Fic: Doubt (Jon Stewart/Stephen Colbert)
Feb. 4th, 2007 11:27 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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thedailyshow_rpsNew fic!
Title: Doubt
Author: SilentAuror/![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silentauror
Pairing: Jon Stewart/Stephen Colbert
Genre/Rating: Drama; NC-17
Length: 3,157 words
Summary: Things have changed so much even since Stephen left the Daily Show, and Jon wonders how much more they'll go on changing...
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual persons is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
Any mention of 'The Daily Show', 'The Colbert Report', 'Viacom', any associated entites, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976 and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material.
Also available at my journal and Skyehawke.
Doubt
It was still hours before the lines would form.
He opened the door and caught the split-second of alarm on the security guard’s face before it relaxed and nodded in recognition. A wave, and he was inside. The metal detector caught his change, his watch, the button of his jeans, but they were used to it and he didn’t care.
No interns, he willed silently, pushing open the door to the back. No clip-finders, no administrative types, no suits. He got his wish; the halls were quiet. Too early. Checking his watch, he discovered it was just on noon, so perhaps it wasn’t too early. Maybe everyone was off at lunch. He had not called first, so it was possible that Stephen was gone, too, but one could always check.
The door was closed. He knocked and held his breath, while the usual thousand doubts flickered across his mind.
“Come in.”
Relief, and the breath let out. He opened the door.
Stephen saw him. There was a slight pause, and then his face smiled. Just a small one. “Jon.”
Jon smiled back and went in, closing the door behind himself. “I didn’t know if you’d be here or not.” Good, he sounded casual.
Stephen spread his hands in mock surrender. “Here I am.”
“What are you working?”
“Opening segment. The usual. Trying to find a clip of Hillary making a particularly funny expression. Such is the life.”
“When did you get back from Washington?”
“Late. Around midnight at JFK, and then there was still the drive home.”
“That’s late,” Jon agreed. “How was the interview?”
Stephen chuckled, biting down around the pen. “Good. I think you’ll like it.”
Like it matters, Jon thought, but was not bothered. “Great. Look, are you busy? I mean, I know you are, but can we grab something, or something?”
Stephen shrugged. “Sure. I need to eat, anyway.”
Jon gave a short laugh. “What, you don’t get private catering in your office yet? You should really get on that.”
Stephen gave him a twist of a smile, but looked down at the scattered papers drifted around his laptop like fallen leaves. Self-conscious. “No catering. Let’s go and find something.”
There was something strained in the air between them, but that was not all that unusual these days. Jon forced a smile. “Great.”
He let Stephen lead the way out. The same security guard nodded solemnly at him and said, “See you later, Mr. Stewart.” Jon returned the nod and they hit Fifty-fourth at an easy pace.
He didn’t walk like a millionaire. Not yet, anyway. Jon wondered if it would always be the case. Inside, Stephen’s shirt sleeves had been rolled to the elbows and there was no tie. The shirt was plain white, the pants an ordinary wool blend. Over it, he was wearing a grey sweater he’d had for years, since the Daily Show, anyway, and a winter jacket. With his hands inside his pockets, Stephen didn’t look at him as they walked. “How was your weekend?”
“Fine.” Jon avoided a slick of something nasty-looking on the sidewalk. “I took the kids to the museum again. They’re into the butterflies right now.”
“Wonder where they got that from.”
“No idea.”
“I’m sure.” Stephen pushed his glasses up and returned his hands to his pockets. “What else did you do? I haven’t seen you since, what, Wednesday?”
“I think we talked on Wednesday. I called. I haven’t seen you since before that. The weekend, maybe. Friday?”
“Yeah, that was the thing with the Viacom people. Right.”
“How was the rest of your trip? Did you just go for the interview?”
“Pretty much, yeah. We flew back right after.”
“You feel like Indian?” Jon nodded toward a little place, just a sliver of a restaurant around the corner on Ninth.
“Sure. This place has a great lunch buffet.”
“Don’t they all?” Jon went inside.
