Waiting For Our Real Lives To Begin
Response to the crossover meme, for indyhat. For some reason, it ended up going way past a simple dialogue and turned into a weird quasi-fic. *sigh*
Title: Waiting For Our Real Lives to Begin
Fandom: The Daily Show and The West Wing
Summary: Jon Stewart and Toby Ziegler meet in a bar. Moping ensues.
Rating: PG13-ish, because Jon has a dirty, dirty mouth.
A/N: This takes place around 1995, so it's actually before both TWW and Jon's role on TDS, but they're both in it, so it counts. Right? Right. Inspired in part by this video.
“Hey, man, can I sit here?” he gave the man who, most likely due to the dearth of friendly faces in the crowed, looked awfully familiar, his most charming smile.
Received a half-hearted glare in return, and a cloud of cigar smoke he easily brushed away.
“Just that,” he settled onto the bar stool beside him, leaned in conspiratorially. “Between you and me, we’re each other’s best chance of survival, you know, in the worst case scenario.”
“What?” the man growled at the slick surface of the bar.
“Well, both of us being of the more, let’s say, Semitic persuasion, if it comes down to it, I can hold them off,” he waved a careful hand at the mass of Midwestern diversity around them, “With a lame joke or two, and you can, you know, glower at them for a bit, and then we run.”
The man did in fact glower, took another sip of his drink, and grunted.
“See, that’s the spirit! Just do that, and they’ll be terrified,” he grinned, taking a sip from his beer.
“What makes you think,” clipped, edged words that sounded like he’d expected God to sound, sarcastic and sure, “I’m of the Semitic persuasion?”
“Dude, come on,” he snorted in response. “We’re both a yarmulke and some peyes away from an anti-defamation PSA.”
“Dude?” The man growled, voice low, but picking up, “What are you, a sixteen year old disaffected slacker?”
“Hey, relax, okay? You’re the only guy here that looks like he’s had a shittier week than I have, so, you know, quit making me feel bad,” he grinned again, took a swig of his beer. “I’d rather not be the biggest loser in this place.”
“Leibowitz,” he said, after a moment, wiping a leather sleeve over his mouth.
“What?”
“Jonathan Stewart. Leibowitz, if we’re being honest. Thirty-three year old disaffected slacker, at your service.”
The man glared at him again, before turning back to inform his glass that he was, “Toby Ziegler, professional political operative.”
“No way,” he could feel his grin widen, “Dude, I know you!”
Toby looked at him, questioningly, blinked a couple of times. “You one of Miriam’s kids?”
“What? No, man, my roommate in college, he worked for you. Tony-Anthony Weiner? Uh, Richards’ campaign? New York’s 30th?”
“I don’t think I-“
“Yeah, he’s like that, kinda gets lost in the shuffle but man, I remember you. You’re a speech writer, right?”
“Wait, you…you actually remember John Richards? We lost. In the primary. That was what, two years ago? You-“
“Mr. Ziegler,” he looked at him with as much seriousness as he could muster, “Trust me. If it’s in anyway completely, utterly, totally useless information, I’ll remember it forever.”
The man gave a surprised chuckle, and shook his head.
“So what’re you doing out here in Bumfuck, Minnesota?” Jon grinned, trying to take another sip of his beer only to realize the bottle was empty. Waved at the tall, slim bartender, pointed at his bottle, and gave a winning smile that only managed to win him an especially Nordic glare.
Turned back to Toby, whose glare was at least the kind he saw every Thanksgiving, if he was lucky.
“Losing another race, actually,” Toby grimaced, then shrugged.
“Oh yeah?” he said. “That sucks, man, I’m sorry. Did you…did you like the guy?”
“He was an honest man,” Toby said precisely, shaking his head. “Who wanted to make a difference.”
“You make it sound like died or something,” Jon started to laugh, before being cut-off by the look in Toby’s eye.
“He’s a sixty-five year old Methodist English teacher who just wanted to make sure his grandkids would be able to get the healthcare they needed. And he’s going to lose. Because he wouldn’t stick to the party line on abortion, and because the incumbent is a name to be used on DNC brochures about the crazy, head-up-their-asses Republicans, rake in a couple of thousand dollars.” Toby stopped, looked around him, at the twenty or so blue eyes blinking worriedly at him, and sighed. Finished in an exhausted hiss. “And they value that over…an honest man. Who wanted to make a difference.”
Jon frowned, and patted him on the shoulder.
