when the ice is melted away (Conan/Jeff fic)
Title: when the ice is melted away
Rating: PG-13 (although lots of strong language)
Word Count: 1756
Disclaimer: The events in this piece of fiction are, in fact, fictional, and do not in any way reflect real life. I am not, nor do I know, either of the people depicted herein, and I am not profiting from this in any way.
Summary: AU. Conan is not married (but dating someone named Janice…idk). Set during and after the January debacle. Conan/Jeff.
Prompt was Great Lake Swimmers "Moving Pictures Silent Films"
when the ice is melted away
It’s been raining in LA. Maybe it should remind him of-of home, of New York, of…
It just seems like a mockery, now. In New York he was put on a short lease, and then a shorter one, but he worked his way up, and made his show a success, made it his own, and here-here he never escaped the shadow of Leno. Hell, the presence of Leno, still his lead-in, still in front of him at every turn, and-
His hand is unsteady as he pours another glass, the bottle weighing heavily in his hands. It’s hard, going out every night with a smile, forcing his bitterness down until it’s just humor with a bite, until he’s steady out there, until he can do the job he was hired to do for the people who are his fans, no matter what the fucking network execs say, no matter what-what anyone-
He takes another sip, and the amber liquid should burn in his mouth, but he’s had enough that it’s a dull, numb sort of feeling, and he swallows roughly against it, against the ache of what’s missing (his taste, his show, his-)
In front of him is a half-written letter. He’s gone through a lot of pages in the spiral notebook-some he tore out, slopping his drink onto his jeans with his exertions, some he crossed out or ignored as he flipped to another page.
People of Earth,
it starts, and his handwriting has deteriorated into too many loops, and letters connecting where they shouldn’t, but he can still make out the words, still make out the letter that signifies what he knows will be his exit. From NBC, from The Tonight Show, from everything he’s ever worked towards, from everything he ever-
He takes another swallow, feeling the slow burn of it down his throat. Outside, the rain hasn’t let it up.
/
After that last show, and fuck, fuck, last show-
After that last show, they go out for drinks. Will is fucking determined, and Andy keeps buying rounds, and he gets fucking trashed, and at some point he’s got Steve in the corner as he very intensely lists off just how he was fucking fucked by the fucking network execs and everyone else, and Steve just listens, and agrees, and he keeps a firm hand on Conan’s arm when Conan sways a little, and they all just let him have it out, and it helps, it does, it helps, it-
Andy can’t take him home, cuz Andy’s trashed, too, cuz Andy just lost the job he thought was his, thought was secure, and Conan had told him that, hadn’t he? Told him to come back, because it was the fucking Tonight Show, a goddamned legacy, and-and fuck it’s all gone wrong.
They don’t take a cab, because it’s Conan O’Brien and Andy Richter, and having them trashed after their last night is just asking for the fucking vultures to come and snap pics.
Steve takes them home, instead, and Andy lays himself out on the couch as Janice presses too hard, disappoint on her features as she takes him in, stumbling against the wall.
She’s pissed about Andy, which is stupid, since it’s Andy’s wife who introduced them nine months ago, and she’s got no right, no right-
Conan falls asleep in the spare room because Janice kicks him out of the bedroom, no matter she’s only moved in three months ago, no matter he’s had two weeks of hell, no matter that-
(he doesn’t fall asleep crying, he doesn’t curl up into a pillow, he doesn’t pretend that everything could turn out okay when he knows it won’t)
/
FOX is fucking dancing around the topic. Affiliates, they say, it’s the affiliates, otherwise, otherwise we’d jump at the chance, but we have to be careful, we have to, have to-
At home, Conan starts using a punching bag, his chest heaving, his shirt off as he dances backward and forward, rolls his shoulder, as if he can make it okay, as if-
The telephone rings, but when he answers, it’s Janice, wondering when she can come pick up the rest of her stuff. He’s ambivalent about that, just as he was ambivalent about her leaving. He has important things to deal with, right now, he’s got a life to pick up, pieces to try to put back together, even though the picture will have to be different, even though the shards can cut too deep when he holds them.
That night, as he flips around channels, the masochistic part of him letting the news wash over him, he writes and tears up ideas, tries to force his mind to accept that everything’s changed, that everything’s got to be built back up again.
/
Jeff stops by his place without fanfare (or warning).
“We’re-ah-we’re going to dinner,” he says.
Conan’s writers are all in the living room. Bley is in the hallway, ordering food for everyone and pretending not to eavesdrop.
“I-I’ve got a lot of stuff to do, I-” Conan says. They’re planning out a tour, they’re planning something he’s never even considered doing before, and he’s (scared) (terrified) busy.
