential approval. The man is clearly mad.
Stephen makes sure they have plenty of time for the season finale though, and brings a suspicious amount of beer around.
“Does someone die?” Jon says, guard very firmly up.
“No spoilers.” Stephen replies and appears to be laughing at a joke in his own head.
Then the voiceover starts, Rose’s soft, London voice that Jon has tried to imitate on several occasions, nearly making Stephen fall off the sofa laughing, and she says “This is the story of how I died” and Jon vows eternal suffering on Stephen Colbert if he’s got him invested in some sort of high tragedy.
He watches, anyway.
The end credits play and Stephen says brightly, “Well, no one died!” and Jon has to wrench his mind away from the beach and the burning of a star and says “Very true. Happy endings all round.”
Stephen has always been the far less cynical one, not that it’s difficult when Jon’s around, so Jon suspects that Stephen is masking his own reaction very carefully, because Stephen Colbert is kind of a soft touch, really.
“Trapped in a parallel universe is better than dead,” Stephen says, shadows of uncertainty in his voice, like he is trying to convince himself, “it’s a very interesting theory actually, one that is partially born out by recent scientific thinking.”
Jon gestures at the TV, stupidly pleased at not having to talk about the bone-chilling idea of being pulled away from the person you love, the terrible hopelessness of it. Okay, maybe it isn’t so stupid.
“So what you’re saying is that somewhere, in another universe, there are other versions of me? Of you?”
“I like to think that somewhere, I have a cape and superpowers,” Stephen says wistfully and Jon isn’t at all surprised that Stephen has already given this some thought.
“I bet we are just talking about Doctor Who in a million different rooms,” Jon says, and Stephen laughs and says “Maybe? I think all it takes is a maybe, to make a million different universes.”
***********
2.
“Maybe,” Jon says firmly, putting his cup of coffee down on the table for emphasis, “I remember it very clearly, you said ‘maybe.’ Which was just cruel.”
Stephen swipes the coffee and says “I wasn’t sure, okay? The meeting had gone fine but you seemed a bit… stand off-ish?”
“Oh, you enjoyed toying with me, you sadist.”
Stephen gives him a look that is all Colbert and Jon knows that they are both filing this exchange away to use on the show.
“Oh you know you love it, Stewart” Stephen returns and there is a very crowded pause.
“I was desperate, it was my dream job,” Jon says, hoping to steer the conversation back to safety, something they can joke about.
“Oh yes, who wouldn’t dream of this” Stephen says, gesturing at the room with Jon’s cup.
Jon knows what Stephen is indicating with Jon’s -oh who is he kidding, it’s a lost cause – his cup. The horrible office, the two of them, still here far too late when everyone else has gone home, drinking instant and surrounded by scattered paper, bleeding blood red pen marks like sacrifices to an unwilling muse. Jon sees all that too, but it’s a lot more than that.
It’s been nearly five years since Stephen said “This was my competition? No wonder I got the host job.”
And Jon had said “Wait, this is the guy who gets to decide if I get to work on The Daily Show? I was expecting more gravitas.”
And Stephen had given him a considering look and said “you know, we could use this, this could work. With practice…”
“And the right desk… So, am I in?” Jon had asked, trying very hard not to look like a child begging to keep a stray puppy.
“Maybe.” Stephen had said, then paused for a second that dragged on for an hour and then he had smiled and said “Suits, too, we’ll need suits.”
And no one else had got it, until they all sat down for the first read-through and pretty soon there was no reading going on at all; just the two of them riffing off each other.
They were almost instantly good, falling into their counterparts, Jon as ‘Stewart’, the slightly more aggressively liberal version of his squishy middle self, and Stephen pitch perfect as the host ‘Colbert’. Jon suspects that half the reason that he likes to make Stephen break character is that it kind of scares him how completely Stephen becomes Colbert.
It’s become their show jointly, over the years, and Jon has loved it, the creation of something that even he will grudgingly admit he’s proud of. And that’s what he sees when he looks around this room, looks at Stephen.
He hides the smile under a laugh, saying “Well, I didn’t know what a slave driver you would turn out to be, I was so naïve, young,” Stephen snorts, “all right, younger, full of hope, and there you were…”
“Rich, handsome, everything you aspired to be” Stephen interrupts and Jon nearly nods.
“When you have quite finished playing to an imaginary audience… There you were, all ‘hmm, maybe, I don’t know if I’ll agree to let you finally get a job you really want.’ Cruel and unnecessary.”
They’ve never really talked about that day in much detail before, so it’s a surprise when Stephen says “I wasn’t sure if it was what you wanted, really. Plus, I didn’t think you liked me much.” He makes a note on the edge of the script, pen scratching savagely at the paper.
Jon has always meant to tell Stephen this. He’s always avoided telling Stephen this.
“I got the call about it, sitting in some motel room in Phoenix or Richmond or Little Rock or someplace” Stephen raises an eyebrow. “Yes, yes, I know, they’re not similar places in any way. But a shitty motel room is a shitty motel room. And the tour was going fine but it wasn’t right, exactly.”
The pleased curve of Stephen’s mouth makes it easier than he thought to reveal this much of himself, to say “I can’t explain it, really. I acted off because I wanted the job so damn badly, I thought I would look crazy if I didn’t tone it down. Haven’t you ever felt like you weren’t quite where you wanted to be, and then something came along and you knew it was exactly what you’d always wanted?”
