Chapter Text
You barely even need the alarm anymore. Even on this dreary Tuesday morning, you awake just in time to preempt the clock on your nightstand. It’s become far easier than you ever expected to be up so early each day. There’s just something about the way this job energizes you that makes you want to do everything you can to be your best. Sure, just the job, you think as you roll out of bed and get dressed.
You know that it’s more than the job. Of course you do. But you’re making a conscious effort not to get your hopes up in that department. You’ve been writing at the Late Show for three weeks now, and your relationship with Stephen has not progressed further than his continuing to buy you coffee. You suppose that this is not insignificant; after all, none of the rest of the staff seems to have experienced the same generosity. After his fifth day straight of handing you a cup of coffee with a charming grin, you reluctantly asked him to stop. “I don’t want you spending so much money on me,” you explained when he looked at you quizzically.
“I’m not exactly strapped for cash,” he argued, “and I want to give you a little something to look forward to. I know it’s hard to be new.”
“I have plenty to look forward to already,” you said, realizing how suggestively that might be taken as the words left your lips. You hoped he didn’t think too much about that. But he smiled understandingly, and agreed to stop.
Getting on the train now, you wonder if that made him think you weren’t interested. Are you responsible for the lack of progress? You fervently hope not. Too many times in the past three weeks have you thought about telling him your feelings. Every time you think better of it, of course. After all, it’s been three weeks. You can’t possibly know each other well enough for you to sound sane telling him you want to be with him.
Of course, you feel like you’ve known Stephen longer than three weeks. After all, you’ve watched his work for years now, and you’ve always had an infatuation with him. You thought working alongside him might lessen that. After all, there’s no way he could be like that in real life. But you were wrong. In person, Stephen is every bit as funny, charismatic, and kind as he is on TV. He is incredibly thoughtful, and does his best to make everyone around him happy before he even thinks of himself. Somehow, your feelings for him have grown stronger and more like love since meeting him. It’s weird to think the word “love” in relation to him. You’ve always tried to use the word sparingly to give it meaning, but you can’t deny it seems to ring true with him. But that feels too intense this early on. Let’s just stick with “like” for now, you think to yourself.
How Stephen feels is a different story. Unless he’s been attending stand-up shows at seedy dive bars in secret, he really has only known who you are for three weeks. There’s no way his feelings are where yours are. But are you deluded in thinking that the two of you have had an immediate chemistry that he doesn’t have with everyone? He certainly likes you enough to want to have a conversation every morning. Sometimes, you’ve arrived slightly later than usual, but he was miraculously just arriving. It seemed that way, anyway. He could have been waiting.
Essentially, you know he likes you, but whether he likes you remains to be seen. You don’t trust what you heard him say to Brian in that first week, or that several other writers have noticed the difference in how he acts around you compared to how he is with most other people. These can be easily misconstrued, and the only viable way you see to learn his true feelings is for him to simply tell you. But that’s never going to happen.
Coming out of the subway now and approaching the Ed Sullivan Theater, you see a fairly empty street. The usual overeager tourists and harassed New Yorkers on their way to work, of course, but not as many as usual. It is a crisp morning; February has just arrived, and the temperatures show no sign of pulling up from their winter plunge. No doubt, many pedestrians are opting for the warmth of a taxi over the chill morning air.
You stop under the marquee. Stephen is not there yet. Well this is a first, you think. What should you do? Wait for him? Would that be weird? You suspect he waits for you when you’re late, but it’s just a suspicion. You don’t want to come off as creepy or clingy.
Before you can make up your mind on what to do, you see him. He appears around the corner he always does, power walking at a speed that verges on jogging. Once he sees you, he immediately slows down. He attempts to fix his tousled hair as he approaches, grinning sheepishly.
“Where’s the fire?” you ask with a smirk. You can tell that you’ve definitely grown more confident around him since you’ve gotten to know each other. You still have those moments of self-doubt and over-analysis of a situation, but thankfully you have grown to trust that Stephen has at least a modicum of affection for you, even if it is platonic.
He blushes as the two of you begin your usual stroll towards the back door. “Hope you weren’t waiting too long. I was up a little later than usual last night making a couple calls, so I overslept a bit.”
You are immediately intrigued. “What kind of calls?”
“Oh, just stuff about the show with the CBS execs,” he says shiftily.
You do not really buy this excuse, but clearly he doesn’t want to talk about it. You don’t want to push him. Not yet, anyway. You root around in your mind for a new subject. “Happy Groundhog Day, by the way!”
His eyes widen in mock horror. “That’s TODAY?! I haven’t bought any gifts!”
Chuckling, you say, “Well, as your favorite employee, I absolve you of your transgression.
“And here I thought only my priest could do that.”