Stephen followed him. The wait staff beamed and bustled and found them a table, tried to take Stephen’s parka and Jon’s beloved leather, which he refused, preferring to wear it at least until they were seated. The little restaurant was all but empty. They made quiet small talk through the buffet, dipping steaming spoonfuls of butter chicken and dhal onto seasoned basmati. Jon doubled back for tamarind and Stephen followed to muse over the spicy cilantro sauce, which Jon knew he would get, because he always did.
Back at the table, they sat. “This is great,” Stephen said. “I miss our lunches.”
He said it lightly, as though they were nothing more than the most genial of casual acquaintances. Which wasn’t what Jon wanted at all, and he hated the effect it had on him. The throat was tighter than it should have been. He wanted it to be a defence mechanism, but when Stephen slipped into behind this particular façade, he could be very difficult to read.
The corners of Jon’s mouth were tight. “Do you?” This time, it didn’t come out right. It was definitely strained, and far too serious. And more than anything, he hated having Stephen know that he was the one who cared more. That he was the one having a problem with any of it. It was meant to be – well, it wasn’t supposed to have happened in the first place. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But it did, and when it was getting to him like this, he couldn’t even concentrate. Which was why he had jumped up in the middle of a writing session and left the interns blank-faced as he walked the eleven short blocks up to Fifty-fourth.
Stephen’s chewing slowed, then with an effort, he swallowed and took a long sip of water. “I do,” he said, looking off toward the kitchen, still casual. “Definitely. The interns just aren’t as much fun.”
Jon forced another laugh. “It must get awkward to go out for a chilli dog with the man whose fan mail you sort.”
Stephen shook his head. “Come on, don’t start that.”
He wasn’t looking at Jon, his eyes on a large piece of chicken on the end of his fork, and Jon was stung. He hadn’t expected it to get serious like this, at least not this quickly. “Like what?” he asked, sounding as peeved as he felt.
Stephen’s brow furrowed, the eyes transferring to the tablecloth between them. “About the shows. Can’t it just be about you and me for once?”
Jon was surprised. But. There was always a but now. “I wish it could,” he said, not quite belligerently. “It’s a little hard, though.”
“I think it’s only hard because you won’t stop obsessing about it. It doesn’t matter if my show does well. It doesn’t change anything.”
He tried to smile but it didn’t quite work. “Well, as long as you still have room for me in your busy schedule sometimes,” Jon said tensely.
Stephen gave a long sigh. “That’s exactly what I mean, Jon. I haven’t gotten ‘too important’ for you, or too busy. I’ve almost never been too busy. And how many times were you too busy for me, back at the Daily Show? I know it wasn’t deliberate, and it isn’t deliberate now, either. We’re busy people.”
That, and a thousand other little problems. Jon ate a piece of curried lamb. Swallowing, he said, “I don’t care if you’re more famous, better paid, more revered. I just want to have… lunch with you sometimes,” he said lamely, copping out at the end.
Stephen lowered his voice and glanced around. “I want more than lunch,” he said, intense. “I want a lot more, and I’m not going to let it go just because my schedule is fuller than it used to be. Give me some credit.”
Jon looked at him for a long moment, all of the doubts still swirling immediately beneath the surface. “Yeah. You’re right. I know. I just feel like the competition has gotten thicker, that’s all.”
“The competition for what?” Stephen cocked his good ear toward Jon, frowning.
“Not between the shows. For your time. Your attention,” Jon said. He could hear how he sounded, but he couldn’t control it.
“Well, you, much like the butter chicken,” Stephen said, squinting at the piece he’d just speared, “will always win.”
“I thought that Evelyn sort of had dibs.” It slipped out before he could prevent himself.
Stephen’s brows shot and stayed there, eyes still buried in the plate. The chewing got faster and he drained half a glass of water. The expression grew even less readable.
“Stephen… I – ” He didn’t know what to say. He shouldn’t have said it, but he didn’t want to say that, either. He would not apologize, damn it.
“Why do you have to make this so difficult?” It was low and fast and angry, the throat working as he swallowed furiously.