Stephen is quiet for so long that Jon thinks he has crossed some sort of line of Acceptable Man to Man sharing, or that all he’s done is give Stephen the perfect opening to mock forever.
“Yes.” Stephen says, finally and Jon thinks oh, oh… Stephen is staring into his cup again and Jon shakes his head a little and says “Was it the moment you found Doctor Who and decided all you’d ever wanted was to be a Time Lord?”
Stephen looks up then, and sees the joke, and the reality, and his grin reappears
“I knew you liked that show. You are such a geek, Jon Stewart. We should bring in some DVDs for when we need inspiration. We could get a TV in here, no problem.”
“Whatever you want, boss,”
***********
3.
“Um, maybe?” his roommate says and now Jon is completely confused.
“How can your name ‘maybe’ be Stephen Colbert?”
“Er, I’m thinking of changing my last name. Well, not really, just the pronunciation” Stephen possibly-Colbert says, dumping yet more books onto his bed. They’ve been in the room for 5 minutes and the guy hasn’t yet stopped moving for a second.
“Do you think ‘Col-bear’ sounds a bit pretentious?” he asks Jon, expression so earnest that Jon has to say “No, I think you can pull it off.” and gets a smile for that, wide and beaming.
“Why the change?” Jon asks hurriedly, before he can dwell on the smile too long.
“I thought, well, I’ve come to Northwestern. New place, new name, something like that? It’s how it’s meant to be said, anyway,” Stephen tells him and comes over to sit on Jon’s bed with him. Stephen, it seems, is one of those people for whom personal space is just as yet unexplored territory. Jon has the sneaking, sinking feeling that he might not mind being conquered.
“I’ve thought about changing my last name,” Jon says, then kind of wishes he hadn’t.
“What’s wrong with… um…? Did we ever get to the part where you tell me your name? You do have a name, right? I mean, I could just call you The Roommate, which would be cool in a Doctor Who sort of way.”
“Doctor Who?” Jon asks, wondering if he is going to spend the entire year baffled by every other sentence.
“You’ve never heard of Doctor Who? It’s this British Sci-Fi show, it’s great, we’ll have to watch it sometime. I’m sure I can hook something up in the room or something, we can marathon it.”
“Only if there’s popcorn,” Jon says, a little faintly. “And it’s Jon. Jon Leibowitz.”
“What’s wrong with Lebowitz?”
“It’s um, a bit of a mouthful,” Jon says, figuring that a lie of omission is barely a lie at all.
“I see, a bit too jewy?” Stephen laughs and then looks completely mortified. Jon considers telling him that he got that it was just a joke, but right now he’s having too much fun watching Stephen get redder and redder and run through apologies in his head.
“Sorry?” he offers, finally, “I was just joking. I’ll say pretty much anything if I think it’ll get a laugh.” His tone is more matter of fact than ashamed. Jon stares at him, trying very hard but feeling the suppressed laughter make his mouth twist.
“I’m a dick like that” Stephen adds and Jon grins and says “I guess that means you are fair game then. I can say anything about you I like, as long as it’s funny.”
Stephen’s smile is a revelation.
“I think I’m going to like living with you,” he says with great satisfaction, “shall we take this show on the road? Go see if I can offend the rest of the dorms’ liberal sensibilities. You can explain the jokes.”
“Am I your roommate or your keeper?” Jon asks, but Stephen is already up and half way to the door, he stops and looks at Jon over his shoulder to say “I’ve never been a kept boy before. But for you…” and he smiles a smile of mischief and suggestion and is gone.
If Jon didn’t know much, much better, he’d think he was being flirted with.
“Wishful thinking, Leibowitz” he tells himself and then goes to find the trail of destruction Stephen is undoubtedly leaving in his wake.
***********
4.
“Maybe.” Stephen muttered and Jon looked up sharply from his drink.
He’d never be able to say exactly when it all began; perhaps it had been when they met, the first day of shooting, some perfectly ordinary moment somewhere in the weeks and years. But that, that was when it really started, in a bar too cool for both of them and Jon, melancholy and daring from the divorce papers and the whiskey, asking “Do you ever regret getting married?”. The song may assert that it starts with a kiss, but that desperate, hungry crush of mouths had been just a continuation on from Stephen looking at Jon with a smile to break your heart and eyes to capture it and saying “Maybe.”
And so it went, rippling out from there, stolen glances became stolen kisses became stolen nights. All the clichés, of course, the hotel rooms and the excuses and the worry. Jon felt distinctly less guilty than he had thought he would, being genetically predisposed to guilt in all its glory. But worry, he could and did worry. He worried about not feeling guilty, that he was just enjoying the illicit thrill of it too much, that he was Stephen’s version of a motorbike, ill-advised middle aged rebellion at its finest. In the confines of his brain he raged against how small he felt in the face of all he had, would and could destroy, Stephen’s shining life, family and God and career, and he worried that Stephen would realise this. Then he would have to go back to the ways things were before, to uneasy, hopeless wanting, only this time it would be worse. Jon would know what he was missing, would know the secret of what Stephen looked like under him, too good to give up.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was mostly in the middle of the night, which was to be expected, but more and more often the thought just hit him randomly, the insignificance of himself, of this. Stephen noticed, of course. He had invited Jon round to watch “old, trashy, awesome sci-fi”, and Jon had dutifully laughed at the tin-foil aliens and enjoyed the plots and the references and had tried. It was no use, though because it was still circling his brain as Stephen had kissed him, torturously slow to make Jon arch up into him, leant his forehead against Jon’s and said “What?”