You both laugh. It feels good to do that with him. Stephen is so easy to be around. You have rarely felt such complete comfort around a person as you do him. Even in silence, as the two of you are experiencing now, there is no pressure to talk. You soak up the pleasure of each second with him without difficulty. You wonder if he has a similar feeling. He doesn’t seem particularly uncomfortable around you, but that might just be his charismatic personality. Maybe everyone has the same perception of him that you have. You probably aren’t special.
But maybe you shouldn’t stop yourself from feeling that way anyway.
You both go inside and take off your coats, and he sits down in his usual spot and takes out a copy of Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye while you make your way down the hall to the writers’ room.
You definitely feel like you belong in this room now. You’ve finally gotten into the rhythm of the work week, and you watch yourself, bit by bit, becoming the best version of yourself as a comedian and writer. You would love this job even if there wasn’t the added bonus of Stephen.
Jen and Brian barely even look up as you walk in anymore. Your early arrival has become so normal that they give you a smile and then let you sit down and get to work.
Trying to think of monologue pitch ideas, you scroll through the New York Times homepage, looking for inspiration. What you find instead is fairly uninspiring: an article about the most recent Trump scandal, the president’s hiring of Barron to be his secretary. It is yet another think piece about how this spells the end of the Trump administration. You sigh. You have read so many of these, and they have never been true. Why do news outlets keep saying things like this when they are continuously proven wrong?
But then a thought occurs to you. Your conversations with Stephen, while fun, can sometimes also provide you with good ideas to use on the show. Something that you talked about this morning has given you a great idea. You open your laptop and start typing furiously.
People begin to filter in, but you are so busy writing down ideas that you barely notice. By the time you look up, satisfied with what you have completed, the room is half full. You stop writing for a bit and socialize. It took awhile for you to work up the courage to talk to a lot of these people, but now you are proud to call them friends and peers.
When the cold open pitches begin, you are fairly quiet. You are excited for everybody to hear your idea when it’s time for the monologue, but you didn’t prepare much for this part. However, once people start making their own pitches, you do find it fun to suggest ways to build on them (in a friendly way, of course). You find that you are good at strengthening the ideas of others, and they seem appreciative of your input.
You spend most of that time, however, daydreaming about Stephen. He does enjoy spending time with you. And he is a bachelor. Could you ask him to hang out in a platonic way? You almost snort at the idea of asking Stephen Colbert to “hang out.” But couldn’t you? Maybe if you ever got up the courage to do so, but you doubt that that will ever happen.
Before you know it, the cold open meeting is over. Writers wander out of the room to do monologue research. You debate whether to work in the office or in the theater. You settle on the theater; it is more peaceful there, and it’s sometimes nice to have a little break from the general hustle of this work.
You set up your workspace in the balcony again. You write a few jokes based on some articles from the Washington Post, but spend most of your time expanding on the idea you had this morning. You really hope Stephen likes it.
You also like working up here because there is always something going on onstage that you can watch if you drift off. Occasionally, you see interns scurrying around the set between camera operators and producers, making themselves as small and inoffensive as possible. It reminds you of when you were in college, when your dream was to be an intern for The Colbert Report. It always amuses you, looking back, that that was where your aspirations stopped. You didn’t believe there was any other way to meet Stephen, or even get close to meeting him. It took a lot of growth to gain the self-confidence that allowed you to have better goals for yourself and to pursue them with conviction. Seeing the interns down there who are still discovering themselves and their ambitions makes you optimistic for their success.
Soon enough, it is time to head back down to the writers’ room. You begin to feel some trepidation. You know that everybody likes you and your work, but it never gets easier to present your ideas. That vulnerability of offering yourself up to rejection is definitely the hardest part of this job.
You let some of the smaller joke offers go by before making your pitch. Stephen even pitches some of his own jokes to Opus, who leads the monologue meetings. After about five minutes, when you sense a lull, you finally raise your hand.
“Okay, bear with me here, because this is a long one,” you say sheepishly. “It’s Groundhog Day today, and Stephen wants to talk to Punxsutawney Phil, but instead reaches his brother, Trumpsabadguy Tad. His Groundhog day is every month, when the writers for The New York Times watch him to see how much longer the Trump administration will last. He never sees his shadow, so they always report that impeachment is near.”
Almost everyone is nodding encouragingly or smiling. You take that as a good sign. You glance at Stephen, who is beaming at you. You smile back.
“That sounds promising! Do you have a sample you could read for us?” Opus asks.
“Yup! It’s almost finished, actually.” You look shyly across the table at Stephen. “Do you want to read it with me?” You pray you are sounding professional right now.
He smiles genuinely. “Sure!” He stands and comes around to your side of the table, leaning over your shoulder to read the script. You suppress a shiver of excitement and nervousness at his proximity. “Punxsutawney Phil, is that you?”