And suddenly, Jon was furious, too. He dropped his fork and moved his napkin from his lap to the table. “I’m making it difficult? That’s – I don’t even know what to say to that.”
Stephen’s eyes clouded. “I’m doing the best I can. If it’s not enough for you, then maybe – ”
He stopped, and Jon’s breath got stuck in his chest. “Maybe what?” he demanded, a touch of belligerence creeping in past the fear.
“Never mind,” Stephen muttered. “Look. I’m sorry. I just get frustrated.” He didn’t sound so much apologetic as pissed off, a distinction which Jon did not miss.
“Join the club.” He was not impressed. He picked up the fork and pushed a small samosa into the mango chutney. “I don’t know what to say.”
Stephen watched the samosa being smothered. “I guess if we’re going to keep doing this, this is how it works. This is the price we pay.”
“Is this a guilt complex?” Jon shook his head. “I don’t go in for that kind of thing. I don’t think people get punished like that. That’s too simple.”
Stephen sighed. “I just meant that this is the way it has to be. It just has to be hard, because these are our lives, Jon. We didn’t know how it was going to be in the beginning. I never saw this happening, having my own show and things getting even more complicated.”
“I did.” Jon eyed him. “I always knew you would go on to fame and fortune.”
“You’re hardly suffering in either of those departments.”
“So what?”
Stephen reached over and took the samosa. Jon let him. Chewing it, Stephen suddenly grinned. “Wow, that is a lot of chutney.”
“You like it that way.” And just like that, everything relaxed between them. The knot in Jon’s better dissolved. He picked up his fork and began eating again.
“I know I do, and I know that you know I do. Hey. Did you see the episode last week with the hockey jersey?” Stephen asked.
As if he ever missed them. He normally got at least the re-run. Jon had to laugh. “That was ridiculous. Your fans probably wet themselves several times over the instant you went for your belt buckle.”
“Possibly.” Stephen was still grinning. “I still have the shorts, too.”
“I must say,” Jon said, dropping his voice again, “they looked rather good on you.”
“I’d like to think they look even better off,” Stephen said, looking not at Jon, but rather the remains of the samosa, his eyebrows sky high.
His pulse was racing as though it was a first date, which it most certainly was not. They were grown men, and this was nothing like the first of anything they’d shared. “I don’t know,” Jon said slowly. “I might have to verify that.”
Stephen laughed. “I have them in the office. Unfortunately, it’s going to be rather full of staff this afternoon, and you probably need to go and maybe write something for your show sometime, so…”
Jon smiled, almost dreamily. “What are you suggesting?”
Stephen raised his left eyebrow. “I’ve been here before, and it’s too small.”
“The restaurant?”
“No.” Stephen waited for the meaning to sink in.
It did. “Ah,” Jon said. “Well. There’s always the classic…”
“The bathroom in my office with the fan on high?”
“Unromantic, possibly, but convenient.”
“Let’s get there fast.”
* * *
Jon didn’t remember the walk back, brief as it was, nor did he have any clear memory of the second entry into the closed studios. He did remember the careful locking of the outer office door. Then the jackets came off, Stephen’s shirt was open within seconds, and the mouths came together. He’d never had to look up to kiss anyone else, and it still felt strange, even though – or perhaps accentuated by the fact that – he dominated the kiss, as he dominated most of what was about to come. It was always that way. In the beginning, it had just made sense. Now, maybe a small part of it had to do with holding onto something, some essential role that they had established between the two of them. Jon led, Stephen followed. Jon dictated, Stephen acquiesced. Never mind that Stephen had gone places with his career, his life, that Jon would never go. Never mind that he regularly travelled across the continent to speak. This was the essential: this was who they were, in the midst of their busy lives, their complicated marriages and families, their work.
