Future Fic

My very first RPS or RPF, please be gentle!

Author's Name: linaerys
Rating: PG, except for some swearing, kind of pre-slash rather than actual slash
Summary: Future fic AU . . . the show is in trouble


“I didn’t get the memo,” Jon said dryly. “They’re shutting us down? Like some terrorist cell in San Francisco?”

“No more political jokes, that’s all,” said Annie, secretary of, and mistress to the station manager. She looked apologetic and twisted her brand new diamond bracelet absently around her wrist.

“So you can’t buy us any leeway by sleeping with the boss?” Stephen asked. “What good is it then?” Annie glared at him and walked out.

“At least we’re dark this week,” said one of the writers. “We have time to come up with something new. A new direction.” His voice sounded bleak, and he looked around the room waiting for the next person to speak. Jon sighed. It was probably his job to buck everyone up, to make a quick quip that would keep everyone going. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen this coming, not after the Dixie Chicks debacle, but it sucked to be right, and to be one of the first targeted. He thought at least Susan Sarandon would go down first.

“We always said we wanted to do more Cher and Dennis Rodman jokes, right?” Jon asked. Stephen smiled at that but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Fuck it, I want to see a draft of next Monday’s show tomorrow morning. Just something rough. Annie has a copy of the new guidelines. Stay within them and see what you can do. But if we have to stop using bleepable words, I’m outta here.” The team smiled at that, kind of a desperate smile, but at least he’d convinced them he’d roll with it.

Back in his dressing room he wasn’t so sure. He stood in front of his closet and thought about changing into workout clothes and going to the gym as he did most days at lunchtime. “Fuck it,” he said again, out loud, and to no one. His wife wouldn’t want to see him home at this time of day and not in the state he was likely to be in by the time he got there.

It was hard to understand sometimes how anyone stayed married to a comedian. All that humor came from a well of pain, resentment and poor self-worth, and it came out with a nasty edge all too often. No wonder most of the guys had been divorced at least once. Jon turned to go out the door, planning to find the nearest bar, when he heard a knock.

It was Stephen, of course. Jon opened the door, and saw him standing there in khakis and a white button down shirt—his off duty uniform, as he sometimes liked to call it. Jon had spent some time hating Stephen when he’d started, thinking him taller, better looking, funnier, and possibly angling for Jon’s job, but he knew better now.

“What do you want, Stephen?” Jon asked. He left the door open and started rummaging through his closet, not really looking for anything, just appearing to be busy doing something other than swearing at his clothes. Stephen stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

“I just want to make sure you’re not going to do anything too stupid, “ he said.

“Stupid? Me?” Jon asked with mock innocence. “I thought I’d get drunk then wander up and down the Hudson until it wears off. Not planning on throwing myself in. Scout’s honor.” Jon held up his hand, and Stephen smirked.

“That’s ‘live long and prosper’, dork.” Stephen pushed Jon’s fingers together. “That’s ‘scout’s honor’.” Jon gave him a look for a moment.

“Thanks,” he said sardonically. “New York Jews and boy scouts don’t really 'mesh' well.” Jon shoved a shirt into his bag.

“Speaking of boy scouts,” said Stephen in his fake news voice, “did you know it’s been a year to the day since the gay marriage amendment?”

“Oh yes,” said Jon, “ ‘Now straight marriages are free from the scourge of man-on-man action, and are threatened only by divorce, infidelity and death—the exact same things they were threatened by before.’ It wasn’t funny a year ago, and it’s not that funny now.” Jon lapsed into silence. For once the Democrat’s had cried “state’s rights”, but they’d been shouted down. After all, states rights was the rallying cry of the legislatively impotent. He looked at Stephen who was wearing his concerned fake news face: his your-entire-family-was-crushed-under-a-pile-of-rubble-how-do-you-feel face. Except Jon had the disconcerting feeling it was real this time.

“Stephen, are you here to babysit me?” Jon asked with a grin. “I mean, that’s very sweet. . . but, you know, I’m a big boy.”

“I was going to keep you company, yes,” said Stephen, nonplussed. “Unless you want me to leave.” Jon opened his mouth to say he could handle it, that he’d gotten a lot of bad news in the past two years, that he could handle this gem with a little booze, a little sex, and a lot of sleep.

“Come drink with me if you want,” he said instead.

Bars at noon near the studio were filled with the yuppie lunch crowd, or were not yet open, depending on how the décor could stand up to the scrutiny of sober patrons in broad daylight. The day was cool and clear, with high fluffy clouds passing quickly overhead. Jon didn’t mention how much he hated these clear fall days in Manhattan because everyone did. Everyone hoped for rain from September until the first snow so they wouldn’t have to remember.

November 2004 had been beautiful too.

They got a bottle of wine and meandered west toward the Hudson River. Jon had wanted something stronger, but wiser (and taller) heads prevailed. If Jon still wanted more when they finished the wine, Stephen said, he would go get it. Jon didn’t tell Stephen about the flask in his coat pocket. Not yet, anyway. They settled on the grass in one of the small riverside parks.

“I don’t know if I can go back to cheap celebrity jokes again,” Jon said.

“You’ll miss scaring the real news shows so much?” Stephen asked.

That was true, but Jon said instead, “Nah, I just don’t think the celebrity gags are as funny.” Stephen didn’t say anything. “You really think they’ll do it?” Stephen raised an eyebrow. He did that very skillfully, and Jon was jealous for a moment.

“Do I really think the government can put enough pressure on the network to close down the show? Of course. Don’t know why it’s not a first amendment violation, except that the network will say it’s just good business,” said Stephen. Jon lay back in the grass on this unseasonably warm day, feeling the buzz of the alcohol making his head spin a little. Then he leaned up on one elbow.

“Don’t ask me to decide today, Stephen,” he said. Stephen patted his shoulder.

“I know,” he said. “I can’t speak for everyone, but I’ll stand by what ever you decide.” They watched the afternoon sun paint the water gold.

To be continued . . .