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perpetual_motionTitle: Unfunny Monkey
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: News RPS
Rating: PG
Pairing: Jon Stewart [The Daily Show]/Anderson Cooper [Anderson Cooper 360]
Summary: Jon, Anderson, and Louisiana.
Dis: Not mine. If they ever found out about this, I could only hope that they'd take the compliment and show their appreciation with sex.
Author's Notes: It's RPS, folks. It's news RPS. I have hit a new milestone. This is set in the here and now, so there's mention of Hurricane Katrina and the massive fuckery from the government. Read at your own risk. Comment so I know you love me. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
miriam_heddy, who gave the best answer to the question in the previous post. And for the others who wanted it as well.
Unfunny Monkey
By Perpetual Motion
All you want to do is shut down production and run to New Orleans. You’re pretty sure you could pitch the idea to get it done, but you know better. There’s nothing funny about the situation as a whole, and while you can make fun of bits and pieces and point out the total fuck-up of government, you know that if you get down there all you’ll do is track down Anderson and forget about reporting.
So you sit at your desk, snark about the fall colors, and get as angry as the producers allow. You get a headshake after one bit, so you push it a half-inch further. When you get cornered after the taping, you tell them to fucking edit it if they don’t like it and slam your dressing room door in the face of a very surprised guy who really isn’t bad when you’re not having a little bit of a meltdown. You’re not surprised when your dressing room phone rings. You brace yourself for verbal impact when you pick up the phone.
“What?”
“Hey.” It’s Anderson. You suddenly have no emotions at all. You’re in complete lockdown.
“Hey.” Your voice is wooden and emotionless, and you wish desperately that you had a cheap joke, but you’re completely blank. “What’s up?” It sounds a little more like you, but your voice squeaks at the end. You suddenly understand the nerves that thirteen-year-old girls go through with their boyfriends. Everything about you seems wrong with Anderson on the other end of the line. Your tie is ugly. He can’t see it, but you’re afraid that maybe all the goo in the floodwaters has given him some sort of superpower that lets him see you in your dressing room with your ugly tie.
“Jon?” The way he says your name lets you know that you drifted out of the moment. You try to rein it in.
“I’m here. I’m here.” And he’s there. He’s there, and it’s all you can do not to walk out of the studio and onto a plane. You want to say something uplifting. You know he’s been in hell all week, and you know that you should try to pull him out of it. When you open your mouth, you say exactly the opposite of what you want: “They fucked it.” So much for uplifting. You wait for the pause to die its slow, terrible death, and for Anderson to hang up the phone in your ear. Instead, you hear a laugh. It’s tired and shaky and sounds like it could become hysterics, but it’s a laugh.
“Succinct.”
And then you’re laughing, and you don’t know why, because neither of you should be laughing. You laugh together over the line and when Anderson stops and goes utterly silent, you do too. You wait for him to say something. You know it’s coming.
“They really, really fucked it, Jon.”
There’s no laughter this time. You lean back into your couch, tug off your ugly tie, and find the emotion that needs to be in your voice. “I know, Andy.” And for two-and-a-half minutes there’s quiet. You’re okay to stay that way until a slice of static cuts across the line at twice the volume of the phone. “Andy?” You’re worried that it’s disconnected, that you’ve lost him, that you didn’t get to wish him luck.
“I’m here.” His voice is tinny and echoing. The connection is dropping.
You don’t have a lot of time. You want to wish him good luck, tell him he’s doing a great job, offer him something, anything that might get his spirits up where they need to be. You’re half a continent away, and when you get up tomorrow, you won’t have to pick out your cleanest dirty shirt to report in hell itself. There’s got to be something you can say to let him know that you’re worried sick and scared for him and so fucking proud about what he’s doing. You try to find that. All you end up with is another total miss: “They severely fucked it up.” You drop your head onto the back of the couch and just stop trying. The static on the line is bearable, so you listen to it mixing with Anderson’s breathing into the phone.
“Jon-“ Anderson cuts off and you hear bits and pieces of a static-laced conversation. You know before Anderson comes back that you’re about to be booted off the line. “Jon?”
“I’m here.” You hate that ‘here’ is so very far away from ‘there’. You really, desperately want to be ‘there’.
“They’re kicking me off.”
“I figured.” There’s another measure of static. You wait it out trying to come up with something uplifting, just to try and end on a good note. Before you can get anything out, Anderson’s talking again.
“Keep fucking them up.”
“I’ll try. Don’t drink the water.” It’s possibly the stupidest thing you could say, but you don’t have a chance to fix it. Halfway through Anderson’s good-bye, the line cuts out completely, and you know he won’t call back tonight. You drop the phone back into the cradle and try not to think about all the things that you wanted to say. All the things you could have said. All the things you should have said. You’re just no good when your audience is halfway across the country wearing waders in the sludge of Louisiana mud and human remains. You can’t be the funny monkey when the guy that makes you laugh the most is nearly breaking on live television every night. You lie back on the couch and try to pull it together. They’ll be coming for reshoots any minute. It’d probably be a bad thing for them to find you strangling your ugly tie.
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: News RPS
Rating: PG
Pairing: Jon Stewart [The Daily Show]/Anderson Cooper [Anderson Cooper 360]
Summary: Jon, Anderson, and Louisiana.
Dis: Not mine. If they ever found out about this, I could only hope that they'd take the compliment and show their appreciation with sex.