They wrestled each other into the bathroom, and it was quick, rough, almost brutal. It was how it should be, how it was supposed to be. Stephen’s belt buckle clinked against the edge of the sink as he dropped his pants, long fingers gripping it from the sides. His knees were ever so slightly bent, evening out their heights, and Jon’s dick was nearly bursting through his clothes in a need to get where it was going. In sex, Stephen’s voice inevitably got higher; Jon’s got lower. The only words exchanged were short things, confirmation, quick questions and hurried answers. And then he was doing it, pushing into Stephen the way he’d wanted to all weekend when Stephen had been away, when he’d woken up that morning, while he’d been fighting writers’ block at his desk before noon. Stephen moaned and pushed back against him, doubling the speed and depth of Jon’s movement. A low sound gutted his throat and it good, better than good – it was right; it felt like being home again. Stephen felt the same; his shoulders were just as wide as they’d always been, his back long and lean, that same softness at the middle, though that had decreased a little over the past year or so. His hips and chest felt the same to Jon’s hands, and he made the same sounds. It had only been a couple of weeks, but it had felt like an eternity. And Stephen wasn’t his to be jealous over, but if was honest with himself, Jon admitted freely that he was possessive of him. He tried to tell himself that it was different for Stephen with Evelyn, the way it was a wholly incomparable thing that he had with Tracey. He didn’t want to think about either of them at the moment, not with the heat between his front and Stephen’s back growing as their bodies rubbed together, Jon buried in him. Stephen was hot inside, and it was a heat that consumed him both when he had it and when he didn’t.
Stephen was gasping for breath, finger nails while on the sink on one side, while the other scrabbled for Jon’s hand, brought it around to his dick and then reached back to clamp around Jon’s ass from the back. The extra sensation of nails digging into him, Stephen’s fingers pulling his own cheeks open a little, was indescribable, and he knew it was almost finished. He wanted to prolong it, but he also just wanted to get there, and get Stephen there. Stephen’s dick was hard in his hand, which was satisfying. He remembered in the beginning, when the sex was still new to Stephen and he was nearly always soft during it, despite being aroused. They got off other ways more, then, but it was usually Stephen that insisted on it being this way when they had the opportunity, and Jon preferred it, too.
Jon’s gut clenched in the best of ways and, standing on his toes to get even deeper leverage, he pushed into Stephen so hard he thought he might cause damage to his intestines. He came so hard he thought he might pass out, stars dissolving behind his eyes in clouds of white, his fist locked around Stephen’s dick. When most of the rush had stopped, he started moving, still partly hard, for Stephen’s sake. Stephen’s hand had moved to his again, gripping it hard as he thrust into Jon’s. After about a minute of this, hands moving in unison to the accompaniment of Stephen’s gasping and demanding, Stephen came, too. Most of it got into the sink, which was fortunate. More than one tie had been ruined already in the past. A good deal was on Jon’s hand, too, and that was fine.
Stephen’s head fell forward, breathing hard over the sink, and the cool air separated them. It was companionable, coming down together like this, and after a bit, Stephen straightened up again and twisted his head around to kiss Jon on the mouth. It continued past the point of Jon slipping out of him, the wetness following, and for a minute they pressed up against each other, sensitive as they each were at the moment. Everything was all right now. They had confirmed it again, whatever “it” was, and the insecurities were banished for at least another day.
The pants came back on, hands were washed, hair straightened, and they exited the small bathroom. Jon went for his jacket and Stephen followed him to the door. “Maybe after the tapings tonight, we could do dinner,” he said.
He always had gotten clingy after sex, and Jon had never particularly minded, especially not today. “Dinner could work,” he said, trying not to be overly-enthusiastic.
There was pause, and then Stephen’s arms were around him and they were kissing again. It was silent and long and deep, and the doubts receded even further. A knock at the office door startled them apart, but even as Stephen cleared his throat and went to answer, Jon pulled at his clothes, righting them, and he smiled at the intern who had arrived with an array of Hillary Clinton photographs gleaned from what Stephen still referred to as the series of tubes. She did not seem perturbed to see Jon there, which was almost troubling, but not quite. She returned the smile and went on talking to Stephen.
Jon mouthed a goodbye and let himself out quietly.
It seemed like a particularly sunny winter afternoon outside.
