Fandom: The Daily Show
Pairing: Jon/Stephen
Prompt: Writer's Choice (I know, it's like using a Get Out Of Jail Free card when you're not in jail, but I just couldn't fit it anywhere else and it was begging to be written)
Word Count: 693
Rating: G
Author's Notes: Much thanks to
sarcasticsra for her Beta and encouragement.Jon knows two things about his life, about himself. Two certainties, two facts that rule over his days and hours like a senile, unflappable king over his country of minions- although Jon wouldn’t like that too much if that were the case.
Which brings him to number one on his list of two.
Number 1: Jon likes Democracy. Generally. He likes the idea, the voting, the people’s power and whatnot (even if people are, also in general, rather dense, easy to persuade, and have the memory of a goldfish.)
Sure, it’s given him a headache on more days than not, but it’s also his livelihood. It’s his way of making money by doing something he truly enjoys, pointing out the idiocy behind today’s politicians. After all- he lives in the most powerful country in the world. The only superpower left after 1991.
And yet, fodder for his show comes in on a daily basis. Well, more frequently than that, but he’s getting ahead of himself.
There’s still another number on his list. Another assurance he lives by.
Number 2: Jon doesn’t need Stephen. He doesn’t. He likes Stephen, he lusts after Stephen, but he most definitely does not need him.
There is nothing involving need or necessity with the other man.
There is desire and there is heat, there are one-night stands that dissolve into two and there are meetings (not dates) in restaurants and movie theatres that are nice.
There are phone calls that continue past the time when he should reasonably hang up (the phone bill always protests when it sees that name on the caller ID) and there are back rubs when older bodies aren’t quite as young as they used to be.
There are those same back rubs that disintegrate into touches involving instructions and submission, beds that are too small and bodies that are too hot.
There are pancakes in the morning and complaining over newspapers.
There are fierce arguments and there are silent afternoons.
There is everything and needing more, there is knowing that no more can be attained and there is the peace that comes from acceptance and the enjoyment that comes from altruism.
But there is no need.
It isn’t expected that Stephen will wait by Jon’s office, casually leaning against the wall as if he has all night to wait. Jon doesn’t have to look up and smile, giving a small sigh at the realization that those last few papers (folders full of papers, in reality) won’t get finished tonight as he’d planned. Stephen doesn’t always grab Jon’s jacket to lead him out of the office and shut off the light as he locks and closes the door behind them.
It isn’t expected, Jon doesn’t have to, and Stephen doesn’t always.
But Stephen usually does wait by Jon’s office, slouched against the wall as if he were part of it. Jon usually smiles, because it’s Stephen, and there’s always paperwork that requires a sigh if he’s to accept his leave for the night. Stephen doesn’t always grab Jon’s jacket, but he usually does, because it’s New York and not the warmest place to be during the majority of the time they’re working.
So maybe it doesn’t have to be about need. Maybe it’s about expectations and what they could and couldn’t do, less about the mights and maybes and more about the dos and don’ts.
What it all boils down to is the fact that Jon doesn’t have a list. Not written out, at least.
He’s thought about it, writing it down, but some things don’t require actual classification. Things like emotions and actions. Things like his emotions and actions when Stephen is involved. Those things don’t need to be pinpointed and dissected, to be picked apart and shown to the world or even the few people involved (for there are very few people involved).
In the end, Jon doesn’t like or lust after Stephen. He loves him.
Unfortunately for his make-believe list, love is synonymous with multiple words but with one in particular. Need.
And as long as Jon has a spot on Stephen’s own list, he has all he needs.
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person 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', 'Viacom', any associated entites, or any copywrited 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 copywrited material.
Title: The Clock
Fandom: The Daily Show
Pairing: Jon/Stephen
Prompt: Broken
Word Count: 1 159
Rating: PG 13
Author's Notes: Written for a friend a while back. Gratuitous usage of the F word. And by gratuitous, I obviously mean obscene.
The clock has stopped ticking.
Jon watches the extra few seconds, just to be sure (as if the missing sound and lack of movement wasn’t proof enough) before letting his head slowly sink towards the desk. It has been a day filled with disappointment and underachievement forcing feelings ranging from ‘horribly disappointed’ to ‘bristling with anger’.
He pokes the clock just to be sure, because for some reason it seems absolutely crucial that he’s sure, and glances once at the door. Only once, for twice would make him look desperate. And he’s not desperate. Maybe downcast, perhaps a little forlorn, but not desperate.
Because really, it’s just been one of those days.
The ticking of his clock is usually annoying, something he may scowl at on occasion but it’s never been under as much scrutiny dead as it had ever been when it was alive. Perhaps that’s because it’s never had a real important job since his computer came along, equipped with a clock that set itself during daylight savings time.
Really, he thinks, no one should spend so much time obsessing over such a little thing. Therefore, he obsesses silently over bigger things.
