drank champagne that tasted like cherry-cola (nakannalee) wrote in stephen_paul,
drank champagne that tasted like cherry-cola
nakannalee
stephen_paul

Stephen/Tad fic

 Hey guys!  Just wanted to share a fic... and squee about the adorableness of Stephen/Paul and Stephen/Tad and Chuck/Geoffrey.  <3  Hope you find something to enjoy!


Title:  The Adventures of the Top Secret Attorney General (1/?)

Author:  Nakanna Lee

Pairing:  Stephen/Tad, hints of Stephen/Jon

Rating:  PG-13 (for now)

Warnings:  Violence

Summary:  Set in the AU Universe of Creating Mike Huckabee Creating Mike Huckabee.  Character!Stephen works to work less, bosses around his newest employee who he is most definitely not sleeping with, and finds his liberal friend Jon Stewart has an unexpected surprise for him.

A/N:  Thanks for reading my first post, everyone.  Hopefully this story can follow it up just as well.  Any concrit is greatly appreciated.

Word count:  1,700

Disclaimer:  Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual persons is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

 

Any mention of 'The Daily Show', 'The Colbert Report', 'Viacom', any associated entites, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976 and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material.

 

 

Heroes, I have some tragic news.

You’ll understand I didn’t want to tell you earlier, because your little hearts were not yet prepared to handle such a devastating blow.  You were young and supple, virginally wide-eyed gazing upon the glory of my truthiness.  But over the months I think we’ve developed a strong enough relationship now that you’ll be able to take up my trials and tribulations with me.  So here it goes:

HEROES, WORDS DO NOT MANIFEST THEMSELVES JUST BECAUSE I THINK THEM.

There.  Cat’s out of the bag.  Spitting up the matted hairballs of hard, cold truth.

But to you, Nation, I say this:  Do not be afraid!, for I have rectified this shortcoming in the workings of the universe by employing a personal secretary, Tad Geoffries, or, as I fondly call him, ‘Hey numbskull, write faster!’

Let me tell you, it makes the thinking go much easier.  I can talk louder, too.

In fact Tad is writing this as I speak, and in a few short hours you’ll be able to gather your traditional non-civil-union-y family around the hearth and sip hot cocoa with mint leaves as you read the comfort of my words.  Are you reading it aloud?  Try it.  Now, doesn’t that sound even nicer when it’s not just cooped up in your head?

Which brings me back to Tad.  Tad makes sure things don’t just stay up in my head.  He writes them down for progeny’s sake.  And I have given this otherwise hapless, illiterate thug of a man a purpose in his life.  Which is to ensure the purpose of my words.

Hey Tad, I’m not paying you to edit.

Our fine President Huckabee has embraced my initiative.  Just yesterday before morning prayer he stopped by to see Tad in action.  Unfortunately Tad was on his coffee break, another requirement of the job: He sprints through Washington, D.C. hurtling hobos to check that each and every Starbucks in the capitol doesn’t close again without telling me, goddammit.

Tad the Secretary is the best thing that could have ever happened to himself.  I thank myself daily for me.

He was such a good idea, in fact, that that same morning I introduced the concept to Jon Stewart, a good friend via near-death experience.  I offered him a tray of bagels as we watched Tad write whatever I shouted at him.  It was a thing of beauty.  Best idea I ever had.

Jon then reminded me that even the guy who invented the ski mask had nothing but good intentions.

 

 

* * *

 

Stephen Colbert straightened the gold plaque shimmering at the head of his desk:  TOP SECRET ATTORNEY GENERAL OF THE PROTECTION OF KNOWLEDGE AGAINST BOOKS.  It was a mouthful in size three font.  People had to press their noses up against it to make out what it said, and then Tad had to be called to polish the plaque clean again.

Such were the times in the President’s personal Cabinet.

President Huckabee departed earlier that morning bound for the Texas-Mexico border, where the beginnings of The Great American Windmills were slated to begin.  The country had been instructed to ship all its illegal employees down as Step One in their earning a path to citizenship.  Liberals thus got alternative power, and conservatives got a new way to send a capped number of illegal immigrants per day back into their country:  strike up the windmills full-blast and airmail them.  It was a win-win for everyone.  Much better than a simple giant wall.  In the cabinet, Stephen had okay’d some of the windmill blueprints.

It wasn’t often he dealt with foreigner affairs in domestic policy.  That was too specific.  His primary responsibility lay in keeping mankind safe from the bloodthirsty assault of books.  Two months into Huckabee’s term, Stephen had already made it through half the Library of Congress, deciding which documents were more conducive to bonfires, barbeques, or smoke signals.

Tad kept a running list of each purged book.  Title, method, time of death.

“…and last for today, An Inconvenient Truth,” Stephen announced, hands folded behind his back.  He paced the room in front of Tad’s desk.  “Taken outside and sprayed with eleven cans of aerosol, then set aflame by harnessing the sun’s light with a magnifying glass.  Nine-thirty-seven a.m., 2009 in the year of our Lord this sixth of April.”

Tad dunked his feather pen into the ink well and dotted the remaining i’s.  Stephen suggested he use that particular writing utensil because it looked patriotic.

