Untitled Ficlet

Author: linaerys
Characters: Jon Stewart, Anderson Cooper
Rating: PG
Prompt: "Alone at last"
Disclaimer: This is TOTALLY FICTIONAL.
Word Count: 800
A/N: I wrote this for that drabble meme, and it got a little long, so I thought I'd post it over here. Enjoy! X-posted in my LJ.

Jon is nervous, as always, because the interviews with the people he really likes, the ones with those he admires, tend not to live up to his expectations. After seven years he should really be used to it, but he catches himself making the same jokes and forcing the same laughs.

“So, I read your book,” says Jon. Anderson nods and his perfect gray hair nods with him. “Well, actually, I read the excerpt in Vanity Fair, because the book’s not out yet. It comes out June 1, right?”

“That’s right, on shelves, June 1.”

“That was a good picture on the cover. Annie Liebovitz, does good work. You know, I’ve seen women walk by newsstands on the street and they just stop and stare back . . .” Anderson gives him a close-mouthed smile. “I have it pasted up in the corner of my mirror, next to George Clooney.”

“Really?” asks Anderson, dryly.

“No, actually, it’s a picture Lee Raymond, retired Exxon CEO. I love the jowls.”

“I saw the show where you did that bit,” says Anderson.

Jon rubs his eyes and blinks in mock surprise. “You watch us? I don’t even watch this show.”

“Well, I have to get my news from somewhere,” says Anderson, and the audience claps and laughs. “I saw you put me in your clip show earlier this week. The Rumsfeld—“

“Oh, yeah, that’s right, the Rumsfeld ‘heckler,’ I believe the networks were calling him. Including yours.” Anderson nods and Jon is surprised. Usually the interviewees try to avoid the tough questions, like “do your corporate interests force you to kiss the administration’s ass unless the whole country is angry too?” And even then, Jon would bet that Anderson was getting angry calls.

On stage, Brian Williams always gives him smiles dressed up in bespoke suits, and says nothing in pretty words. Corporate interests buy his suits and his hair products. It looks like Anderson wants to be forced into that corner.

“But you’re here to talk about your book,” says Jon. “You know, we wrote a book. Much funnier than yours. Much lower death toll too, you should check it out.”

Anderson sighs like he doesn’t want the free pass Jon handed him, but he takes it anyway, and talks about Katrina victims, and the guy who told Dick Cheney to fuck himself. “Was that staged?” asks Jon.

“Someone was just in the right place at the right time.”

“Well, they were in New Orleans during a hurricane, so maybe not.”

At the end of the interview the audience stands and applauds Anderson, and someone yells out an offer to have his babies. That’s par for the course.

They go back into the green room and Anderson frowns at him.

“Alone at last,” says Jon. He always wants to apologize for interviews afterward, especially ones like this where they're both dancing around what they want to say.

"Did Annie Leibovitz make you take off your underwear when she photographed you for Vanity Fair?" asks Anderson, and he still looks serious.

"No, she shot me in my underwear, as you may recall. Or not."

"Well, it's not like I have that picture taped up on dressing room mirror." Anderson looks chagrined after he says it, like he didn’t mean to be that cruel. "She said it made my pants hang funny.”

Jon laughs at that. People are always trying to make comedians laugh, which used to strike Jon as strange, but he’s seen it so much that it’s not anymore. Jon reaches into the fridge and hands him a beer.

“I saw you at the Oscars,” says Anderson. “You were good.”

Jon asks what he wants to ask. “You still with George?”

“I guess you two talked,” says Anderson without missing a beat.

“Hide in plain sight, he said.”

“Now he’s just hiding.” Anderson peels at the label of his beer. “Actually, I am.”

“He says he wishes you’d stop doing that.”

“Are you playing matchmaker?” asks Anderson. There’s that vaunted ability to cut right to the heart of a story.

“I just like the idea of my two favorite prematurely gray liberal men together,” says Jon.

“I never went out with Bill Clinton.”

Jon laughs again. “Bill was a piece of work,” he says.

“Anyway,” Anderson continues, “you’re some people’s favorite.”

“I’m not prematurely gray, I’m just old,” says Jon. They finish their beers. “You want to go out for a drink?” Jon asks.

Anderson shakes his head. “I have a date,” he says. His smile is sweet and sharp. “But you should come out to our place in the Hamptons next weekend.”

“Our place?”

“It’s in my name.” Anderson puts on his leather jacket, then leans over and gives Jon a peck on the cheek. “He’d like to see you again. We both would.”

End.