perpetual_motion (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
perpetual_motion) wrote2005-09-27 09:19 pm
perpetual_motion) wrote2005-09-27 09:19 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Almost Funny Morning [1/1] Jon Stewart/Anderson Cooper [News RPS]
Title: Almost Funny Morning
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: News RPS
Pairing: Jon Stewart/Anderson Cooper
Rating: PG
Notes: Sequel to "Unfunny Monkey". And an AU. Jon's not married here.
Summary: Anderson gets a surprise visit in New Orleans.
Disclaimer: I don't know these men. I made it all up and don't believe a word of it. That's why I call it fiction.
Author's Notes: Sequel to "Unfunny Monkey". There are a few brief moments of happy, but it's mostly angst again. And it's an AU. Jon's not married. There's enough angst in this story without that whole hornet's nest. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lunaris_, who writes that hornet's nest and also proofread this as bits and pieces fell together.
Almost Funny Morning
By Perpetual Motion
After you wrap up NewsNight all you want is your bed. You're exhausted and sleep-deprived, and you can feel muscle fatigue setting in as you fumble your keycard in the lock. When you finally get the door open, you have just enough sense to hang the "Do Not Disturb" sign before you aim yourself for the bed.
But there's already someone in your bed, and he looks suspiciously like Jon. You're so tired that you just drop into bed next to him and steal your share of the covers. You hope that when you wake up the sleep-deprivation hallucination is still around to get you breakfast in the morning.
*
When you come to in the morning, Jon is indeed there. He's on the phone, ordering room service, and you poke him when he only asks for one carafe of orange juice. He turns around to give you a grin, and you're suddenly hit with what's happening: Jon's come to New Orleans for you. You lie back on the pillow, stare at the ceiling, and consider the implications. You remember the phone call from the other night; the wannabe suave part of your personality winces at the remembered awkwardness. You'd called without any sort of plan at all. You'd just wanted to listen to him talk.
That, you suppose, should have been a sign towards just how far you've fallen. The click of the phone makes you tense. You're not sure what to say. Jon's here, in New Orleans, and he's just ordered you room service. You stare at him. He stares at you. You get the incredible urge to say something, even if it's stupid. "I thought I was hallucinating." When Jon laughs, you feel a little better. When he leans over and kisses you with a smile still on his face, you feel like you could come out of all of this okay; that the last week and a half getting by on flat Mountain Dew and Mars Bars while you’ve watched hell on Earth unfold around you will all end up in a perspective that you can handle.
"It's good to see our total lack of communication can carry over when we're in the same room."
And you suddenly realize that you're incredibly in love with one snarky bastard. It takes another minute for your brain to catch up, and you realize that you said that aloud. You just told Jon that you're in love with him. It's not something you've ever really discussed. You're guys. It's not your thing. He was supposed to be a three date fling. This whole affair was supposed to be over months ago. But here you are, twisted in hotel room blankets, and there's Jon, sitting in boxers on the bed, and you're in New Orleans going ever so slowly insane because you can’t stop caring and just be a boring old reporter, and he's come to make sure you don’t ever become one of those boring old reporters. Your subconscious apparently stopped kidding itself a while back if it's blurting out flowery declarations without your approval. You have no idea where to go from where you are. Taking back what you've just said would just make things unbearable, and you've had enough of unbearable in Louisiana. You can only wait for Jon.
"You know," his voice is very serious, and you start to worry, "if we're going to be in love, we should probably work on this awkward communication thing."
You can't help but laugh. It's such a Jon answer. You push yourself up into a sitting position and drop your forehead onto his shoulder. "Thanks for coming."
“I-I-I…” Jon trails off, and you press your hand against his leg and give him a minute to pull together whatever he’s going to say. It took you awhile to figure out that the stutter wasn’t a nervous reaction. He just gets to thinking so fast that he can’t keep up with himself. When he does speak, it’s in a rush of words that nearly slam together. “I was worried that if I didn’t get down here, you’d come back broken.” His voice is completely raw, and you tumble him onto the bed so that you’re sprawled all over each other. It takes you a few minutes to get the lump worked out of your throat.
