Fake News: (but he can't hide)
Title: (but he can't hide)
Rating: R
Warnings: BDSM; twisted sexual mores; implied alcoholism; mild blasphemy; three-dimensional characterization.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

This is a remix of Running, by nm_317, which is awesome from the title onward. It's also my first attempt at a remix, so if you don't like this, don't hold it against the original.

"Running" drops some tantalizing hints about character!Stephen's backstory. This goes into it a bit more, starting when he's in his twenties and finishing on the cusp of his presidential bid (i.e., when the original story takes place).

Makes reference to this toss, this Rare Correction, this Wørd, and this Larry King interview (the in-character parts).



(but he can't hide)


If I had to sum up sex in one word, it would be this one: "Sex is power."
--I Am America


The first time it happens is right after he dumps Lisa. (She tells all her friends that she broke up with him. He knows better.)

It isn't that the sex was bad; it's just that she complained so much. "It always has to be about you, doesn't it? What about me? What about my needs?" Blah, blah, blah. What do her needs have to do with anything? He is the man here. That means he has the authority.

Lisa tells horror stories to everyone she knows. Combined with the warnings from Sally and Heather and Janine and Pansy and Sara and Ruth and Clara and Emily and probably a few others that he's forgotten about, it takes its toll.

This isn't good. He needs a girlfriend. Premarital sex is a sin, but it takes the edge off that other, worse hunger, and besides, he cannot possibly be gay if he enjoys sex with women this much.

Or so he tells himself, until Lisa is gone and no other girl will give him the time of day and he cannot stand it.


—


He is not the man in this situation. He does not have the authority. And so he does not protest that the leather of the belt is chafing his wrists, or that his fingers have gone numb.

The flesh is raw for days. Even after the marks have faded, he rubs at them unthinkingly, flushing with shame and anger and desperate arousal.

You'll find the right woman, he tells himself, and you'll marry her, and she will satisfy you. Then you'll never have to do this again.


—


It happens again, and he learns that at least there are gentler restraints than belts. The cloth ties are no less humiliating until they are removed and he is told to be still; he finds that he cannot. Their return is a relief.

He is ordered to be quiet, and he cannot do that either. The gag, when it comes, is an absolute joy.

When the wedding band is slipped on his finger, he recognizes it for what it is, and his heart soars.


—


At home, he has the authority. At work, he does not. Here the show is run by his boss, who reminds him of that fact at every opportunity.

Oh, Stewart pays lip service to the idea that they are equals, but if he had ever bought into that illusion, it is shattered the time he brings in a perfectly good piece and it is cut for no reason other than that it is twelve minutes long. Everything here is controlled by the boss' whim.

He tries not to remember what else that control could be used for. His dreams will not let him forget. By night ropes hold him spread-eagled so that he cannot squirm as he is entered; every detail but one comes directly from memory, as clear as if it were happening all over again.

When he wakes up he has to remind himself that Stewart was not really there. Sometimes the day is half over before he remembers.

You'll get your own show, he insists, and that'll do the trick. Then no one will ever have any kind of power over you again.


—


He mixes things up sometimes.

Like that time he picks all the pineapple out of Stewart's lunch. (It's pineapple. It's delicious. What can you do?) He thinks he has covered his tracks until Stewart discovers the loss and turns to him—

—and then he is in another scene, in another time, the past overlaying itself on his world so that only fragments of the present show through, as [Stewart] looks at him, with rage in his eyes and whiskey on his breath. "No one touches my [fruit salad]," he bellows.

He might as well be little Steve Col-bert all over again. For a moment, he's not quite sure that he isn't.

Just in case, he repeats the mantra he used at the time. You'll turn eighteen, he tells himself, and you'll move out. Then you'll never have to suffer through this again.


—


He gets the show! He thinks he is free. Now he has his own employees, who accept his authority without question, especially Tad and Meg. Then he wins the lottery! A bond is snapped that he didn't realize he had: the need to show respect for the man who until recently signed his paychecks.

The floodgates are open. He cackles, tears up his last check, and tears Sumner Redstone a new one.