“Pick him up at seven,” Bley says, hand over the receiver. Conan turns and glares at him, and Bley rolls his eyes before holding up a finger. “Yes, hi, I’d like three large pizzas, and…”
Bley keeps talking as Conan turns back to Jeff.
“I-” is all Conan gets out before Jeff cuts him off.
“Dress casual,” he says. “We’re not going anywhere fancy.” And then he’s out the door.
Conan blinks at the shut door and then back at Bley, who’s finishing up the order.
“Can I get some respect?” Conan snaps, and Bley is grinning until he sombers up a little at the phrasing.
“Take a break,” he says. “You deserve it.”
/
On the beach, at night, the stars are spread out above them. Jeff’s brought a blanket and some secret culinary delight he made himself, and to be honest Conan’s not too surprised that Jeff can cook.
It’s not a private beach, but it’s some tucked away spot four hundred or so steps down from the cliff, hidden from the road and the main beach and the world so it’s just the two of them and the waves and the sand.
“I haven’t really been to the beach,” Conan muses. Jeff glances up at him, a grin tugging at his lips.
“I know,” he says. Which is ridiculous, that he knows, since Conan’s been in LA for long enough that he should’ve made it to the beach, should’ve-
Should’ve done a lot.
“It’s gorgeous,” he says. And it is-the way the waves crash in on themselves, the way they reflect moonlight and starlight, the way the world seems tucked away out here. The temperature’s dropped a little, but it’s southern California, so it’s nothing compared to New York.
“You work too hard,” Jeff says.
Conan laughs a little, but when he meets Jeff’s eyes he realizes Jeff isn’t joking.
“I-”
“You do,” Jeff says.
/
Jeff comes more and more often, despite the way they’re trying to put the show together, despite the way negotiations with FOX are falling apart and the way stories circle endlessly in the news about what Conan’s going to do next, and it’s like he doesn’t understand that Conan’s busy, that he needs to stay home, needs to sort things out, needs-
Jeff takes him out for hikes, and takes him to a lake where the water sits calmly like glass, and takes him to a cabin and takes him for a drive, and a ride, and-
And Conan feels himself uncoil. Feels himself breathe. Feels himself sink into grass, or the saddle, or feel the bark against his back, and feels himself…be.
“You’ll sort it out,” Jeff says, voice low, and Conan…
Conan believes him.
/
Two days before they leave for the tour, Jeff takes him home with him, and they curl up on the couch and watch The Big Sleep. Their long limbs are stretched out, and they’ve finished their wine ages ago, and Jeff falls asleep towards the end. Conan stays for a while after the movie ends, listening to the sound of Jeff’s breathing.
Finally he wakes him up and says goodbye.
“Good luck,” Jeff says, smiling up at him in the blue light from the TV, and Conan smiles back, feeling something warm and comforting pool in his stomach.
“Thanks,” he says.
When he leaves, he leans against his car door for a minute before getting in, feeling how calm he is, how right he feels in this moment.
/
They text and call back and forth almost daily while Conan’s on tour. Conan shares anecdotes from the road, and Jeff has cooking mishaps and is taking woodcarving lessons.
The days and nights are full of stress and adrenaline, and despite the way his fans scream and profess their love, despite the way they react to the show, the way they stalk him any way they can, despite the guests that come and the critics that love him and the fact that he has a show, now, thanks to TBS…
When he gets a text, or hears Jeff’s voice on the line, he feels himself uncoil, feels himself breathe, feels himself…home.
/
The day that Conan gets back to LA after the tour is over, he drives over to Jeff’s house and knocks on the door.
“Hey,” he says when Jeff answers. “I’m taking you to dinner tonight.”
“Are you?” Jeff asks, amused, and Conan nods.
“I am,” he says. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Dress casual.”
“I-ah-see someone’s gotten bossy,” Jeff laughs, but he agrees.
/
On the beach, at night, under the stars, they eat the pasta Conan picked up to-go, since he doesn’t cook, and curl up on the blanket he’d almost forgotten.
“Thank you,” Conan says, and he’s sincere about it, so Jeff just smiles, rests a hand on his arm and squeezes.
“I missed you,” Jeff says, as if admitting a secret, his eyes twinkling a little, but his mouth firm enough to be telling the truth.
Conan leans in and kisses him, unsure at first, but when Jeff kisses him back, nearly knocking pasta everywhere, Conan grins into his mouth.
He pulls back just enough to meet Jeff’s eyes. “I missed you, too,” he says, and then kisses him again, lips soft against lips, and he feels…home, feels safe, feels like everything’s going to be okay.
“Don’t think so much,” Jeff murmurs against his lips, and Conan laughs and kisses him harder.
