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Enfranchise-Me Pumps

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After calling her mother to confirm that she was very proud of herself and had not collapsed from stress, Jessica migrated back over to the donut table, where Wyatt was finishing off the last of the jelly glazed. "And you people really do this every two years?"

Wyatt shrugged. "Pretty much. I think we peaked in '08, complexity-wise. Although if you ask Sam, we haven't had a really good election special since 2000."

"I didn't even know we had elections in 2000," admitted Jessica.

"Yes, yes, you're all young and bright-eyed," sighed Wyatt, dabbing jelly from his beard. "You don't have to rub it in."

"Hey, man, I'm as exhausted as you are. I can't wait to get home, ruin a towel wiping off this makeup, and..." She trailed off as a door banked open and the newest post-live-show-party arrival caught her eye. "...and, okay, at least I'm not as bad off as that guy."

Stephen Colbert had an open bottle in one hand and an also-open, half-empty quart of ice cream in the other. His polo shirt was half untucked, hair ungelled and eyes red, and he had ended up in what Jessica was pretty sure were pajama pants over his loafers.

It was only moments before Jon broke through the crowd and made a beeline for Stephen, halting his unsteady gait with arms around his waist. Most people were having too much fun (or running too much on fumes themselves) to pay the pair any attention as Jon dropped a kiss on his lips, gently transferred his prizes from his hands to one of the snack tables, and pulled him in for a deeper follow-up.

"Huh," said Jessica. "They really do that? With the kissing, and the faces, and everything? I thought it was a running gag."

"Started out that way," said Wyatt with a nod. "Some kind of one-sided gay-chicken thing, Jon seeing how far he could play along with Stephen's whole closet-case accidental-innuendo deal. And now they make out for real. It's like Romeo and Juliet, except Stephen is only spiritually an angsty thirteen-year-old."

Jon's hand was on the small of Stephen's back now, leading him firmly toward the elevator while Stephen hung onto his shoulders. Jessica watched them go, feeling a pang of envy. Not because she really wanted a crazy sorta-homophobic boyfriend, or even a nice stable fifty-year-old white guy to haul her to safety after partying too hard. Mostly she just wanted to be able to afford a limo ride home.

"Hey, uh, you want me to call you a cab or something?" asked Wyatt.

"Yes, please." Jessica stumbled toward the nearest folding chair, yawning. "I'm just gonna sit over here for a while."

 

~*~

 

"You weren't supposed to stay with him!" wailed Stephen, as Jon shepherded him into the car. "You were supposed to be so disappointed that he ordered drone strikes and never closed Guantanamo that you would fall into Romney's arms! Sure, Romney would keep up with the drone strikes and the Guantanamo, but at least he would have paid for it with tax cuts and not tax hikes!"

"I know, babe. I know. It's very hard," soothed Jon. The concession speech hadn't come in yet; hopefully Stephen would forget about it rather than demand they watch. "How much did you drink?"

"Just the one. Half. You took it away." Stephen nuzzled Jon's neck in a distinctly sulky way. "Jon?"

"Yeah?"

"Is it bad that I...I'm maybe not as completely one-hundred-percent brokenhearted as last time?"

Jon took a moment to process this, then landed a sharp swat on the rear of Stephen's pajama pants. Stephen squeaked and twitched against him. "He got you."

"He didn't!" Stephen buckled himself in, then beckoned for Jon to make with the cuddling some more. "I'm just not entirely convinced the nation is going to be taken apart and sold for scrap in the next four years, that's all!"

"Uh-huh. He so got you," gloated Jon, trailing kisses up Stephen's jaw. His own disappointment in Obama was still there, but it had been a good night if you were pro-gay, anti-rape, or anti-lying, and Jon was starting to feel the buzz from all three. "What was it? The way he was on the ball instantly with Sandy? The unemployment finally going under eight percent? That time he ordered the killing of bin Laden?"

Stephen shivered against him. "He was pretty hot that night."

