Fake News: An Emmy Fic They Could Have Actually Shown On TV
Title: An Emmy Fic They Could Have Actually Shown On TV
Fandom: TDS
Rating: PG? Heavy innuendo.
Disclaimer: Two.

For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.

And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.

Notes: Obligatory post-Emmys Jon/Stephen/Steve fic. An alternate version of the actual on-stage action. Because gratuitous sex is all well and good, but let's not forget the joys of gratuitous touching.



An Emmy Fic They Could Have Actually Shown On TV


"And the waste, Stephen? What of the waste?" demanded Jon.

"Jon," replied Stephen, locking on to his eyes with an intent stare, "have you forgotten about...carbon offsets?"

Jon's arm shot out and grabbed his shoulder.

"Carbon offsets!" he exclaimed. "Tell me more."

"Jon," replied Stephen solemnly, "if you go on the Internet, you can help pay for projects...that scrub pollution out of the atmosphere."

Jon took a step closer, his gaze never wavering. "Go on."

"And that's not all. You could...plant a tree."

Jon took another step. "Yes..."

"Replace your incandescent bulbs—with fluorescent ones," continued Stephen, voice dripping with gravitas. "Instead of a dryer, use a clothesline."

"Oh, that's it, Stephen. Talk clean to me."

"Walk or ride a bicycle, rather than driving."

They were nearly touching now; Jon ran his other hand up Stephen's lapel.

"When you next buy a new car..."

He paused, eliciting a shuddery breath of anticipation from Jon.

"...make it a hybrid."

At that Jon let out a throaty growl, grabbed one of Stephen's lapels in each hand, and dragged him into a passionate kiss: fingers clutching, hips pressing together, Stephen's hand slipping into Jon's suit jacket as his leaf blower banged into the other man's thigh.

When they broke apart, breathing heavily, their eyes immediately locked again. Then Stephen's head whipped around to face the camera. His hair was falling in his face; Jon's hips were still grinding ever so slightly against him.

In perfect deadpan, he said, "And the nominees are..."




Steve waited impatiently at his seat as Stephen pulled the envelope oh-so-slowly out of Jon's jacket. When Ricky's name was called, he was halfway out of his chair already, and seconds later he was charging onto the stage.

"Wow. I mean, wow. This is just incredible," he began. "So many people to thank, let's see..."

He stopped, because Jon's hand had cupped his jaw, and he allowed his head to be turned slowly until he met the shorter man's smouldering gaze.

"Steve," said Jon, in a tone of the greatest solemnity. "At this Office of yours...do you...recycle?"