...Finis...
Rating: PG-13 (although lots of strong language)
Word Count: 1756
Disclaimer: The events in this piece of fiction are, in fact, fictional, and do not in any way reflect real life. I am not, nor do I know, either of the people depicted herein, and I am not profiting from this in any way.
Summary: AU. Conan is not married (but dating someone named Janice…idk). Set during and after the January debacle. Conan/Jeff.
Prompt was Great Lake Swimmers "Moving Pictures Silent Films"
when the ice is melted away
It’s been raining in LA. Maybe it should remind him of-of home, of New York, of…
It just seems like a mockery, now. In New York he was put on a short lease, and then a shorter one, but he worked his way up, and made his show a success, made it his own, and here-here he never escaped the shadow of Leno. Hell, the presence of Leno, still his lead-in, still in front of him at every turn, and-
His hand is unsteady as he pours another glass, the bottle weighing heavily in his hands. It’s hard, going out every night with a smile, forcing his bitterness down until it’s just humor with a bite, until he’s steady out there, until he can do the job he was hired to do for the people who are his fans, no matter what the fucking network execs say, no matter what-what anyone-
He takes another sip, and the amber liquid should burn in his mouth, but he’s had enough that it’s a dull, numb sort of feeling, and he swallows roughly against it, against the ache of what’s missing (his taste, his show, his-)
In front of him is a half-written letter. He’s gone through a lot of pages in the spiral notebook-some he tore out, slopping his drink onto his jeans with his exertions, some he crossed out or ignored as he flipped to another page.
People of Earth,
it starts, and his handwriting has deteriorated into too many loops, and letters connecting where they shouldn’t, but he can still make out the words, still make out the letter that signifies what he knows will be his exit. From NBC, from The Tonight Show, from everything he’s ever worked towards, from everything he ever-
He takes another swallow, feeling the slow burn of it down his throat. Outside, the rain hasn’t let it up.
/
After that last show, and fuck, fuck, last show-
After that last show, they go out for drinks. Will is fucking determined, and Andy keeps buying rounds, and he gets fucking trashed, and at some point he’s got Steve in the corner as he very intensely lists off just how he was fucking fucked by the fucking network execs and everyone else, and Steve just listens, and agrees, and he keeps a firm hand on Conan’s arm when Conan sways a little, and they all just let him have it out, and it helps, it does, it helps, it-
Andy can’t take him home, cuz Andy’s trashed, too, cuz Andy just lost the job he thought was his, thought was secure, and Conan had told him that, hadn’t he? Told him to come back, because it was the fucking Tonight Show, a goddamned legacy, and-and fuck it’s all gone wrong.
They don’t take a cab, because it’s Conan O’Brien and Andy Richter, and having them trashed after their last night is just asking for the fucking vultures to come and snap pics.
Steve takes them home, instead, and Andy lays himself out on the couch as Janice presses too hard, disappoint on her features as she takes him in, stumbling against the wall.
She’s pissed about Andy, which is stupid, since it’s Andy’s wife who introduced them nine months ago, and she’s got no right, no right-
Conan falls asleep in the spare room because Janice kicks him out of the bedroom, no matter she’s only moved in three months ago, no matter he’s had two weeks of hell, no matter that-
(he doesn’t fall asleep crying, he doesn’t curl up into a pillow, he doesn’t pretend that everything could turn out okay when he knows it won’t)
/
FOX is fucking dancing around the topic. Affiliates, they say, it’s the affiliates, otherwise, otherwise we’d jump at the chance, but we have to be careful, we have to, have to-
At home, Conan starts using a punching bag, his chest heaving, his shirt off as he dances backward and forward, rolls his shoulder, as if he can make it okay, as if-
The telephone rings, but when he answers, it’s Janice, wondering when she can come pick up the rest of her stuff. He’s ambivalent about that, just as he was ambivalent about her leaving. He has important things to deal with, right now, he’s got a life to pick up, pieces to try to put back together, even though the picture will have to be different, even though the shards can cut too deep when he holds them.
That night, as he flips around channels, the masochistic part of him letting the news wash over him, he writes and tears up ideas, tries to force his mind to accept that everything’s changed, that everything’s got to be built back up again.
/
Jeff stops by his place without fanfare (or warning).
“We’re-ah-we’re going to dinner,” he says.
Conan’s writers are all in the living room. Bley is in the hallway, ordering food for everyone and pretending not to eavesdrop.
“I-I’ve got a lot of stuff to do, I-” Conan says. They’re planning out a tour, they’re planning something he’s never even considered doing before, and he’s (scared) (terrified) busy.