Jon knew exactly what he was asking, and clearly it had all been some sort of evil plan on Stephen’s part to get him relaxed and touch-drunk and into a warm bed where he would be unable to avoid questioning.
“Do you…” he started, but felt idiotic and far too vulnerable, which was probably all part of the plot.
Stephen pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, a question and a comfort. He might not be so evil, after all.
“Do you ever regret me?” he asked, and felt Stephen’s body tense against him. Stephen kissed him, heart and soul in it as in everything, and said “You? Never.”
He actually looked almost angry that Jon could think such a thing and he moved his head to Jon’s shoulder and half kissed half bit it, muttering “Never,” into the mark. He said it again as he kissed Jon’s chest, just below his heart and then he trailed hot fingers down to Jon’s hip and dropped a quick kiss on the bone, with a cool breath of something that might have been “Never,” tracing it with his finger if he could brand it into Jon’s skin and make him believe it. Which was ridiculous and ridiculously romantic and so Stephen that right then, Jon did.
***********
5.
JS: Maybe if you were more like the character in real life, maybe then we wouldn’t get along.
SC: Don’t lie to the good readers of The New Yorker, Jon. He likes you. He’s waiting for the day when you finally become one of those hard line old Jewish men.
JS: Yeah, so we can sit on our porch in Florida and discuss how the youth of today are too soft and how we don’t make anything any more and complain about the food.
SC: You can tell me, in great detail, about the really great cake you had in ’79. Wait, our porch?
JS: Sure, we will have ditched the womenfolk to seduce the fancy ladies of Sunny Beach Retirement Complex. Or ‘Stephen’ has finally given in to all those repressed urges.
SC: Stephen has no repressed urges. Only propaganda planted in his brain by treacherous liberals.
JS: So why I am friends with this hopeless closet case, then?
SC: You’re hoping to turn him? You like arguing too much?
JS: Probably. And because he is, fundamentally, a good person.
SC: You won’t be saying that after he forces you to roleplay as the Doctor’s companion.
JS: What can I say, I’m a good friend.
SC: That you are.
***********
A Million More.
Maybe they are young and dance across rooftops, impossibly in love, new and shiny and terrifying.
Maybe they are older and bitterer for watching the world burn and rely on each other for the faith they need to get through.
Maybe they catch each other’s eye across the playground or staffroom or the Sentate Floor.
Maybe they never say anything, just watch and yearn and maybe they never want to. After all there are as many possibilities as there are ways to love someone, and maybe they have them all, somewhere.
Except in just one. Somewhere where they never meet at all, never get to say “maybe” to each other in any context. Where if they are asked if they have a best friend they shrug it off, laugh it off. Where somehow, nothing quite seems to reach its full potential. The fates of this universe watch these two parallel lives and wish they could intervene, make a meeting of like minds, as they see one or the other struck with an inexplicable sense of loss. But it is not up to them to remove impediments. All they can do is limit it to just one place, one universe, one maybe.
And hold out hope for happier universes, where Jon sits forward on his leather sofa and asks “So, do you think there are better universes out there?”
***********
1b.
“Maybe,” Stephen says, teasingly and Jon pokes Stephen with his foot.
“What could be better than this?” he asks, indignant and then looks down at their legs, entangled together on the coffee table and qualifies that with “Well, apart from my being taller.”
“But if you were taller, how would people know who’s the girl in this relationship?” Stephen says, clearly biting the inside of his lip to keep from smiling.
“You of all people should know that I am All Man” Jon says with a smirk that turns into a glare when Stephen pouts and says “Aw, but you make such a pretty girl.”
“Oh whatever, you’re prettier.” Jon retorts, and they both look at each other for a beat and then fall about laughing.
“Worst. Insult. Ever.” Stephen declares, trying for Comic Book Guy.
“Is there a universe where you do better impressions?” Jon asks, expression set to wilfully innocent, “because I’d like to go there, please.”
“Only if I can go to one where you didn’t manage to sweet talk me into keeping this really uncomfortable sofa when we moved here,” Stephen says, wincing as he sits up straighter.
“It is not the fault of this universe that you are easy when you’re drunk. Nor that you are old.” Jon tells him, leaning safely out of reach of Stephen’s elbows.
“People in elderly glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, they might put their bad backs out. As for the other, well, lucky for you, isn’t it?”
Jon seriously considers throwing something. He wonders, not for the first time, about Stephen’s ability to bring out his inner child. It’s not a bad thing, he guesses, it’s a side of himself that is all too easy to ignore, to see the world the glasses more jaded than rose and…
The TV remote hits his shoulder.
“Stop it,” Stephen says warningly, grin smug and affectionate. He takes a swig of beer, tipping his head back and going to sweep his hair back with his other hand, then puts his hand down to one side as he remembers, looking slightly self-conscious.
“Stop it.” Jon says with a smile, glad that he can do this much, “Don’t make me give you The Talk again.”
The Talk had been long but it’s essential message had been ‘ I like it, idiot, not only because it suits you (because it really does) but also for what it represents that you did it (dedication, courage, patriotism) and furthermore you are not Samson so can we stop with the dramatics.’
“You make me give you the ‘no, I don’t mind that you are going grey’ speech all the time.” Stephen points out. “I think you just like hearing me say ‘Clooney-esque’”
He reaches out and brushes a hand through the grey at Jon’s temples, and the world goes very still for a moment, Stephen’s eyes soft and serious as he traces the edge of Jon’s ear and Jon leans into the touch. Then, because it’s them and he is some of emotional cripple he looks away and says “Are we having a… moment?”