“Man, that’s…that’s tough. I…I don’t know how you do it, you know. I mean, I tried to do the… the activist thing, you know? Remember Rodney King? I was, like, out on the streets, man. ‘Fuck the police, fuck the police,’ you know? We were all so mad, right? It was an injustice. And we were out in the streets, and it started getting dark, and this was New York, right? So we start hearing gun shots, and suddenly we’re all like…‘Where the fuck is the police’?”
He laughed, uncomfortably, as he glanced over at Toby again. “I don’t,” he started, serious again. “I try and keep up with all that stuff, you know? But it’s so…Here’s the thing with politics, dude, and you can correct me if I’m wrong, and no offense to what you do, but from the purely 33 year old disaffected not quite youth: it’s like…” he could feel himself getting jittery, and stuttering a bit more than was coherent. Took a breath, and started again. “Okay, it’s like soccer. So politicians, they make all theses rules and argue about things you don’t understand, and you sit there, and you’re kind of amused, and yeah, maybe there’s some beauty in that, but most of the time, I’m just thinking, you know, pick up the ball already, right? And you know, I like soccer, too, but…come on.”
“Yeah,” Toby smiled, grim, at him. “Yeah, it’s like that.”
“”So you wanna hear what I’m doing out here?” he said, grinning. “I bet you don’t, actually, but I’m going to tell you anyway. I’m laid-over. Had to take the cheapest flight to LA, looking for work, having been fired for the sixth time in my life. And here I am.”
“Six jobs?”
“Every single one I’ve had, young man. The latest…the latest was my own show. We were on the air for, like, two months.”
“Really?” Toby laughed.
And Jon nodded, glad to have brought some amusement to the guy with the fact, depressing as it may have been to him.
“I haven’t won a race yet,” the man answered, shaking his head, still laughing. “Not one. At all. In twenty years.”
“You’re…” Jon stopped, couldn’t help giggle, “Oh, man, I knew you were the guy to hang out with. Now I don’t feel nearly as shitty.”
Toby chuckled, slapped him across the back, hard enough to make Jon nearly fall off his stool.
“Look, man. Toby. Mr. Ziegler,” he said, pulling himself back up. “It can only get better for us, right?”
“God, I hope so.”
“Here’s to,” he realized the icy Viking princess had finally gotten around to replacing his Budweiser, and tipped it in the other man’s direction. “Here’s to our ships coming in, Mr. Ziegler. One of these days, we’ll get it right.”
“Here’s to that,” Toby smiled at him, and it was barely a glare at all, even if he still had that Voice of A Righteous God thing going, “To ‘getting it right’.”
*
Title: Waiting For Our Real Lives to Begin
Fandom: The Daily Show and The West Wing
Summary: Jon Stewart and Toby Ziegler meet in a bar. Moping ensues.
Rating: PG13-ish, because Jon has a dirty, dirty mouth.
A/N: This takes place around 1995, so it's actually before both TWW and Jon's role on TDS, but they're both in it, so it counts. Right? Right. Inspired in part by this video.
“Hey, man, can I sit here?” he gave the man who, most likely due to the dearth of friendly faces in the crowed, looked awfully familiar, his most charming smile.
Received a half-hearted glare in return, and a cloud of cigar smoke he easily brushed away.
“Just that,” he settled onto the bar stool beside him, leaned in conspiratorially. “Between you and me, we’re each other’s best chance of survival, you know, in the worst case scenario.”
“What?” the man growled at the slick surface of the bar.
“Well, both of us being of the more, let’s say, Semitic persuasion, if it comes down to it, I can hold them off,” he waved a careful hand at the mass of Midwestern diversity around them, “With a lame joke or two, and you can, you know, glower at them for a bit, and then we run.”
The man did in fact glower, took another sip of his drink, and grunted.
“See, that’s the spirit! Just do that, and they’ll be terrified,” he grinned, taking a sip from his beer.
“What makes you think,” clipped, edged words that sounded like he’d expected God to sound, sarcastic and sure, “I’m of the Semitic persuasion?”
“Dude, come on,” he snorted in response. “We’re both a yarmulke and some peyes away from an anti-defamation PSA.”
“Dude?” The man growled, voice low, but picking up, “What are you, a sixteen year old disaffected slacker?”
“Hey, relax, okay? You’re the only guy here that looks like he’s had a shittier week than I have, so, you know, quit making me feel bad,” he grinned again, took a swig of his beer. “I’d rather not be the biggest loser in this place.”
“Leibowitz,” he said, after a moment, wiping a leather sleeve over his mouth.
“What?”
“Jonathan Stewart. Leibowitz, if we’re being honest. Thirty-three year old disaffected slacker, at your service.”
The man glared at him again, before turning back to inform his glass that he was, “Toby Ziegler, professional political operative.”
“No way,” he could feel his grin widen, “Dude, I know you!”