You assume a voice that is higher than your own, but very rough. “Nah, he’s out partying.”
The room bursts into laughter. “You sound like an adolescent chain smoker!” Stephen exclaims gleefully.
“You flatter me,” you reply in the voice, causing a second bout of chortles.
The two of you finish the reading. Opus says, “I love it!” The rest of the writers agree, making you blush. “How quickly can you finish it?”
“I think I only need a few more lines. All I really need is five more minutes.”
“Great! If you could finish that before lunch, it would be great to see it in rehearsal.”
You nod. The meeting is about to end when you realize something. “Wait!” Everyone looks at you quizzically. “Who do I need to send the script to for Tad?”
A pause. Then Opus says, “I think we all just assumed you would do it.”
Your stomach drops. “Really?”
“I don’t think anyone could do that voice as well as you,” Stephen says warmly.
“Wow. Okay!” While the pitch meeting adjourns, you turn back to your screen to put the finishing touches on your script, feeling the flush creep across your face. Are you really going to be on TV tonight? And doing a bit with Stephen? This is incredible.
Once you are finished, you join everyone in eating lunch, pizzas that Stephen has ordered. It is apparently a tradition every Tuesday for Stephen to buy pizza for his staff if The Late Show was the top-rated late night show of the previous week.
“We have not had a pizza-free Tuesday in a loooooong time,” Ariel told you smugly on your second week working here. “The only reason there wasn’t any last week was because we were doing reruns the week before. Hope you like Angelo’s, because it’s what’s for lunch!”
“But it’s not guaranteed,” Stephen said, overhearing the two of you talking, “which is part of why I do this. We should always remind ourselves be thankful that people appreciate our hard work, and that we should continue to strive for our best.”
You like that Stephen takes nothing for granted. He is clearly aware of how good his life is, and wants to ensure that everyone who makes it that way knows that he sees it. His humility and kindness are a large part of why he is universally beloved by everyone he has worked with. What you saw on TV all of those nights that you watched him before getting this job were not a facade; he really is exactly the person he presents himself to be.
The writers begin to convene again to clean the monologue. You are about to sit down again for the rewrite meeting, but Ariel shoos you out of the room. “You have to go to the props department for your groundhog outfit!”
You hadn’t considered this. You really are about to make your TV debut dressed as a groundhog. It makes you giddy with excitement. You find your way to the props room, which is on the same floor. You pass Stephen’s dressing room on the way there, and it takes all your strength not to look in and see what he’s doing. Play it cool, you tell yourself.
The people in the props department are very nice. Somehow, they have managed to locate a onesie that resembles a groundhog. You wonder how they could have done such a thing on short notice. This place truly is magical.
By this time, rewrites are likely almost over, so you put on the costume and head to the theater to meet everyone else for rehearsal. You know you must look ridiculous, but you love it.
You arrive in the audience of the theater, and everyone is just sitting down. You join the end of the row so that you can get up onstage when your part is up. Stephen then arrives onstage, and you watch him practice with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness. How are you going to measure up to such a stage presence? You know that they laughed when the two of you first read it, but will you be able to keep up with his onstage charisma? There's only one way to find out, you suppose.
When your time finally comes, you stride up to the stage, grinning as you hear the snickers of the other writers. Stephen also seems to be enjoying the costume. “You look adorable,” he says to you quietly, making you blush. You wish he hadn’t said that just now; overanalyzing it is not going to be good for your performance. Judging by the bashful look on his face, he wishes the same thing.
You go to your position in front of the backdrop image of a grassy hill. Today is one of those days where there is so much monologue material that a commercial break occurs in the middle of it. Your part takes place after the break, with Stephen sitting at his desk and you standing where he does most of his monologue. You find your mark on the floor and turn to face the camera.
Immediately you feel yourself grow calmer. This is how it has always been for you as an actor and a comedian; the anticipation is the worst part of a performance because you spend all your time thinking about what might go wrong. Once you are onstage, you feel much more collected and in control, and this stage is no different. You grow excited to begin the rehearsal, and you try out some faces in the camera. You settle on a tired, somewhat harassed look. it elicits a laugh, and you are elated. This is going to go fine.
You have always known that Stephen was a talented improviser, but it has never been more apparent than now, when you are doing a scene with him. You know from experience that the best improvisers are those who are unselfish, who work to make their scene partners look good rather than themselves. Improv is a cooperative form that works best when the participants raise each other up. Even though this is a scripted scene, Stephen is able to use that skill easily. He has an energy about him that he is very good at transferring where he wants it. You know that this segment is about your character, but you do your best to reciprocate his generosity anyway; you are not trying to steal the spotlight. It is amazing to work with Stephen; his ability to set you up for success makes getting laughs out of the writers easy. Everyone applauds when you finish. You go back to your seat, smiling from ear to ear. You can’t wait to do this with an audience who hasn’t heard it before.