Stephen pretends to sigh and then says, “I don’t think people our age are allowed to have moments. Anyway I refuse to have a moment on this sofa, it wrecked the whole thing.”
“In fairness, I think that was me. And the whole setting does not lend itself to romance,” Jon says, tilting his head.
“The Writing Room by night, lit by the gentle glow of the television and filled with the dulcet tones of the Doctor Who theme tune? What could be more romantic?”
“Could you stop calling it that?” Jon grumbles, “I mean, really…”
“It is the room where we write.” Stephen says, which Jon has to admit is true.
“In fact, whole books have been written in this room. Don’t make me fill all the shelves with copies of ‘Naked Pictures of Famous People’,” Stephen threatens and Jon relents because Stephen would. He collects clippings and keeps them in a drawer, a born hoarder, although he doesn’t know Jon knows about that. The bestseller’s list with Jon at number one had been stuck to their fridge since it came out. Jon had let it stay there because it made it all real on the days when he truly couldn’t believe his luck, and because sometimes when Stephen was in the kitchen he would glance over at it and his mouth would quirk up into a small, hopelessly proud smile.
It shouldn’t be possible to love someone this much, after all this time.
Jon sets his bottle down on the table with a deliberate thunk. Which completely fails to attract Stephen’s attentions, so he takes his bottle too, catching Stephen’s gaze and keeping it.
“So, finding ourselves in this particular universe with no means of travelling to any parallel, I think we should do all we can to improve it, don’t you?” he says, voice intimate.
“Are you using theoretical physics as a come on?” Stephen asks, leaning closer, “Not that I mind, if you are. Not at all.”
“You and my audience, gay for science…” Jon says, as he tries to remember what his original plan had been, harder to do with Stephen focussed on him, unusually quiet and intent.
The plan. It had been witty. He was sure of that much. Jon blinks, focuses and lets his grin turn a little sharp.
“So, if the only thing wrong with this universe is this sofa, then maybe we should fix your dislike of it.” Jon says.
“And how were you planning on doing that?” Stephen says, voice very polite and smile very much not.
“Positive association,” Jon says, pulling Stephen down and in, “I’ve a whole universe of possibilities.”
***********
1.
“Do you?” Stephen asks and Jon looks at his smile, a smile that knows the answer because he’s Jon’s best friend who can finish his sentences and never has to ask what he’s thinking. He has a decent beer in his hand and the sofa is soft under him. Soon his improbably brilliant wife will open the door and his impossibly brilliant children will climb on him and ask him how his day was at a job he somehow lucked into. He can’t think of a thing he would change.
“Maybe not.”
I am so sorry bb, that your birthday story is SO APPALLINGLY LATE! I am made of fail when it comes to deadlines...
BUT ANYWAY. Here is your story, and I hope you like it. It's not NorthByNorthWestern
A Million Maybes AKA The fic where Jon and Stephen get drunk, watch Doctor Who, discuss parallel universes and in parallel universes they watch Doctor Who...
Warnings: Some swearing! And some horizontal shenanigans. References to other AUs that I love because I love them. AND A LOT OF GRATUITOUS DOCTOR WHO GEEKERY. :D
Dedicated, of course, to the most lovely Caro, with best wishes and best love and best hopes for the kind of kick awesome year you deserve.
With most heartfelt thanks to Colline for the beta-ing, and for universe number 3.
1.
They have to make an effort, these days, so they arrange a night where it will be just them and beer and a movie, or something.
“I’m leaving that part up to you,” Jon says when he calls to confirm the time, “and I will provide the locale, and maybe some chips. If you’re lucky.”
“Evie is calling it our ‘Date Night’,” Stephen laughs.
“Really? That’s just what Tracey said.” They both laugh again, easy as always, easier when they’re here, with no character or cameras to care about.
“Our wives are wise beyond measure. So, what are you thinking, entertainment wise?”
“Oh you’ll see. Trust in my superior judgment, Stewart.”
“If you’ll trust me in my superior knowledge of chips,” Jon replies, voice carefully levelled out, no hint of a giggle. It’s a survival skill, and one that usually goes out of the window when Stephen is around.
“I dunno, chips are serious business” Stephen says, “but I trust you so, all right. You buy the chips, I’ll bring the DVDs.”
So Jon has no one to blame but himself when Stephen turns up with the box set of Doctor Who (“New Who, Jon, this is New Who”) for them to watch, in the room that Jon uses as study and den and retreat and office. He would call it his writing room, because that’s what it really is, but that sounds way too pretentious, like he is actually some sort of craftsman and not just a cog in a pithy one liner machine. One of the bigger, shinier cogs. But still.
“You will love it,” Stephen assures him, eyes shining with the fervent ardour of a true geek, “Trust me.”
Jon can’t argue with that, because they’ve said that to each other so often over the years that it has become almost a watchword, an in-joke with a soul.
So they settle in on the couch, it’s old and the leather is worn and cracked and it was a total bitch to get up all the stairs to the apartment, but Jon can slouch happily and Stephen has finally stopped bouncing around talking about nines and tens and TV movies and looms and settled in.