-fin-
If you liked this and are interested in reading other Jon/Stephen fics of mine (there are four others so far), you can visit my journal and click on the tag (on the sidebar) labelled "fic - Jon/Stephen". :)
Title: Doubt
Author: SilentAuror/
silentaurorPairing: Jon Stewart/Stephen Colbert
Genre/Rating: Drama; NC-17
Length: 3,157 words
Summary: Things have changed so much even since Stephen left the Daily Show, and Jon wonders how much more they'll go on changing...
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual persons is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
Any mention of 'The Daily Show', 'The Colbert Report', 'Viacom', any associated entites, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976 and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material.
Also available at my journal and Skyehawke.
Doubt
It was still hours before the lines would form.
He opened the door and caught the split-second of alarm on the security guard’s face before it relaxed and nodded in recognition. A wave, and he was inside. The metal detector caught his change, his watch, the button of his jeans, but they were used to it and he didn’t care.
No interns, he willed silently, pushing open the door to the back. No clip-finders, no administrative types, no suits. He got his wish; the halls were quiet. Too early. Checking his watch, he discovered it was just on noon, so perhaps it wasn’t too early. Maybe everyone was off at lunch. He had not called first, so it was possible that Stephen was gone, too, but one could always check.
The door was closed. He knocked and held his breath, while the usual thousand doubts flickered across his mind.
“Come in.”
Relief, and the breath let out. He opened the door.
Stephen saw him. There was a slight pause, and then his face smiled. Just a small one. “Jon.”
Jon smiled back and went in, closing the door behind himself. “I didn’t know if you’d be here or not.” Good, he sounded casual.
Stephen spread his hands in mock surrender. “Here I am.”
“What are you working?”
“Opening segment. The usual. Trying to find a clip of Hillary making a particularly funny expression. Such is the life.”
“When did you get back from Washington?”
“Late. Around midnight at JFK, and then there was still the drive home.”
“That’s late,” Jon agreed. “How was the interview?”
Stephen chuckled, biting down around the pen. “Good. I think you’ll like it.”
Like it matters, Jon thought, but was not bothered. “Great. Look, are you busy? I mean, I know you are, but can we grab something, or something?”
Stephen shrugged. “Sure. I need to eat, anyway.”
Jon gave a short laugh. “What, you don’t get private catering in your office yet? You should really get on that.”
Stephen gave him a twist of a smile, but looked down at the scattered papers drifted around his laptop like fallen leaves. Self-conscious. “No catering. Let’s go and find something.”
There was something strained in the air between them, but that was not all that unusual these days. Jon forced a smile. “Great.”
He let Stephen lead the way out. The same security guard nodded solemnly at him and said, “See you later, Mr. Stewart.” Jon returned the nod and they hit Fifty-fourth at an easy pace.
He didn’t walk like a millionaire. Not yet, anyway. Jon wondered if it would always be the case. Inside, Stephen’s shirt sleeves had been rolled to the elbows and there was no tie. The shirt was plain white, the pants an ordinary wool blend. Over it, he was wearing a grey sweater he’d had for years, since the Daily Show, anyway, and a winter jacket. With his hands inside his pockets, Stephen didn’t look at him as they walked. “How was your weekend?”
“Fine.” Jon avoided a slick of something nasty-looking on the sidewalk. “I took the kids to the museum again. They’re into the butterflies right now.”
“Wonder where they got that from.”
“No idea.”
“I’m sure.” Stephen pushed his glasses up and returned his hands to his pockets. “What else did you do? I haven’t seen you since, what, Wednesday?”
“I think we talked on Wednesday. I called. I haven’t seen you since before that. The weekend, maybe. Friday?”
“Yeah, that was the thing with the Viacom people. Right.”
“How was the rest of your trip? Did you just go for the interview?”
“Pretty much, yeah. We flew back right after.”
“You feel like Indian?” Jon nodded toward a little place, just a sliver of a restaurant around the corner on Ninth.
“Sure. This place has a great lunch buffet.”
“Don’t they all?” Jon went inside.