“You can’t say things like that.” You press a kiss to his collarbone so he knows you’re joking. “You say things like that, and I feel like the girl in the relationship.”
“Well, you are thin and pretty.” Jon rolls away as you try to poke him in the ribs. “And you have *beautiful* eyes.” He bats his eyelashes, and you bite his nose when he rolls back into range. “Hey! I need that!” Before you can say something disparaging about the size of his nose, there’s a knock on the door. Jon pushes you away. “That’s going to be breakfast.”
You pull him back towards you. “They can leave it by the door.” He pushes you away again and completely untangles himself before you can get another grip.
“You need food.” He pokes you in the ribs as he stands up. “I saw your trashcan.” Your trashcan is full of empty soda cans and crumpled-up candy bar wrappers. You decide that a full breakfast may not be a bad idea.
You lean back and watch Jon walk across the room. It’s only when he opens the door that you consider the idea that the room service guy may know who both of you are. You go absolutely still and consider ducking under the covers, but before you can make a total ass of yourself, Jon is back, wheeling the cart into the center of the room himself. He looks at you, grins, and laughs. “You were going to hide.”
“I was not!” Your voice rises into a higher register on the last word, and you clamp your mouth shut. Jon stares at you. You stare at Jon. And you break up laughing again. “Or maybe I was.”
“Can’t have them seeing you at less than your best.” Jon pulls the room service cart right next to the bed and climbs in beside you. He hands you a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast. “No crumbs in the bed.” You deliberately shake your toast over Jon’s pillow. “That’s not cool.” He grins again when you shove half of the slice of toast into your mouth, and when the grin softens into a warm, happy smile, you know with utter certainty that he’s fallen just as hard as you.
You get quiet and watch the mid-morning sunlight pattern across the room from the window. You have editing in just under two hours, and you’re going to spend the day in waders trying to keep your head together while you look at dead bodies and half-starved pets. Some of the tension must show on your face, because Jon leans over and nips you on the shoulder. You smile and swallow your toast. “Thanks, again.”
“You’re welcome.” You can tell by his eyes that he wants to elaborate. You shove the other half of your toast into his mouth before he can say anything. You’re raw all over right now, and you’ve hit your threshold for declarations, no matter the joke that Jon may add to them. He pulls your mangled toast out of his mouth and holds it up to you.
“Is this supposed to be like wedding cake; because I didn’t get to shove anything into your mouth.”
Your throat tightens, but you swallow some orange juice to get rid of the lump. Rather than return the implied endearment, you push Jon onto his back and lay on his shoulder while he feeds you your eggs. You don’t give him a hard time when he gets toast crumbs on your shoulder, and when he puts the plate aside and rolls you beneath him, you close your eyes when he kisses your chest and try to concentrate on the way his teeth graze your hipbone. When he starts sucking your dick, you almost succeed in blocking out everything but the feel of the suction and the way his fingers dig into your thighs. When you come, it’s a mix of pure elation and a gut-wrenching pain. You’ve seen so much in the last week and a half, and it all comes to the surface as you fall back to Earth from your orgasm. You don’t even know you’re crying until Jon brushes his thumbs over your cheeks and rubs your hair like a cat.
“Shh.” He pulls you to him and you realize that he’s hard. You try to reach down, but he grabs your wrist and pins it to the bed. “I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.” He presses his nose into your hair, and you can’t believe that you were happy enough just a few minutes ago to play-fight with him on the bed. “Talk to me, Andy.”
You don’t even know where to start, but when you open your mouth, you talk about a dog. It was a terrier, reddish with wiry hair, and when it saw you the first time, it went for your ankles. It took three hours and half a dozen torn bits from your ham and tomato sandwich to get him to trust you. As soon as he hadn’t flinched when you petted him, you hooked a hand under his belly and carried him to the nearest animal rescue truck.
Somehow the dog story turns into a story about an older lady who refused to leave and offered you some homemade jelly for asking. You’d taken it with you and given it to a man two streets down who had nothing but a six-pack of water and a pillowcase full of pictures of his estranged daughter. You’d helped him knock out a window of a small grocery store so that he could get something to eat. Your cameraman just happened to have a low battery and decided to save it for something more interesting than your stint as a burglar.