There are papers strewn haphazardly across his desk, gathering impossibly close to the edges and fluttering down to the floor whenever his sighs get a little too forceful. His computer is humming loudly, perhaps angry that he hasn’t given it nearly as much attention as the clock’s been getting.
And fuck his clock, anyway.
He doesn’t fucking need it. Fuck its incessant ticking and its penchant for being two point five minutes ahead. Fuck the fact that he’s forgotten how many times the fucking thing has ended up under his foot yet remained ticking. Fuck the fucking fact that he’s fucking sick of being on fucking time.
Three papers follow aerobic patterns in the air as they settle unhappily on the ground.
It was just one of those days when he got up. And the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that it’s been one of those days for the past week. Which makes for seven of those days and he thinks it’s about enough. One was enough, hell; he could’ve dealt with two or three. But this...
Which brings him back to the clock, the clock that he’s taken for granted for a long time (he’s forgotten how long, hard to tell time without the time-teller) but only recently (today) has he realized how important that damnable clock is to him. Was to him, past tense, the clock is dead.
No batteries can revive it, or if they could (which they probably can) he thinks it would be a shallow victory. He’s lost the annoying comfort of his most hated nemesis, and to revive him is a thing unthinkable.
It. To revive it is a thing unthinkable.
Damn, he’s taken personification to a whole new level.
But anyway, back to his week of crap. Feigning work, his fingers set about the task of nimbly arranging useless pieces of paper, many scrawled with doodled stick figures and single words that hold no meaning outside of a sentence. Blandly he realizes he really should’ve eaten lunch about…
Fucking clock.
Anyway, according to his growling stomach, he should’ve eaten a while ago. It’s not like it really matters, he isn’t feeling much like going out alone and he’s not sure he could stand company. Anyone happier than him would be annoying, and anyone as unhappy would just be depressing.
And for fucks sake, if someone else tells him it’s just one of those days he’s gonna take out his trusty… he’s really too tired for comedy. He’ll take out something sharp and stick it somewhere important on someone’s person.
He’s halfway through a sigh (his third in case his silent clock, dejected computer, or scatter-brained papers are keeping count) when he becomes aware of the body in his doorway. The tall, handsome body precariously on the line between the beamingly bright hallway and his dreary grey office.
Normally Stephen is a welcome presence, a supportive one up for a laugh or a kiss depending on the mood.
But right now, Jon doesn’t think he can remain composed in the company of someone who’s been having a much better week than he has. Not to mention the fact that although he normally loves some time on the couch (ahem, the clock has been witness to many a time on the couch) he’s unsurprisingly not in the mood today.
When Stephen catches his eye and moves into the room to seat himself, Jon rapidly conceives of the best way to dismiss the other. However, the only thing that comes out of his mouth is…
“My clock died.”
Jon’s vaguely aware that he sounds far more heartbroken and distant then he should sound considering the words that just came out of his mouth.
They both blink, simultaneously, before slowly turning to look at said clock.
Stephen, to his credit, doesn’t let any expression cross his face. He simply takes it all in. The computer, unhappy in its comatose state, the papers on the floor, separated from their friends still residing on the table, and the clock. Especially the clock, frozen in a lifeless condition.
He turns to regard Jon carefully, not wary as much as confused and unsure. Jon still hasn’t turned away from the clock, however, carefully observing the hands that are stuck in a timeless (hah) dance, or perhaps a yoga session in crazy glue.
“Let’s go get lunch, Jon.”
Jon glances up at this, mouth opened to retort something along the lines of, “screw you, Mr. Stephen Goodweek whose clock is still fucking alive and ticking” but instead finds himself agreeing. Stephen’s already retrieved his coat and grasped his elbow, helping him out of his chair.
Really, Jon belatedly thinks, they’re both being far more intense than the situation requires. Over-reaction seems to be the word of the day.
The clock still isn’t ticking.
But considering the fact that Stephen’s subtly swiped it from his desk and hidden it in Jon’s garbage can (or at least, Stephen thought he was being subtle, Jon knows better) he thinks that maybe his crappy seven of those days is finally coming to an end.
This is because even if the next few days (or weeks or, heaven forbid, months) are still filled with crap, he’s still got Stephen. It doesn’t tie up neatly with the clock, or the fact that his computer is still ignored and his papers are still unseemly, but still, Stephen’s taking him out for dinner.
So as Jon closes the door behind him, hand being tugged by an impatient and deviously smirking Stephen, he decides that maybe he doesn’t need a pleasantly tied up day. And maybe his crappy week doesn’t really matter that much in the grand scheme of things (whatever the hell that means).
And anyway, Jon’s birthday’s coming up pretty soon.
Tick, tock.
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person 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', 'Viacom', any associated entites, or any copywrited 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 copywrited material.