"I remember." Jon untucked the rest of Stephen's polo shirt from the elastic hugging it to his waist. The skin underneath was warm. "You're kind of a slut for competent military leadership, you know that?"

"I kind of am," moaned Stephen, breath hot against his ear. "Mmmm. Tell me more about how he reeled me in."

"That was basically all I had," admitted Jon. He had to be in the right frame of mind to really get into Stephen's favorite kind of dirty talk, and this casual relief wasn't it.

Stephen gave him a shove. "Oh, come on! Didn't you watch the show?"

"No? It was live, remember? Started while we were winding down." Jon nipped at Stephen's earlobe just the way he liked it, feeling him up in the meantime for good measure. "So, ah, how about you give me a recap?"

"I said...I said America had been a fool to turn down that nice, awkward Romney boy," panted Stephen. "You know, what's-his-name. Now she'd have to do the walk of shame in...in those slutty enfranchise-me pumps."

Now that was a heartwarming mental image. "We'll have to find a pair of those in your size," hummed Jon, hips twisting in his khakis.

"Third floor hall closet, bottom shelf, box labeled Flag Pins #2," said Stephen instantly.

Jon gaped. "And you never said anything?"

Stephen squirmed in his arms. "I was afraid they would draw unwanted attention to how truly miniature you are."

"Hey, now. Size doesn't matter. As the Republican leadership just found out with respect to their SuperPAC accounts." Jon grabbed Stephen's wrist and guided it down; Stephen obediently set to stroking between Jon's legs. Twisted into position as he was, he gave Jon another opening to land a slap on the sensitive back of his thigh. "And tonight, a pocket-sized, East-coast, blue-state, liberal media elite is going to ride you like an Olympic dancing horse."

 

~*~

 

"You like it when everyone gets to vote, don't you?" crooned Jon, straddling Stephen's waist.

Naked except for a pair of sleek scarlet heels, Stephen rocked up into him. "Uh-huh."

"Even the ones who hate everything you stand for. Even if they're voting in the whole country's best interests...and not yours. That's fine with you, isn't it? You can take it."

"I can," moaned Stephen, his perfectly manicured nails digging into Jon's hips in a desperate bid to make him move faster. "I really can. But I don't wanna."

"You're going to have to." Jon splayed one hand across Stephen's mouth, shutting him up (for a moment, at least). "And you're going to like it. Infrastructure. National parks. Environmental regulations. Same-sex marriage all over the place."

"Birth control for the ladies," panted Stephen through his fingers. "Strapping young gay men in uniform. Facts."

"That's right," said Jon, caressing his heated face. "Turns out you're a total whore for facts."

Stephen let out a sharp cry at that one, and couldn't manage anything coherent after it beyond "Please, Jon, please—!"

He must have been good, because Jon had mercy on him and sped up.

 

~*~

 

Even when they got into the cuddling, Stephen was having a hard time forming words. At least he managed to clean himself off first, and laced his fingers tightly through Jon's as they spooned. Jon worried a lot. It was important to reassure him.

"Love you," murmured Jon against the nape of his neck.

Stephen swallowed. "I...I still voted for Romney, you know."

"I figured."

"I'm going to yell at Obama voters tomorrow," pressed Stephen. "I might start drinking again. I...I'll probably cry."

"Are you going to come home with me afterward?"

"...Yes."

"Then don't worry about it. Besides, who knows? Maybe in four years you'll be charmed enough to act on that bipartisan-curiosity."

"Jon!" hissed Stephen, scandalized. "Do you think I have no shame?"

"Eh," said Jon, in a noncommittal sort of way. Stephen chose to interpret this as a sign that he was falling asleep, nothing more, and was validated a few minutes later when Jon had drifted off entirely.

Ridiculous. He must have been half-dreaming already, or else the emotions of victory had clouded his mind. In the sober light of day, he would never have dared to suggest there would ever come an election when Stephen would vote for a Democrat.

Stephen toed off his pumps, shoved them with his feet toward the end of the mattress, and did his best to imagine anything other than how exquisitely Jon would taunt him that night.