And Jon does love it. Somehow. The ‘Doctor’ is mad and interesting, plus extremely well acted, the girl is great, and yeah, kinda hot and the plot is just the right side of silly and somewhere in amongst the laughing and the running there is this love story. Jon thinks he must have become a romantic in his old age or something because by the time Stephen looks at his watch and swears at how late it is, he cares.
“Um, so can we watch the rest next time?” he asks and Stephen looks smug and delighted and agrees.
It becomes their thing. Not that they don’t already have a million and five things. Stephen sends Jon emails filling in the background, and his mutterings start to make sense. Apart from the looms. And they manage to find a time when they are both free to carry on with the series, which is no mean feat.
“If I had known this was all it took to get you to clear your schedule, I would have guilted you into watching it years ago,” Stephen says when Jon makes an executive decision to miss a meeting about advertising, and Jon is about to make an apology when Stephen says, shifting gears in a heartbeat in that way of his, “Don’t. I get it. Of course I do, we’re in the same boat.” His voice is warm in a way it never is when he is joking, so Jon doesn’t make a pun straight back, just says, “Oh fine then. So, Saturday?” and Stephen agrees and adds “exactly how many nautical jokes are you mentally making right now?” and Jon laughs and has to admit to many.
Despite all this newfound knowledge of “The Who’verse” (That is what I’m calling it okay, Jon. Who is the Who expert, here?”) it’s still a shock when the Doctor dies, and then, well, doesn’t. Jon blames the beer; he doesn’t drink all that much these days, so blaming the beer seems completely logical. It’s not that he has got caught up in the story, not at all.
Stephen does not look as impressed with Jon’s flawless reasoning as he should, just looks at the screen and then at Jon, expression caught between mocking and pleased.
“I liked Nine, but Ten is brilliant,” he says, in a contented tone, “I think he is my favourite.”
It takes a few episodes for Jon to realise exactly why that is, and when he does he can’t believe it took him more than a few minutes of the man bouncing around places in a smart suit and sometime glasses, being completely delighted by everything new and shiny, caring about causes with all his heart and generally being Stephen Colbert.
“So this is why you almost wore chucks with your suit to the last Emmys,” he says, dryly amused, and gets an Eyebrow in return.
“It’s a good look. I’m not denying it’s a good look. And the hair. Very swishy.”
“Do not make hair jokes.” Stephen says firmly.
Sometimes they only have time to fit in a single episode in amongst doing everything in the world, or so it seems sometimes. They scribble down ideas for The Toss beforehand, or run over each other scripts, Stephen still ducking his head slightly as he hands over what he’s written for Jon to read, still, after all this time and the legions of fans. And the awards. And the Presidential approval. The man is clearly mad.
Stephen makes sure they have plenty of time for the season finale though, and brings a suspicious amount of beer around.
“Does someone die?” Jon says, guard very firmly up.
“No spoilers.” Stephen replies and appears to be laughing at a joke in his own head.
Then the voiceover starts, Rose’s soft, London voice that Jon has tried to imitate on several occasions, nearly making Stephen fall off the sofa laughing, and she says “This is the story of how I died” and Jon vows eternal suffering on Stephen Colbert if he’s got him invested in some sort of high tragedy.
He watches, anyway.
The end credits play and Stephen says brightly, “Well, no one died!” and Jon has to wrench his mind away from the beach and the burning of a star and says “Very true. Happy endings all round.”
Stephen has always been the far less cynical one, not that it’s difficult when Jon’s around, so Jon suspects that Stephen is masking his own reaction very carefully, because Stephen Colbert is kind of a soft touch, really.
“Trapped in a parallel universe is better than dead,” Stephen says, shadows of uncertainty in his voice, like he is trying to convince himself, “it’s a very interesting theory actually, one that is partially born out by recent scientific thinking.”
Jon gestures at the TV, stupidly pleased at not having to talk about the bone-chilling idea of being pulled away from the person you love, the terrible hopelessness of it. Okay, maybe it isn’t so stupid.
“So what you’re saying is that somewhere, in another universe, there are other versions of me? Of you?”
“I like to think that somewhere, I have a cape and superpowers,” Stephen says wistfully and Jon isn’t at all surprised that Stephen has already given this some thought.
“I bet we are just talking about Doctor Who in a million different rooms,” Jon says, and Stephen laughs and says “Maybe? I think all it takes is a maybe, to make a million different universes.”
***********
2.
“Maybe,” Jon says firmly, putting his cup of coffee down on the table for emphasis, “I remember it very clearly, you said ‘maybe.’ Which was just cruel.”
Stephen swipes the coffee and says “I wasn’t sure, okay? The meeting had gone fine but you seemed a bit… stand off-ish?”
“Oh, you enjoyed toying with me, you sadist.”
Stephen gives him a look that is all Colbert and Jon knows that they are both filing this exchange away to use on the show.
“Oh you know you love it, Stewart” Stephen returns and there is a very crowded pause.
“I was desperate, it was my dream job,” Jon says, hoping to steer the conversation back to safety, something they can joke about.
“Oh yes, who wouldn’t dream of this” Stephen says, gesturing at the room with Jon’s cup.
Jon knows what Stephen is indicating with Jon’s -oh who is he kidding, it’s a lost cause – his cup. The horrible office, the two of them, still here far too late when everyone else has gone home, drinking instant and surrounded by scattered paper, bleeding blood red pen marks like sacrifices to an unwilling muse. Jon sees all that too, but it’s a lot more than that.
It’s been nearly five years since Stephen said “This was my competition? No wonder I got the host job.”