The next day it turns out that he did not, in fact, win. He calls Redstone, fully intending to leave an apology on the man's answering machine.

Redstone is in.

Within seconds he has nearly been reduced to tears: yes, Sir, please, Sir, I'm sorry, Sir, I'll do anything . . .

Redstone orders him through the Hokey Pokey. He obeys, one arm awkwardly lifting the telephone cord out of his way as he turns himself about, and thanks Redstone for the punishment. His hand trembles as he replaces the receiver.

That night in his dreams his wrists are bound with phone cord as he is forced to his knees.

He wakes with a sob. It doesn't help that no one is there to witness his humiliation, because that only means his wife has left, again. The empty space in the bed beside him is cold proof that he has no authority here any more. Maybe he never had it in the first place.

He needs to get his hands on some real power. Power that won't slip out of his grasp.


—


"Are you thinking about," intones Larry King, "running for . . ." He jerks his thumb upwards. ". . . the big one?"

Stephen does a double-take. "For—God?" His recovery, though, is quick. "Go down one more notch."

"One notch," echoes King. "President. Thinking about it?"

He won't say so on this program, but Stephen has gone far beyond just "thinking about it." He's even taken a look at the requirements, although there's so much of it and with so much fine print that he hasn't looked for long. He has, however, seen enough to realize that one element is missing from the applications: the job description.

Stephen is not just running for president. He is running for the version of president in which you can tell the Congress and the U.S. Supreme Court to open wide for a Texas teabagging. He's running for President Bush.

When you are President Bush, he tells himself, no one will ever be in a position to tell you to open wide for a teabagging again.

And if this doesn't work, he adds, while under the table he fingers the ring he hasn't yet been able to take off, at least now King has given me a backup plan.


—


He makes a pre-announcement on Jon's show. He isn't going to make the actual announcement there, of course; the program isn't nearly classy enough. But he now understands that Jon is his friend, and you need to do your friends a good turn every once in a while.

He finally announces his intentions on his own show, which should leave him giddy with triumph but instead renders him almost too weak to stand.

He rides around in the rickshaw for a while to calm his nerves. This is what he's doing when Jon appears.

As they head for his office, Stephen grumbles about how he needs to find a mode of transportation that Sam can pull up stairs. Now that he's back on his feet, he can feel the weakness returning. He addresses it directly: You can do it, Col-bert. You're a young, virile, attractive man. Just one more flight.


—


Stephen would swear he can feel each individual nerve as it unravels.

This meeting is a disaster. First, Jon unintentionally ended up at eye level with Stephen's crotch. He took the news that he wasn't going to be on the ticket better than expected, but then he found the dildo in Stephen's bottom drawer, and only some fast talking on Stephen's part explained it away.

And now he's helping Stephen go over the paperwork to file as a candidate; but they're close, Stephen's nose is practically buried in Jon's hair, so close, he can't help but let out a whimper, too close . . . .

And then he is kissing Jon, cannot stop kissing him, any more than he can stop shaking.


—


They're at a hotel. Stephen wouldn't have believed it, but there's no room in his head for disbelief with all the other things going on in there. Like the need to concentrate on keeping a safe distance from Jon, so that no one will suspect what they're doing. Like the fact that Jon wants him.

Jon. Wants him.

And then there's the way Jon insists that he's bisexual, that this is an actual option and not just a cop-out by people who can't pick a side. Which means that maybe there's room for what Stephen feels, the way he definitely loves sleeping with women, but this—this, he needs.

But sex is still sex, which means it's still power, and suddenly it hits Stephen that he cannot bear the thought of Jon giving up power here. That leaves the role to Stephen.

He hasn't gotten away from it after all. Even if his run for President makes it all the way to the White House, it doesn't matter, nothing will ever go far enough to get him away, never, never, never—

"Take your coat off, Stephen."

Stephen hesitates only an instant, then obeys.

Because here is the most stunning thing of all: Jon loves him. He doesn't know what that's going to be like, but it will make a difference. It must make a difference. He has to believe that. He will go crazy otherwise.

Jon reaches for Stephen's tie, sliding it off of his neck. Stephen bites back his scream of despair, falls to his knees, and offers up his wrists.