Stephen followed him. The wait staff beamed and bustled and found them a table, tried to take Stephen’s parka and Jon’s beloved leather, which he refused, preferring to wear it at least until they were seated. The little restaurant was all but empty. They made quiet small talk through the buffet, dipping steaming spoonfuls of butter chicken and dhal onto seasoned basmati. Jon doubled back for tamarind and Stephen followed to muse over the spicy cilantro sauce, which Jon knew he would get, because he always did.
Back at the table, they sat. “This is great,” Stephen said. “I miss our lunches.”
He said it lightly, as though they were nothing more than the most genial of casual acquaintances. Which wasn’t what Jon wanted at all, and he hated the effect it had on him. The throat was tighter than it should have been. He wanted it to be a defence mechanism, but when Stephen slipped into behind this particular façade, he could be very difficult to read.
The corners of Jon’s mouth were tight. “Do you?” This time, it didn’t come out right. It was definitely strained, and far too serious. And more than anything, he hated having Stephen know that he was the one who cared more. That he was the one having a problem with any of it. It was meant to be – well, it wasn’t supposed to have happened in the first place. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But it did, and when it was getting to him like this, he couldn’t even concentrate. Which was why he had jumped up in the middle of a writing session and left the interns blank-faced as he walked the eleven short blocks up to Fifty-fourth.
Stephen’s chewing slowed, then with an effort, he swallowed and took a long sip of water. “I do,” he said, looking off toward the kitchen, still casual. “Definitely. The interns just aren’t as much fun.”
Jon forced another laugh. “It must get awkward to go out for a chilli dog with the man whose fan mail you sort.”
Stephen shook his head. “Come on, don’t start that.”
He wasn’t looking at Jon, his eyes on a large piece of chicken on the end of his fork, and Jon was stung. He hadn’t expected it to get serious like this, at least not this quickly. “Like what?” he asked, sounding as peeved as he felt.
Stephen’s brow furrowed, the eyes transferring to the tablecloth between them. “About the shows. Can’t it just be about you and me for once?”
Jon was surprised. But. There was always a but now. “I wish it could,” he said, not quite belligerently. “It’s a little hard, though.”
“I think it’s only hard because you won’t stop obsessing about it. It doesn’t matter if my show does well. It doesn’t change anything.”
He tried to smile but it didn’t quite work. “Well, as long as you still have room for me in your busy schedule sometimes,” Jon said tensely.
Stephen gave a long sigh. “That’s exactly what I mean, Jon. I haven’t gotten ‘too important’ for you, or too busy. I’ve almost never been too busy. And how many times were you too busy for me, back at the Daily Show? I know it wasn’t deliberate, and it isn’t deliberate now, either. We’re busy people.”
That, and a thousand other little problems. Jon ate a piece of curried lamb. Swallowing, he said, “I don’t care if you’re more famous, better paid, more revered. I just want to have… lunch with you sometimes,” he said lamely, copping out at the end.
Stephen lowered his voice and glanced around. “I want more than lunch,” he said, intense. “I want a lot more, and I’m not going to let it go just because my schedule is fuller than it used to be. Give me some credit.”
Jon looked at him for a long moment, all of the doubts still swirling immediately beneath the surface. “Yeah. You’re right. I know. I just feel like the competition has gotten thicker, that’s all.”
“The competition for what?” Stephen cocked his good ear toward Jon, frowning.
“Not between the shows. For your time. Your attention,” Jon said. He could hear how he sounded, but he couldn’t control it.
“Well, you, much like the butter chicken,” Stephen said, squinting at the piece he’d just speared, “will always win.”
“I thought that Evelyn sort of had dibs.” It slipped out before he could prevent himself.
Stephen’s brows shot and stayed there, eyes still buried in the plate. The chewing got faster and he drained half a glass of water. The expression grew even less readable.
“Stephen… I – ” He didn’t know what to say. He shouldn’t have said it, but he didn’t want to say that, either. He would not apologize, damn it.
“Why do you have to make this so difficult?” It was low and fast and angry, the throat working as he swallowed furiously.
And suddenly, Jon was furious, too. He dropped his fork and moved his napkin from his lap to the table. “I’m making it difficult? That’s – I don’t even know what to say to that.”