And Jon had said “Wait, this is the guy who gets to decide if I get to work on The Daily Show? I was expecting more gravitas.”
And Stephen had given him a considering look and said “you know, we could use this, this could work. With practice…”
“And the right desk… So, am I in?” Jon had asked, trying very hard not to look like a child begging to keep a stray puppy.
“Maybe.” Stephen had said, then paused for a second that dragged on for an hour and then he had smiled and said “Suits, too, we’ll need suits.”
And no one else had got it, until they all sat down for the first read-through and pretty soon there was no reading going on at all; just the two of them riffing off each other.
They were almost instantly good, falling into their counterparts, Jon as ‘Stewart’, the slightly more aggressively liberal version of his squishy middle self, and Stephen pitch perfect as the host ‘Colbert’. Jon suspects that half the reason that he likes to make Stephen break character is that it kind of scares him how completely Stephen becomes Colbert.
It’s become their show jointly, over the years, and Jon has loved it, the creation of something that even he will grudgingly admit he’s proud of. And that’s what he sees when he looks around this room, looks at Stephen.
He hides the smile under a laugh, saying “Well, I didn’t know what a slave driver you would turn out to be, I was so naïve, young,” Stephen snorts, “all right, younger, full of hope, and there you were…”
“Rich, handsome, everything you aspired to be” Stephen interrupts and Jon nearly nods.
“When you have quite finished playing to an imaginary audience… There you were, all ‘hmm, maybe, I don’t know if I’ll agree to let you finally get a job you really want.’ Cruel and unnecessary.”
They’ve never really talked about that day in much detail before, so it’s a surprise when Stephen says “I wasn’t sure if it was what you wanted, really. Plus, I didn’t think you liked me much.” He makes a note on the edge of the script, pen scratching savagely at the paper.
Jon has always meant to tell Stephen this. He’s always avoided telling Stephen this.
“I got the call about it, sitting in some motel room in Phoenix or Richmond or Little Rock or someplace” Stephen raises an eyebrow. “Yes, yes, I know, they’re not similar places in any way. But a shitty motel room is a shitty motel room. And the tour was going fine but it wasn’t right, exactly.”
The pleased curve of Stephen’s mouth makes it easier than he thought to reveal this much of himself, to say “I can’t explain it, really. I acted off because I wanted the job so damn badly, I thought I would look crazy if I didn’t tone it down. Haven’t you ever felt like you weren’t quite where you wanted to be, and then something came along and you knew it was exactly what you’d always wanted?”
Stephen is quiet for so long that Jon thinks he has crossed some sort of line of Acceptable Man to Man sharing, or that all he’s done is give Stephen the perfect opening to mock forever.
“Yes.” Stephen says, finally and Jon thinks oh, oh… Stephen is staring into his cup again and Jon shakes his head a little and says “Was it the moment you found Doctor Who and decided all you’d ever wanted was to be a Time Lord?”
Stephen looks up then, and sees the joke, and the reality, and his grin reappears
“I knew you liked that show. You are such a geek, Jon Stewart. We should bring in some DVDs for when we need inspiration. We could get a TV in here, no problem.”
“Whatever you want, boss,”
***********
3.
“Um, maybe?” his roommate says and now Jon is completely confused.
“How can your name ‘maybe’ be Stephen Colbert?”
“Er, I’m thinking of changing my last name. Well, not really, just the pronunciation” Stephen possibly-Colbert says, dumping yet more books onto his bed. They’ve been in the room for 5 minutes and the guy hasn’t yet stopped moving for a second.
“Do you think ‘Col-bear’ sounds a bit pretentious?” he asks Jon, expression so earnest that Jon has to say “No, I think you can pull it off.” and gets a smile for that, wide and beaming.
“Why the change?” Jon asks hurriedly, before he can dwell on the smile too long.
“I thought, well, I’ve come to Northwestern. New place, new name, something like that? It’s how it’s meant to be said, anyway,” Stephen tells him and comes over to sit on Jon’s bed with him. Stephen, it seems, is one of those people for whom personal space is just as yet unexplored territory. Jon has the sneaking, sinking feeling that he might not mind being conquered.
“I’ve thought about changing my last name,” Jon says, then kind of wishes he hadn’t.
“What’s wrong with… um…? Did we ever get to the part where you tell me your name? You do have a name, right? I mean, I could just call you The Roommate, which would be cool in a Doctor Who sort of way.”
“Doctor Who?” Jon asks, wondering if he is going to spend the entire year baffled by every other sentence.
“You’ve never heard of Doctor Who? It’s this British Sci-Fi show, it’s great, we’ll have to watch it sometime. I’m sure I can hook something up in the room or something, we can marathon it.”
“Only if there’s popcorn,” Jon says, a little faintly. “And it’s Jon. Jon Leibowitz.”
“What’s wrong with Lebowitz?”
“It’s um, a bit of a mouthful,” Jon says, figuring that a lie of omission is barely a lie at all.
“I see, a bit too jewy?” Stephen laughs and then looks completely mortified. Jon considers telling him that he got that it was just a joke, but right now he’s having too much fun watching Stephen get redder and redder and run through apologies in his head.
“Sorry?” he offers, finally, “I was just joking. I’ll say pretty much anything if I think it’ll get a laugh.” His tone is more matter of fact than ashamed. Jon stares at him, trying very hard but feeling the suppressed laughter make his mouth twist.
“I’m a dick like that” Stephen adds and Jon grins and says “I guess that means you are fair game then. I can say anything about you I like, as long as it’s funny.”