Jon holds you tight while you talk and when the phone rings the first time, he’s the one to grab it. You briefly consider the implications of Jon answering your hotel room phone, but you’re so worn out and drained that you can’t care enough to pull the phone from his hand. When he hangs up, you know you have to go. You sit up and wonder if you have a clean shirt or clean pants. You hope, at best, for clean socks, but before you can start looking around, Jon walks across the room and unzips his duffel bag. He pulls out a pair of jeans, a light blue shirt, and clean socks and underwear. They’re all yours. He bought you that shirt as a joke when you told him you got e-mails from viewers describing the exact color of your eyes.
“I wanted to get Molly in here, but she wouldn’t go for it.” He hands over the clothes and sits next to you. “I can be here until Sunday morning. I’m taping next week.”
You hold the clothes, think about your dog, and wonder how you fooled yourself so long where Jon was concerned. “I probably won’t be in until late.”
“Okay.” He watches you dress and takes the extra key card when you pick it up off the dresser.
“How’d you get in last night?”
“Sanjay found me down in the lobby. He convinced one of the maid staff to let me in with a master.”
You don’t even know what to say to that. You were so tired last night that the sight of Jon in the lobby could have caused any number of reactions. Most likely, you would have broken down crying in Jon’s arms, and that’s not something you want anyone to see. Sanjay, you decide, is going to get a hell of a thank you. “I’ve got NewsNight at eight. I should be back around ten-thirty if the roads are decent.”
“I’ll be up.” He kisses you goodbye, and only your sense of duty makes you pull away. You have a job to do, a story to report, and people who need another pair of hands and a boat. Before you leave you grab one last piece of toast, and you give Jon a smile in thanks when he tucks an extra Mars Bar into your pocket.
You want to stay in, wrap yourself around him, and pretend like you haven’t seen everything you have, but it’s 7:00 am on the west coast, 11:00 am on the east coast, and 10:00 am in New Orleans. 360 starts in eight hours, and you can’t stand the thought of someone standing in for you at a time like this.
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: News RPS
Pairing: Jon Stewart/Anderson Cooper
Rating: PG
Notes: Sequel to "Unfunny Monkey". And an AU. Jon's not married here.
Summary: Anderson gets a surprise visit in New Orleans.
Disclaimer: I don't know these men. I made it all up and don't believe a word of it. That's why I call it fiction.
Author's Notes: Sequel to "Unfunny Monkey". There are a few brief moments of happy, but it's mostly angst again. And it's an AU. Jon's not married. There's enough angst in this story without that whole hornet's nest. For
lunaris_, who writes that hornet's nest and also proofread this as bits and pieces fell together.Almost Funny Morning
By Perpetual Motion
After you wrap up NewsNight all you want is your bed. You're exhausted and sleep-deprived, and you can feel muscle fatigue setting in as you fumble your keycard in the lock. When you finally get the door open, you have just enough sense to hang the "Do Not Disturb" sign before you aim yourself for the bed.
But there's already someone in your bed, and he looks suspiciously like Jon. You're so tired that you just drop into bed next to him and steal your share of the covers. You hope that when you wake up the sleep-deprivation hallucination is still around to get you breakfast in the morning.
*
When you come to in the morning, Jon is indeed there. He's on the phone, ordering room service, and you poke him when he only asks for one carafe of orange juice. He turns around to give you a grin, and you're suddenly hit with what's happening: Jon's come to New Orleans for you. You lie back on the pillow, stare at the ceiling, and consider the implications. You remember the phone call from the other night; the wannabe suave part of your personality winces at the remembered awkwardness. You'd called without any sort of plan at all. You'd just wanted to listen to him talk.
That, you suppose, should have been a sign towards just how far you've fallen. The click of the phone makes you tense. You're not sure what to say. Jon's here, in New Orleans, and he's just ordered you room service. You stare at him. He stares at you. You get the incredible urge to say something, even if it's stupid. "I thought I was hallucinating." When Jon laughs, you feel a little better. When he leans over and kisses you with a smile still on his face, you feel like you could come out of all of this okay; that the last week and a half getting by on flat Mountain Dew and Mars Bars while you’ve watched hell on Earth unfold around you will all end up in a perspective that you can handle.