Toby looked at him, questioningly, blinked a couple of times. “You one of Miriam’s kids?”
“What? No, man, my roommate in college, he worked for you. Tony-Anthony Weiner? Uh, Richards’ campaign? New York’s 30th?”
“I don’t think I-“
“Yeah, he’s like that, kinda gets lost in the shuffle but man, I remember you. You’re a speech writer, right?”
“Wait, you…you actually remember John Richards? We lost. In the primary. That was what, two years ago? You-“
“Mr. Ziegler,” he looked at him with as much seriousness as he could muster, “Trust me. If it’s in anyway completely, utterly, totally useless information, I’ll remember it forever.”
The man gave a surprised chuckle, and shook his head.
“So what’re you doing out here in Bumfuck, Minnesota?” Jon grinned, trying to take another sip of his beer only to realize the bottle was empty. Waved at the tall, slim bartender, pointed at his bottle, and gave a winning smile that only managed to win him an especially Nordic glare.
Turned back to Toby, whose glare was at least the kind he saw every Thanksgiving, if he was lucky.
“Losing another race, actually,” Toby grimaced, then shrugged.
“Oh yeah?” he said. “That sucks, man, I’m sorry. Did you…did you like the guy?”
“He was an honest man,” Toby said precisely, shaking his head. “Who wanted to make a difference.”
“You make it sound like died or something,” Jon started to laugh, before being cut-off by the look in Toby’s eye.
“He’s a sixty-five year old Methodist English teacher who just wanted to make sure his grandkids would be able to get the healthcare they needed. And he’s going to lose. Because he wouldn’t stick to the party line on abortion, and because the incumbent is a name to be used on DNC brochures about the crazy, head-up-their-asses Republicans, rake in a couple of thousand dollars.” Toby stopped, looked around him, at the twenty or so blue eyes blinking worriedly at him, and sighed. Finished in an exhausted hiss. “And they value that over…an honest man. Who wanted to make a difference.”
Jon frowned, and patted him on the shoulder.
“Man, that’s…that’s tough. I…I don’t know how you do it, you know. I mean, I tried to do the… the activist thing, you know? Remember Rodney King? I was, like, out on the streets, man. ‘Fuck the police, fuck the police,’ you know? We were all so mad, right? It was an injustice. And we were out in the streets, and it started getting dark, and this was New York, right? So we start hearing gun shots, and suddenly we’re all like…‘Where the fuck is the police’?”
He laughed, uncomfortably, as he glanced over at Toby again. “I don’t,” he started, serious again. “I try and keep up with all that stuff, you know? But it’s so…Here’s the thing with politics, dude, and you can correct me if I’m wrong, and no offense to what you do, but from the purely 33 year old disaffected not quite youth: it’s like…” he could feel himself getting jittery, and stuttering a bit more than was coherent. Took a breath, and started again. “Okay, it’s like soccer. So politicians, they make all theses rules and argue about things you don’t understand, and you sit there, and you’re kind of amused, and yeah, maybe there’s some beauty in that, but most of the time, I’m just thinking, you know, pick up the ball already, right? And you know, I like soccer, too, but…come on.”
“Yeah,” Toby smiled, grim, at him. “Yeah, it’s like that.”
“”So you wanna hear what I’m doing out here?” he said, grinning. “I bet you don’t, actually, but I’m going to tell you anyway. I’m laid-over. Had to take the cheapest flight to LA, looking for work, having been fired for the sixth time in my life. And here I am.”
“Six jobs?”
“Every single one I’ve had, young man. The latest…the latest was my own show. We were on the air for, like, two months.”
“Really?” Toby laughed.
And Jon nodded, glad to have brought some amusement to the guy with the fact, depressing as it may have been to him.
“I haven’t won a race yet,” the man answered, shaking his head, still laughing. “Not one. At all. In twenty years.”
“You’re…” Jon stopped, couldn’t help giggle, “Oh, man, I knew you were the guy to hang out with. Now I don’t feel nearly as shitty.”
Toby chuckled, slapped him across the back, hard enough to make Jon nearly fall off his stool.
“Look, man. Toby. Mr. Ziegler,” he said, pulling himself back up. “It can only get better for us, right?”
“God, I hope so.”
“Here’s to,” he realized the icy Viking princess had finally gotten around to replacing his Budweiser, and tipped it in the other man’s direction. “Here’s to our ships coming in, Mr. Ziegler. One of these days, we’ll get it right.”
“Here’s to that,” Toby smiled at him, and it was barely a glare at all, even if he still had that Voice of A Righteous God thing going, “To ‘getting it right’.”
*