Stephen’s smile is a revelation.
“I think I’m going to like living with you,” he says with great satisfaction, “shall we take this show on the road? Go see if I can offend the rest of the dorms’ liberal sensibilities. You can explain the jokes.”
“Am I your roommate or your keeper?” Jon asks, but Stephen is already up and half way to the door, he stops and looks at Jon over his shoulder to say “I’ve never been a kept boy before. But for you…” and he smiles a smile of mischief and suggestion and is gone.
If Jon didn’t know much, much better, he’d think he was being flirted with.
“Wishful thinking, Leibowitz” he tells himself and then goes to find the trail of destruction Stephen is undoubtedly leaving in his wake.
***********
4.
“Maybe.” Stephen muttered and Jon looked up sharply from his drink.
He’d never be able to say exactly when it all began; perhaps it had been when they met, the first day of shooting, some perfectly ordinary moment somewhere in the weeks and years. But that, that was when it really started, in a bar too cool for both of them and Jon, melancholy and daring from the divorce papers and the whiskey, asking “Do you ever regret getting married?”. The song may assert that it starts with a kiss, but that desperate, hungry crush of mouths had been just a continuation on from Stephen looking at Jon with a smile to break your heart and eyes to capture it and saying “Maybe.”
And so it went, rippling out from there, stolen glances became stolen kisses became stolen nights. All the clichés, of course, the hotel rooms and the excuses and the worry. Jon felt distinctly less guilty than he had thought he would, being genetically predisposed to guilt in all its glory. But worry, he could and did worry. He worried about not feeling guilty, that he was just enjoying the illicit thrill of it too much, that he was Stephen’s version of a motorbike, ill-advised middle aged rebellion at its finest. In the confines of his brain he raged against how small he felt in the face of all he had, would and could destroy, Stephen’s shining life, family and God and career, and he worried that Stephen would realise this. Then he would have to go back to the ways things were before, to uneasy, hopeless wanting, only this time it would be worse. Jon would know what he was missing, would know the secret of what Stephen looked like under him, too good to give up.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was mostly in the middle of the night, which was to be expected, but more and more often the thought just hit him randomly, the insignificance of himself, of this. Stephen noticed, of course. He had invited Jon round to watch “old, trashy, awesome sci-fi”, and Jon had dutifully laughed at the tin-foil aliens and enjoyed the plots and the references and had tried. It was no use, though because it was still circling his brain as Stephen had kissed him, torturously slow to make Jon arch up into him, leant his forehead against Jon’s and said “What?”
Jon knew exactly what he was asking, and clearly it had all been some sort of evil plan on Stephen’s part to get him relaxed and touch-drunk and into a warm bed where he would be unable to avoid questioning.
“Do you…” he started, but felt idiotic and far too vulnerable, which was probably all part of the plot.
Stephen pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, a question and a comfort. He might not be so evil, after all.
“Do you ever regret me?” he asked, and felt Stephen’s body tense against him. Stephen kissed him, heart and soul in it as in everything, and said “You? Never.”
He actually looked almost angry that Jon could think such a thing and he moved his head to Jon’s shoulder and half kissed half bit it, muttering “Never,” into the mark. He said it again as he kissed Jon’s chest, just below his heart and then he trailed hot fingers down to Jon’s hip and dropped a quick kiss on the bone, with a cool breath of something that might have been “Never,” tracing it with his finger if he could brand it into Jon’s skin and make him believe it. Which was ridiculous and ridiculously romantic and so Stephen that right then, Jon did.
***********
5.
JS: Maybe if you were more like the character in real life, maybe then we wouldn’t get along.
SC: Don’t lie to the good readers of The New Yorker, Jon. He likes you. He’s waiting for the day when you finally become one of those hard line old Jewish men.
JS: Yeah, so we can sit on our porch in Florida and discuss how the youth of today are too soft and how we don’t make anything any more and complain about the food.
SC: You can tell me, in great detail, about the really great cake you had in ’79. Wait, our porch?
JS: Sure, we will have ditched the womenfolk to seduce the fancy ladies of Sunny Beach Retirement Complex. Or ‘Stephen’ has finally given in to all those repressed urges.
SC: Stephen has no repressed urges. Only propaganda planted in his brain by treacherous liberals.
JS: So why I am friends with this hopeless closet case, then?
SC: You’re hoping to turn him? You like arguing too much?
JS: Probably. And because he is, fundamentally, a good person.
SC: You won’t be saying that after he forces you to roleplay as the Doctor’s companion.
JS: What can I say, I’m a good friend.
SC: That you are.
***********
A Million More.
Maybe they are young and dance across rooftops, impossibly in love, new and shiny and terrifying.
Maybe they are older and bitterer for watching the world burn and rely on each other for the faith they need to get through.
Maybe they catch each other’s eye across the playground or staffroom or the Sentate Floor.
Maybe they never say anything, just watch and yearn and maybe they never want to. After all there are as many possibilities as there are ways to love someone, and maybe they have them all, somewhere.
Except in just one. Somewhere where they never meet at all, never get to say “maybe” to each other in any context. Where if they are asked if they have a best friend they shrug it off, laugh it off. Where somehow, nothing quite seems to reach its full potential. The fates of this universe watch these two parallel lives and wish they could intervene, make a meeting of like minds, as they see one or the other struck with an inexplicable sense of loss. But it is not up to them to remove impediments. All they can do is limit it to just one place, one universe, one maybe.