"It's good to see our total lack of communication can carry over when we're in the same room."
And you suddenly realize that you're incredibly in love with one snarky bastard. It takes another minute for your brain to catch up, and you realize that you said that aloud. You just told Jon that you're in love with him. It's not something you've ever really discussed. You're guys. It's not your thing. He was supposed to be a three date fling. This whole affair was supposed to be over months ago. But here you are, twisted in hotel room blankets, and there's Jon, sitting in boxers on the bed, and you're in New Orleans going ever so slowly insane because you can’t stop caring and just be a boring old reporter, and he's come to make sure you don’t ever become one of those boring old reporters. Your subconscious apparently stopped kidding itself a while back if it's blurting out flowery declarations without your approval. You have no idea where to go from where you are. Taking back what you've just said would just make things unbearable, and you've had enough of unbearable in Louisiana. You can only wait for Jon.
"You know," his voice is very serious, and you start to worry, "if we're going to be in love, we should probably work on this awkward communication thing."
You can't help but laugh. It's such a Jon answer. You push yourself up into a sitting position and drop your forehead onto his shoulder. "Thanks for coming."
“I-I-I…” Jon trails off, and you press your hand against his leg and give him a minute to pull together whatever he’s going to say. It took you awhile to figure out that the stutter wasn’t a nervous reaction. He just gets to thinking so fast that he can’t keep up with himself. When he does speak, it’s in a rush of words that nearly slam together. “I was worried that if I didn’t get down here, you’d come back broken.” His voice is completely raw, and you tumble him onto the bed so that you’re sprawled all over each other. It takes you a few minutes to get the lump worked out of your throat.
“You can’t say things like that.” You press a kiss to his collarbone so he knows you’re joking. “You say things like that, and I feel like the girl in the relationship.”
“Well, you are thin and pretty.” Jon rolls away as you try to poke him in the ribs. “And you have *beautiful* eyes.” He bats his eyelashes, and you bite his nose when he rolls back into range. “Hey! I need that!” Before you can say something disparaging about the size of his nose, there’s a knock on the door. Jon pushes you away. “That’s going to be breakfast.”
You pull him back towards you. “They can leave it by the door.” He pushes you away again and completely untangles himself before you can get another grip.
“You need food.” He pokes you in the ribs as he stands up. “I saw your trashcan.” Your trashcan is full of empty soda cans and crumpled-up candy bar wrappers. You decide that a full breakfast may not be a bad idea.
You lean back and watch Jon walk across the room. It’s only when he opens the door that you consider the idea that the room service guy may know who both of you are. You go absolutely still and consider ducking under the covers, but before you can make a total ass of yourself, Jon is back, wheeling the cart into the center of the room himself. He looks at you, grins, and laughs. “You were going to hide.”
“I was not!” Your voice rises into a higher register on the last word, and you clamp your mouth shut. Jon stares at you. You stare at Jon. And you break up laughing again. “Or maybe I was.”
“Can’t have them seeing you at less than your best.” Jon pulls the room service cart right next to the bed and climbs in beside you. He hands you a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast. “No crumbs in the bed.” You deliberately shake your toast over Jon’s pillow. “That’s not cool.” He grins again when you shove half of the slice of toast into your mouth, and when the grin softens into a warm, happy smile, you know with utter certainty that he’s fallen just as hard as you.
You get quiet and watch the mid-morning sunlight pattern across the room from the window. You have editing in just under two hours, and you’re going to spend the day in waders trying to keep your head together while you look at dead bodies and half-starved pets. Some of the tension must show on your face, because Jon leans over and nips you on the shoulder. You smile and swallow your toast. “Thanks, again.”
“You’re welcome.” You can tell by his eyes that he wants to elaborate. You shove the other half of your toast into his mouth before he can say anything. You’re raw all over right now, and you’ve hit your threshold for declarations, no matter the joke that Jon may add to them. He pulls your mangled toast out of his mouth and holds it up to you.
“Is this supposed to be like wedding cake; because I didn’t get to shove anything into your mouth.”