“Well, Tad,” Stephen said as his secretary closed up the records, “what’s my schedule look like for the rest of today?”

Tad quickly reopened the book and flipped to the back calendar.  He repositioned his thick black frames.

“Sir, at noon you’re slated to meet with your masseuse to discuss the state of your muscle tightness and what the country can do to help.”

“Right, right, and after that?”

“After that, Attorney General, sir, you stop for a late lunch with a guest of your choosing who will pay for the meal.  It looks like you’ve indicated Jon Stewart as the lucky companion.  At three you meet with the Press to tell them they’re ruining America.”

Tad paused and Stephen stopped pacing.  “My day is crammed already.” He snapped his fingers in the air.  “Hold on, what’s happening for dinner tonight?”

“Dinner…” Tad smiled and rechecked the scheduled slots.  “Tonight you have down dinner with me.”

“Oh I knew I forgot something,” Stephen said.  Tad smiled at him.  “Remind me to cancel that.”

Tad’s face fell.  “What?”

“Quick line through that will do it.  Thanks, Tad.”

“But you cancelled last Wednesday!”

“Did you expect me not to show up for my portrait painting just so I could eat bad diner food with you?”

Tad frowned and brushed the feather of his pen against his chin.

“By the way,” Stephen said, “did you get my pants cleaned yet?”

“The dry cleaner’s said chocolate syrup wasn’t going to come out.”

Stephen wheeled around.  “What?  Those were my favorite pair!”

“Told you we should’ve used whipped cream,” Tad said.

“When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it and ignore you.”

A rap on the door interrupted, and in bustled a dour looking Secretary of Insecurity.  Huckabee had appointed him shortly after Stephen, maintaining that Stephen misunderstood his own opinions more clearly when faced with someone of a differing attitude.

The Secretary of Insecurity’s job was to keep Stephen confident that the only thing trustworthy in the face of fanatical facts was, quite simply, his Gut.

“Secretary Carell,” Stephen greeted him with a wary eyebrow raise.  “I didn’t know you were stopping by this morning.”

Tad checked the schedule and confirmed Stephen’s correctness.

“A Mr. Jon Stewart has arrived for his lunchdate,” Secretary Carell said, more nasally than usual.  “But I told him your masseuse was waiting first, so I sent him away.”

“What?  Who told you to do that?”

“Well, your schedule, toadface.”

“Ad hominem attacks are so below us, Secretary.  Since you’re a foolish twatbrain I forgive you.”

“Back to my point, Mr. Attorney General, if you don’t follow a schedule, all hell breaks loose and masseuses stop putting slipped discs back in place.”

“The only discs concerned with slippage should be your own, Secretary Carell, if you continue to try and keep my schedule on time for me.  It’s my responsibility to fall behind!  Now, go send away the masseuse and bring Jon back here.”

Secretary Carell nodded, spun on his heels and exited.

Stephen straightened his tie.

“How do I look, Tad?”

If Stephen didn’t know any better, Tad was gazing at him.

“Smug and professional, sir.”

“Good, make a note of it.”

“I could come along and take notes of the lunch conversation,” Tad offered.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I know you wouldn’t want to embarrass me.  Stay here and practice penmanship.  I want your written words to look as elegant as my voice sounds.” Stephen buttoned up his cuff sleeves.  “I’ll be back within two hours to recount my time with Mr. Stewart.  Save someone’s life, they’ll buy you meals forever.” Stephen paused fondly, gazing out as the spring sunlight fell through the window and onto his face.  “If cops eat free, this country should treat me to the buffet table.”

Stephen Colbert left the room in what can only be described as a radiant flurry of grandeur, because that’s exactly how he himself wanted it to be described.

Out in the lobby stood Jon Stewart.  His shirt was colorless and he had his hands stuck in his jeans pockets.  Beside him was the angriest looking man Stephen had ever seen.

“Stephen,” Jon called as he approached.  “Unfortunately there’s been a change of plans.”

He shook his head and smiled.  “What?”

“Fuck,” the angry man said, “this ass-fuck-hole doesn’t even know what the fuck has been going on.”

Stephen laughed.  He almost felt sorry for him.  “What?”

The thud that came from behind sounded too close.  In back of him he caught a flash of red.  The very beginning pangs of a headache sparkled against his eyes before blackness settled in.

 

* * *

 

He’d never noticed the utility smell the trunk of a car had until his nose was pressed neatly up against it.  Something like metal and vacuum cleaners.  Even the dark had a certain smell, and it certainly wasn’t one of warm apple pie and the nice, broken-in leather of a baseball mitt.

It smelled like cigarettes and ass, to be blunt.

He made a mental note to put Jon Stewart and his fuming henchman on the On-Notice Board the second he managed to untie his arms and legs and pop open the trunk.  On second thought, he figured he should add the Secretary of Insecurity, who had convinced him that he should be convinced that he should go to lunch with Jon Stewart first.  If Secretary Carell had just done what he was not supposed to not do, Stephen could be nude lying flat on his stomach getting his spine realigned and telling Tad to stop taking such detailed notes.

Tad.  Never there when needed, like now.

The car suddenly came to a halt, and Stephen listened intently as he heard a series of doors shut and feet approach the trunk.

 

 

tbc

 

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