Author's Notes: It's RPS, folks. It's news RPS. I have hit a new milestone. This is set in the here and now, so there's mention of Hurricane Katrina and the massive fuckery from the government. Read at your own risk. Comment so I know you love me. For
miriam_heddy, who gave the best answer to the question in the previous post. And for the others who wanted it as well.Unfunny Monkey
By Perpetual Motion
All you want to do is shut down production and run to New Orleans. You’re pretty sure you could pitch the idea to get it done, but you know better. There’s nothing funny about the situation as a whole, and while you can make fun of bits and pieces and point out the total fuck-up of government, you know that if you get down there all you’ll do is track down Anderson and forget about reporting.
So you sit at your desk, snark about the fall colors, and get as angry as the producers allow. You get a headshake after one bit, so you push it a half-inch further. When you get cornered after the taping, you tell them to fucking edit it if they don’t like it and slam your dressing room door in the face of a very surprised guy who really isn’t bad when you’re not having a little bit of a meltdown. You’re not surprised when your dressing room phone rings. You brace yourself for verbal impact when you pick up the phone.
“What?”
“Hey.” It’s Anderson. You suddenly have no emotions at all. You’re in complete lockdown.
“Hey.” Your voice is wooden and emotionless, and you wish desperately that you had a cheap joke, but you’re completely blank. “What’s up?” It sounds a little more like you, but your voice squeaks at the end. You suddenly understand the nerves that thirteen-year-old girls go through with their boyfriends. Everything about you seems wrong with Anderson on the other end of the line. Your tie is ugly. He can’t see it, but you’re afraid that maybe all the goo in the floodwaters has given him some sort of superpower that lets him see you in your dressing room with your ugly tie.
“Jon?” The way he says your name lets you know that you drifted out of the moment. You try to rein it in.
“I’m here. I’m here.” And he’s there. He’s there, and it’s all you can do not to walk out of the studio and onto a plane. You want to say something uplifting. You know he’s been in hell all week, and you know that you should try to pull him out of it. When you open your mouth, you say exactly the opposite of what you want: “They fucked it.” So much for uplifting. You wait for the pause to die its slow, terrible death, and for Anderson to hang up the phone in your ear. Instead, you hear a laugh. It’s tired and shaky and sounds like it could become hysterics, but it’s a laugh.
“Succinct.”
And then you’re laughing, and you don’t know why, because neither of you should be laughing. You laugh together over the line and when Anderson stops and goes utterly silent, you do too. You wait for him to say something. You know it’s coming.
“They really, really fucked it, Jon.”
There’s no laughter this time. You lean back into your couch, tug off your ugly tie, and find the emotion that needs to be in your voice. “I know, Andy.” And for two-and-a-half minutes there’s quiet. You’re okay to stay that way until a slice of static cuts across the line at twice the volume of the phone. “Andy?” You’re worried that it’s disconnected, that you’ve lost him, that you didn’t get to wish him luck.
“I’m here.” His voice is tinny and echoing. The connection is dropping.
You don’t have a lot of time. You want to wish him good luck, tell him he’s doing a great job, offer him something, anything that might get his spirits up where they need to be. You’re half a continent away, and when you get up tomorrow, you won’t have to pick out your cleanest dirty shirt to report in hell itself. There’s got to be something you can say to let him know that you’re worried sick and scared for him and so fucking proud about what he’s doing. You try to find that. All you end up with is another total miss: “They severely fucked it up.” You drop your head onto the back of the couch and just stop trying. The static on the line is bearable, so you listen to it mixing with Anderson’s breathing into the phone.
“Jon-“ Anderson cuts off and you hear bits and pieces of a static-laced conversation. You know before Anderson comes back that you’re about to be booted off the line. “Jon?”
“I’m here.” You hate that ‘here’ is so very far away from ‘there’. You really, desperately want to be ‘there’.
“They’re kicking me off.”
“I figured.” There’s another measure of static. You wait it out trying to come up with something uplifting, just to try and end on a good note. Before you can get anything out, Anderson’s talking again.
“Keep fucking them up.”
“I’ll try. Don’t drink the water.” It’s possibly the stupidest thing you could say, but you don’t have a chance to fix it. Halfway through Anderson’s good-bye, the line cuts out completely, and you know he won’t call back tonight. You drop the phone back into the cradle and try not to think about all the things that you wanted to say. All the things you could have said. All the things you should have said. You’re just no good when your audience is halfway across the country wearing waders in the sludge of Louisiana mud and human remains. You can’t be the funny monkey when the guy that makes you laugh the most is nearly breaking on live television every night. You lie back on the couch and try to pull it together. They’ll be coming for reshoots any minute. It’d probably be a bad thing for them to find you strangling your ugly tie.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2005-09-08 04:32 am (UTC)no subject
on 2005-09-08 02:24 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2005-09-08 06:56 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2005-09-09 01:28 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2005-09-09 02:34 pm (UTC)None of the usual suspects in Punditshlash has touched Katrina yet. I think we've been so heartsick for our boys that we just wanted to see them happy again. But you handled well, deftly, imprinting on Jon so many of the things I think when I watch Andy each night.
I hope you stick around the fandom!
no subject
on 2005-09-09 03:12 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2005-09-09 07:02 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2005-09-12 01:54 am (UTC)no subject
on 2005-09-12 02:12 am (UTC)no subject
on 2005-09-12 02:15 am (UTC)Moreficmoreficmorefic!
Just about anything will do, at this point. I've been reading Veronica Mars het for weeks now, and I'm amissing my slash roots.
no subject
on 2005-09-16 10:17 pm (UTC)The End.
:D
no subject
on 2005-09-22 11:56 pm (UTC)Oh dear.
That made me sniffle and you try to explain sniffling in the workplace when you're 'catching up on the news'.
Oh but it was beautiful and bittersweet and just sort of flip flopped things deep inside.
Dark h/c sequel perhaps?