Stephen’s eyes clouded. “I’m doing the best I can. If it’s not enough for you, then maybe – ”
He stopped, and Jon’s breath got stuck in his chest. “Maybe what?” he demanded, a touch of belligerence creeping in past the fear.
“Never mind,” Stephen muttered. “Look. I’m sorry. I just get frustrated.” He didn’t sound so much apologetic as pissed off, a distinction which Jon did not miss.
“Join the club.” He was not impressed. He picked up the fork and pushed a small samosa into the mango chutney. “I don’t know what to say.”
Stephen watched the samosa being smothered. “I guess if we’re going to keep doing this, this is how it works. This is the price we pay.”
“Is this a guilt complex?” Jon shook his head. “I don’t go in for that kind of thing. I don’t think people get punished like that. That’s too simple.”
Stephen sighed. “I just meant that this is the way it has to be. It just has to be hard, because these are our lives, Jon. We didn’t know how it was going to be in the beginning. I never saw this happening, having my own show and things getting even more complicated.”
“I did.” Jon eyed him. “I always knew you would go on to fame and fortune.”
“You’re hardly suffering in either of those departments.”
“So what?”
Stephen reached over and took the samosa. Jon let him. Chewing it, Stephen suddenly grinned. “Wow, that is a lot of chutney.”
“You like it that way.” And just like that, everything relaxed between them. The knot in Jon’s better dissolved. He picked up his fork and began eating again.
“I know I do, and I know that you know I do. Hey. Did you see the episode last week with the hockey jersey?” Stephen asked.
As if he ever missed them. He normally got at least the re-run. Jon had to laugh. “That was ridiculous. Your fans probably wet themselves several times over the instant you went for your belt buckle.”
“Possibly.” Stephen was still grinning. “I still have the shorts, too.”
“I must say,” Jon said, dropping his voice again, “they looked rather good on you.”
“I’d like to think they look even better off,” Stephen said, looking not at Jon, but rather the remains of the samosa, his eyebrows sky high.
His pulse was racing as though it was a first date, which it most certainly was not. They were grown men, and this was nothing like the first of anything they’d shared. “I don’t know,” Jon said slowly. “I might have to verify that.”
Stephen laughed. “I have them in the office. Unfortunately, it’s going to be rather full of staff this afternoon, and you probably need to go and maybe write something for your show sometime, so…”
Jon smiled, almost dreamily. “What are you suggesting?”
Stephen raised his left eyebrow. “I’ve been here before, and it’s too small.”
“The restaurant?”
“No.” Stephen waited for the meaning to sink in.
It did. “Ah,” Jon said. “Well. There’s always the classic…”
“The bathroom in my office with the fan on high?”
“Unromantic, possibly, but convenient.”
“Let’s get there fast.”
* * *
Jon didn’t remember the walk back, brief as it was, nor did he have any clear memory of the second entry into the closed studios. He did remember the careful locking of the outer office door. Then the jackets came off, Stephen’s shirt was open within seconds, and the mouths came together. He’d never had to look up to kiss anyone else, and it still felt strange, even though – or perhaps accentuated by the fact that – he dominated the kiss, as he dominated most of what was about to come. It was always that way. In the beginning, it had just made sense. Now, maybe a small part of it had to do with holding onto something, some essential role that they had established between the two of them. Jon led, Stephen followed. Jon dictated, Stephen acquiesced. Never mind that Stephen had gone places with his career, his life, that Jon would never go. Never mind that he regularly travelled across the continent to speak. This was the essential: this was who they were, in the midst of their busy lives, their complicated marriages and families, their work.