“Pick him up at seven,” Bley says, hand over the receiver. Conan turns and glares at him, and Bley rolls his eyes before holding up a finger. “Yes, hi, I’d like three large pizzas, and…”
Bley keeps talking as Conan turns back to Jeff.
“I-” is all Conan gets out before Jeff cuts him off.
“Dress casual,” he says. “We’re not going anywhere fancy.” And then he’s out the door.
Conan blinks at the shut door and then back at Bley, who’s finishing up the order.
“Can I get some respect?” Conan snaps, and Bley is grinning until he sombers up a little at the phrasing.
“Take a break,” he says. “You deserve it.”
/
On the beach, at night, the stars are spread out above them. Jeff’s brought a blanket and some secret culinary delight he made himself, and to be honest Conan’s not too surprised that Jeff can cook.
It’s not a private beach, but it’s some tucked away spot four hundred or so steps down from the cliff, hidden from the road and the main beach and the world so it’s just the two of them and the waves and the sand.
“I haven’t really been to the beach,” Conan muses. Jeff glances up at him, a grin tugging at his lips.
“I know,” he says. Which is ridiculous, that he knows, since Conan’s been in LA for long enough that he should’ve made it to the beach, should’ve-
Should’ve done a lot.
“It’s gorgeous,” he says. And it is-the way the waves crash in on themselves, the way they reflect moonlight and starlight, the way the world seems tucked away out here. The temperature’s dropped a little, but it’s southern California, so it’s nothing compared to New York.
“You work too hard,” Jeff says.
Conan laughs a little, but when he meets Jeff’s eyes he realizes Jeff isn’t joking.
“I-”
“You do,” Jeff says.
/
Jeff comes more and more often, despite the way they’re trying to put the show together, despite the way negotiations with FOX are falling apart and the way stories circle endlessly in the news about what Conan’s going to do next, and it’s like he doesn’t understand that Conan’s busy, that he needs to stay home, needs to sort things out, needs-
Jeff takes him out for hikes, and takes him to a lake where the water sits calmly like glass, and takes him to a cabin and takes him for a drive, and a ride, and-
And Conan feels himself uncoil. Feels himself breathe. Feels himself sink into grass, or the saddle, or feel the bark against his back, and feels himself…be.
“You’ll sort it out,” Jeff says, voice low, and Conan…
Conan believes him.
/
Two days before they leave for the tour, Jeff takes him home with him, and they curl up on the couch and watch The Big Sleep. Their long limbs are stretched out, and they’ve finished their wine ages ago, and Jeff falls asleep towards the end. Conan stays for a while after the movie ends, listening to the sound of Jeff’s breathing.
Finally he wakes him up and says goodbye.
“Good luck,” Jeff says, smiling up at him in the blue light from the TV, and Conan smiles back, feeling something warm and comforting pool in his stomach.
“Thanks,” he says.
When he leaves, he leans against his car door for a minute before getting in, feeling how calm he is, how right he feels in this moment.
/
They text and call back and forth almost daily while Conan’s on tour. Conan shares anecdotes from the road, and Jeff has cooking mishaps and is taking woodcarving lessons.
The days and nights are full of stress and adrenaline, and despite the way his fans scream and profess their love, despite the way they react to the show, the way they stalk him any way they can, despite the guests that come and the critics that love him and the fact that he has a show, now, thanks to TBS…
When he gets a text, or hears Jeff’s voice on the line, he feels himself uncoil, feels himself breathe, feels himself…home.
/
The day that Conan gets back to LA after the tour is over, he drives over to Jeff’s house and knocks on the door.
“Hey,” he says when Jeff answers. “I’m taking you to dinner tonight.”
“Are you?” Jeff asks, amused, and Conan nods.
“I am,” he says. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Dress casual.”
“I-ah-see someone’s gotten bossy,” Jeff laughs, but he agrees.
/
On the beach, at night, under the stars, they eat the pasta Conan picked up to-go, since he doesn’t cook, and curl up on the blanket he’d almost forgotten.
“Thank you,” Conan says, and he’s sincere about it, so Jeff just smiles, rests a hand on his arm and squeezes.
“I missed you,” Jeff says, as if admitting a secret, his eyes twinkling a little, but his mouth firm enough to be telling the truth.
Conan leans in and kisses him, unsure at first, but when Jeff kisses him back, nearly knocking pasta everywhere, Conan grins into his mouth.
He pulls back just enough to meet Jeff’s eyes. “I missed you, too,” he says, and then kisses him again, lips soft against lips, and he feels…home, feels safe, feels like everything’s going to be okay.
“Don’t think so much,” Jeff murmurs against his lips, and Conan laughs and kisses him harder.
...Finis...