Instead of going in for final rewrites, you are directed backstage to have your groundhog makeup put on. The woman who is in charge of you, Alice, apparently spends a lot of time doing Stephen’s face as well. The two of you bond over how much you admire his talent and his genuine goodness.
“He’s brought you up a lot, too,” she says, and your heart lurches. “He says that you’re very funny, and that he can’t believe this is your first writing job.”
You are taken by surprise. He talks about you? Unprompted? You are overjoyed, not just by the fact that someone you have such feelings for thinks so highly of you, but that such a highly-esteemed comedian thinks so highly of you.
She continues, “And I can see why! You wrote and are performing in a segment after only three weeks? Some of these writers never perform, so you must be seriously talented.”
“Thanks,” you reply, embarrassed to be receiving all this praise. Then, glancing in the mirror: “You’re pretty great at your job as well, it seems!” Your face has transformed into that of a rodent. This must be a completely different style of makeup from what Alice usually does, but she has executed it flawlessly.
“Glad it looks okay. Now get out there and make ‘em laugh!”
Just then, you hear Jon Batiste and Stay Human begin to play onstage, and the audience cheers loudly. It’s almost time for the show to start, and this time you get to watch it unfold from feet away. Soon, Stephen arrives for a touch-up on his makeup. He sees you and smiles fondly. “You don’t need it, but break a leg! You’re going to kill it out there!”
You return a weak grin, but the nerves are back. What if you choke? What if the whole thing isn’t funny at all? What if you get booed offstage? Okay, that probably won’t happen, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t worried about it.
Stephen strides confidently onstage to greet his audience. You take a seat back in the makeup chair, heart pounding. You listen to him answering audience questions, and allow yourself to be soothed by the voice that always comforted you after long days at jobs you hated with people who didn’t care about you. You’re here now, you remind yourself, There’s nothing to worry about. He believes in you.
Before long, he has begun the monologue. As always, he is executing the jokes masterfully, working perfectly with the band and the energy the audience provides to create impeccable moments of comedy. You feel the nerves bubbling up again, but you try to numb them with Stephen’s voice.
He finishes with the first half, and there is a break for commercials. You see your backdrop being brought out, and you are ushered onstage to your mark. You hear some audience members giggling, and you decide to give them a big, goofy wave. They cheer in response. Before you have time to truly realize what you’re about to do, Stephen, now at his desk, brings the show back.
“Now, folks, as some of you may know, it is Groundhog Day,” he says.
The anticipation is back. You don’t look at him, instead staring at the camera that faces you.
“And we realized that we celebrate this day, every year, but we never get to talk to the celebrity of the day, Punxsutawney Phil.”
You swallow and assume your silly face. Any second now…
“So we decided to call him up. Let’s say hello to him, everybody!”
A cheer from the crowd and a signal from the camera operator that you’re on. Stephen pauses for the perfect amount of time, then: “Punxsutawney Phil, is that you?”
“Nah, he’s out partying.” The audience laughs appreciatively at your voice.
“Then who are you?”
“I’m his brother, Trumpsabadguy Tad.” An even bigger laugh. This is going well.
The rest of the segment goes by in a blur after the initial release of the first laugh. This is all you’ve ever wanted to do you whole life: to perform, to make people laugh on a large scale. And maybe you’re doing it dressed like a groundhog, but you’re doing it the way you like it and with a man you are increasingly sure you have more than a simple crush on.
The segment ends, and as soon as your camera goes off, you walk offstage. Your ears are ringing, and you can barely hear the band beginning to play or everyone around you congratulating you on a job well done.
But you have no trouble hearing one voice behind you: “Hey! Great job!”
Stephen approaches you as you turn around and gives you a brief hug. You are paralyzed. It was the shortest, most noncommittal hug, but it was enough to make you go weak. He smells amazing, like… what? The closest you can get to describing it is a combination of fruit and firewood.
“Um… thanks!” you manage to stutter out.
“I have to get back out there, but I hope we get to perform together again sometime! You’re a great scene partner.” He holds eye contact with you for another moment. You want the whole world to stop so that you can look into his beautiful brown eyes forever. But, with apparent reluctance, he turns away and returns to his desk.
Fatigue suddenly hits you now that he is gone. This has been an exhilarating day, and you look forward to sitting in the writers’ room to watch the rest of the taping without having to worry about anything else.
You are met with more applause as you enter the room. It looks like everyone has stayed downstairs to watch your television debut. You love how supportive everyone here is. After receiving everybody’s congratulations, you take a seat with a sigh of contentedness.
The rest of the taping plays on the monitor, but you barely notice. You are too busy replaying over and over everything about today that was simply perfect.