Your throat tightens, but you swallow some orange juice to get rid of the lump. Rather than return the implied endearment, you push Jon onto his back and lay on his shoulder while he feeds you your eggs. You don’t give him a hard time when he gets toast crumbs on your shoulder, and when he puts the plate aside and rolls you beneath him, you close your eyes when he kisses your chest and try to concentrate on the way his teeth graze your hipbone. When he starts sucking your dick, you almost succeed in blocking out everything but the feel of the suction and the way his fingers dig into your thighs. When you come, it’s a mix of pure elation and a gut-wrenching pain. You’ve seen so much in the last week and a half, and it all comes to the surface as you fall back to Earth from your orgasm. You don’t even know you’re crying until Jon brushes his thumbs over your cheeks and rubs your hair like a cat.
“Shh.” He pulls you to him and you realize that he’s hard. You try to reach down, but he grabs your wrist and pins it to the bed. “I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.” He presses his nose into your hair, and you can’t believe that you were happy enough just a few minutes ago to play-fight with him on the bed. “Talk to me, Andy.”
You don’t even know where to start, but when you open your mouth, you talk about a dog. It was a terrier, reddish with wiry hair, and when it saw you the first time, it went for your ankles. It took three hours and half a dozen torn bits from your ham and tomato sandwich to get him to trust you. As soon as he hadn’t flinched when you petted him, you hooked a hand under his belly and carried him to the nearest animal rescue truck.
Somehow the dog story turns into a story about an older lady who refused to leave and offered you some homemade jelly for asking. You’d taken it with you and given it to a man two streets down who had nothing but a six-pack of water and a pillowcase full of pictures of his estranged daughter. You’d helped him knock out a window of a small grocery store so that he could get something to eat. Your cameraman just happened to have a low battery and decided to save it for something more interesting than your stint as a burglar.
Jon holds you tight while you talk and when the phone rings the first time, he’s the one to grab it. You briefly consider the implications of Jon answering your hotel room phone, but you’re so worn out and drained that you can’t care enough to pull the phone from his hand. When he hangs up, you know you have to go. You sit up and wonder if you have a clean shirt or clean pants. You hope, at best, for clean socks, but before you can start looking around, Jon walks across the room and unzips his duffel bag. He pulls out a pair of jeans, a light blue shirt, and clean socks and underwear. They’re all yours. He bought you that shirt as a joke when you told him you got e-mails from viewers describing the exact color of your eyes.
“I wanted to get Molly in here, but she wouldn’t go for it.” He hands over the clothes and sits next to you. “I can be here until Sunday morning. I’m taping next week.”
You hold the clothes, think about your dog, and wonder how you fooled yourself so long where Jon was concerned. “I probably won’t be in until late.”
“Okay.” He watches you dress and takes the extra key card when you pick it up off the dresser.
“How’d you get in last night?”
“Sanjay found me down in the lobby. He convinced one of the maid staff to let me in with a master.”
You don’t even know what to say to that. You were so tired last night that the sight of Jon in the lobby could have caused any number of reactions. Most likely, you would have broken down crying in Jon’s arms, and that’s not something you want anyone to see. Sanjay, you decide, is going to get a hell of a thank you. “I’ve got NewsNight at eight. I should be back around ten-thirty if the roads are decent.”
“I’ll be up.” He kisses you goodbye, and only your sense of duty makes you pull away. You have a job to do, a story to report, and people who need another pair of hands and a boat. Before you leave you grab one last piece of toast, and you give Jon a smile in thanks when he tucks an extra Mars Bar into your pocket.
You want to stay in, wrap yourself around him, and pretend like you haven’t seen everything you have, but it’s 7:00 am on the west coast, 11:00 am on the east coast, and 10:00 am in New Orleans. 360 starts in eight hours, and you can’t stand the thought of someone standing in for you at a time like this.
Emo!
You did a great job with Andy's feelings. I spent two weeks down in N.O.(I am a medic) and you put into words how I felt at the end of it.
Sorry to go all emo on you but it's your own fault for being so talented.
Re: Emo!
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"It's good to see our total lack of communication can carry over when we're in the same room."
"You know," his voice is very serious, and you start to worry, "if we're going to be in love, we should probably work on this awkward communication thing."
You a great sense of Jon's voice in these lines. Keep up the great work!
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