And hold out hope for happier universes, where Jon sits forward on his leather sofa and asks “So, do you think there are better universes out there?”
***********
1b.
“Maybe,” Stephen says, teasingly and Jon pokes Stephen with his foot.
“What could be better than this?” he asks, indignant and then looks down at their legs, entangled together on the coffee table and qualifies that with “Well, apart from my being taller.”
“But if you were taller, how would people know who’s the girl in this relationship?” Stephen says, clearly biting the inside of his lip to keep from smiling.
“You of all people should know that I am All Man” Jon says with a smirk that turns into a glare when Stephen pouts and says “Aw, but you make such a pretty girl.”
“Oh whatever, you’re prettier.” Jon retorts, and they both look at each other for a beat and then fall about laughing.
“Worst. Insult. Ever.” Stephen declares, trying for Comic Book Guy.
“Is there a universe where you do better impressions?” Jon asks, expression set to wilfully innocent, “because I’d like to go there, please.”
“Only if I can go to one where you didn’t manage to sweet talk me into keeping this really uncomfortable sofa when we moved here,” Stephen says, wincing as he sits up straighter.
“It is not the fault of this universe that you are easy when you’re drunk. Nor that you are old.” Jon tells him, leaning safely out of reach of Stephen’s elbows.
“People in elderly glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, they might put their bad backs out. As for the other, well, lucky for you, isn’t it?”
Jon seriously considers throwing something. He wonders, not for the first time, about Stephen’s ability to bring out his inner child. It’s not a bad thing, he guesses, it’s a side of himself that is all too easy to ignore, to see the world the glasses more jaded than rose and…
The TV remote hits his shoulder.
“Stop it,” Stephen says warningly, grin smug and affectionate. He takes a swig of beer, tipping his head back and going to sweep his hair back with his other hand, then puts his hand down to one side as he remembers, looking slightly self-conscious.
“Stop it.” Jon says with a smile, glad that he can do this much, “Don’t make me give you The Talk again.”
The Talk had been long but it’s essential message had been ‘ I like it, idiot, not only because it suits you (because it really does) but also for what it represents that you did it (dedication, courage, patriotism) and furthermore you are not Samson so can we stop with the dramatics.’
“You make me give you the ‘no, I don’t mind that you are going grey’ speech all the time.” Stephen points out. “I think you just like hearing me say ‘Clooney-esque’”
He reaches out and brushes a hand through the grey at Jon’s temples, and the world goes very still for a moment, Stephen’s eyes soft and serious as he traces the edge of Jon’s ear and Jon leans into the touch. Then, because it’s them and he is some of emotional cripple he looks away and says “Are we having a… moment?”
Stephen pretends to sigh and then says, “I don’t think people our age are allowed to have moments. Anyway I refuse to have a moment on this sofa, it wrecked the whole thing.”
“In fairness, I think that was me. And the whole setting does not lend itself to romance,” Jon says, tilting his head.
“The Writing Room by night, lit by the gentle glow of the television and filled with the dulcet tones of the Doctor Who theme tune? What could be more romantic?”
“Could you stop calling it that?” Jon grumbles, “I mean, really…”
“It is the room where we write.” Stephen says, which Jon has to admit is true.
“In fact, whole books have been written in this room. Don’t make me fill all the shelves with copies of ‘Naked Pictures of Famous People’,” Stephen threatens and Jon relents because Stephen would. He collects clippings and keeps them in a drawer, a born hoarder, although he doesn’t know Jon knows about that. The bestseller’s list with Jon at number one had been stuck to their fridge since it came out. Jon had let it stay there because it made it all real on the days when he truly couldn’t believe his luck, and because sometimes when Stephen was in the kitchen he would glance over at it and his mouth would quirk up into a small, hopelessly proud smile.
It shouldn’t be possible to love someone this much, after all this time.
Jon sets his bottle down on the table with a deliberate thunk. Which completely fails to attract Stephen’s attentions, so he takes his bottle too, catching Stephen’s gaze and keeping it.
“So, finding ourselves in this particular universe with no means of travelling to any parallel, I think we should do all we can to improve it, don’t you?” he says, voice intimate.
“Are you using theoretical physics as a come on?” Stephen asks, leaning closer, “Not that I mind, if you are. Not at all.”
“You and my audience, gay for science…” Jon says, as he tries to remember what his original plan had been, harder to do with Stephen focussed on him, unusually quiet and intent.
The plan. It had been witty. He was sure of that much. Jon blinks, focuses and lets his grin turn a little sharp.
“So, if the only thing wrong with this universe is this sofa, then maybe we should fix your dislike of it.” Jon says.
“And how were you planning on doing that?” Stephen says, voice very polite and smile very much not.
“Positive association,” Jon says, pulling Stephen down and in, “I’ve a whole universe of possibilities.”
***********
1.
“Do you?” Stephen asks and Jon looks at his smile, a smile that knows the answer because he’s Jon’s best friend who can finish his sentences and never has to ask what he’s thinking. He has a decent beer in his hand and the sofa is soft under him. Soon his improbably brilliant wife will open the door and his impossibly brilliant children will climb on him and ask him how his day was at a job he somehow lucked into. He can’t think of a thing he would change.
“Maybe not.”
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Date: 2009-08-22 12:52 pm (UTC)I keep meaning to put it on FNFF, actually. I should get on that...
Anyway, I am DELIGHTED that you liked it!
<3