They wrestled each other into the bathroom, and it was quick, rough, almost brutal. It was how it should be, how it was supposed to be. Stephen’s belt buckle clinked against the edge of the sink as he dropped his pants, long fingers gripping it from the sides. His knees were ever so slightly bent, evening out their heights, and Jon’s dick was nearly bursting through his clothes in a need to get where it was going. In sex, Stephen’s voice inevitably got higher; Jon’s got lower. The only words exchanged were short things, confirmation, quick questions and hurried answers. And then he was doing it, pushing into Stephen the way he’d wanted to all weekend when Stephen had been away, when he’d woken up that morning, while he’d been fighting writers’ block at his desk before noon. Stephen moaned and pushed back against him, doubling the speed and depth of Jon’s movement. A low sound gutted his throat and it good, better than good – it was right; it felt like being home again. Stephen felt the same; his shoulders were just as wide as they’d always been, his back long and lean, that same softness at the middle, though that had decreased a little over the past year or so. His hips and chest felt the same to Jon’s hands, and he made the same sounds. It had only been a couple of weeks, but it had felt like an eternity. And Stephen wasn’t his to be jealous over, but if was honest with himself, Jon admitted freely that he was possessive of him. He tried to tell himself that it was different for Stephen with Evelyn, the way it was a wholly incomparable thing that he had with Tracey. He didn’t want to think about either of them at the moment, not with the heat between his front and Stephen’s back growing as their bodies rubbed together, Jon buried in him. Stephen was hot inside, and it was a heat that consumed him both when he had it and when he didn’t.
Stephen was gasping for breath, finger nails while on the sink on one side, while the other scrabbled for Jon’s hand, brought it around to his dick and then reached back to clamp around Jon’s ass from the back. The extra sensation of nails digging into him, Stephen’s fingers pulling his own cheeks open a little, was indescribable, and he knew it was almost finished. He wanted to prolong it, but he also just wanted to get there, and get Stephen there. Stephen’s dick was hard in his hand, which was satisfying. He remembered in the beginning, when the sex was still new to Stephen and he was nearly always soft during it, despite being aroused. They got off other ways more, then, but it was usually Stephen that insisted on it being this way when they had the opportunity, and Jon preferred it, too.
Jon’s gut clenched in the best of ways and, standing on his toes to get even deeper leverage, he pushed into Stephen so hard he thought he might cause damage to his intestines. He came so hard he thought he might pass out, stars dissolving behind his eyes in clouds of white, his fist locked around Stephen’s dick. When most of the rush had stopped, he started moving, still partly hard, for Stephen’s sake. Stephen’s hand had moved to his again, gripping it hard as he thrust into Jon’s. After about a minute of this, hands moving in unison to the accompaniment of Stephen’s gasping and demanding, Stephen came, too. Most of it got into the sink, which was fortunate. More than one tie had been ruined already in the past. A good deal was on Jon’s hand, too, and that was fine.
Stephen’s head fell forward, breathing hard over the sink, and the cool air separated them. It was companionable, coming down together like this, and after a bit, Stephen straightened up again and twisted his head around to kiss Jon on the mouth. It continued past the point of Jon slipping out of him, the wetness following, and for a minute they pressed up against each other, sensitive as they each were at the moment. Everything was all right now. They had confirmed it again, whatever “it” was, and the insecurities were banished for at least another day.
The pants came back on, hands were washed, hair straightened, and they exited the small bathroom. Jon went for his jacket and Stephen followed him to the door. “Maybe after the tapings tonight, we could do dinner,” he said.
He always had gotten clingy after sex, and Jon had never particularly minded, especially not today. “Dinner could work,” he said, trying not to be overly-enthusiastic.
There was pause, and then Stephen’s arms were around him and they were kissing again. It was silent and long and deep, and the doubts receded even further. A knock at the office door startled them apart, but even as Stephen cleared his throat and went to answer, Jon pulled at his clothes, righting them, and he smiled at the intern who had arrived with an array of Hillary Clinton photographs gleaned from what Stephen still referred to as the series of tubes. She did not seem perturbed to see Jon there, which was almost troubling, but not quite. She returned the smile and went on talking to Stephen.
Jon mouthed a goodbye and let himself out quietly.
It seemed like a particularly sunny winter afternoon outside.
-fin-
If you liked this and are interested in reading other Jon/Stephen fics of mine (there are four others so far), you can visit my journal and click on the tag (on the sidebar) labelled "fic - Jon/Stephen". :)
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