Title: Five Times The Wørd Messed With People
Series: TDS/TCR, AC360, the Bible?
Rating: R
Pairings/characters: God!Jon/Satan!character!Stephen, Jesus!Wørd, Keith'n'Anderson, with bonus allusion to Jane Fonda
Warnings: Still blasphemy and crack and D/s and bondage, plus mild embarrassment.
Word count: ~2500
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

Kind of late, but people liked the first one (Deus/satan, which remixed Too Darn Hot to go with the "Needs" series), so here's a bit more in that universe. If Jon Stewart is God, and Stephen is Satan, then Jesus must be the Wørd made flesh, right?




Five Times The Wørd Messed With People



I.
Early in the beta test of Space and Time.

"I don't like this one," declared Lucifer, pulling a design from the pile and holding it gingerly with his fingertips.

He Thinks It's Scary, offered the Word helpfully.

"I do not!" protested the angel. "It's stupid, that's all. Just look at it! What's the point? It's...it's just a killing machine!"

"Well, it is a predator," pointed out God, taking the design and ignoring the way Lucifer wiped his fingers on his shirt with a shudder. "The large size, the sharp teeth, the powerful paws, and so on -- they're necessary if it's going to keep the ecosystem in balance."

"Ecosystem, schmecosystem," snapped Lucifer. "They're ugly, too. Why not just make more of the sexy predators? Like cougars. Rowr."

Cougars Are Going To Like You Too, said the Word, thinking about a particular soul who wouldn't exist for several millennia yet.

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Lucifer, aware that he was being teased even if he didn't know what about. "God! The Word's showing off his omniscience again!"

"It's not nice to tease, son," admonished God.

He Deserves It, replied the Word matter-of-factly. As his Father's favorite angel, Lucifer got away with everything. It was only fair of the Word to put him in his place once in a while.

"Doesn't matter," said God sternly. "You're better than that."

"Hang on!" cried Lucifer. "Does that mean You think I do deserve it?"

"Uh--"

Without waiting for an answer, the angel crossed his arms and turned away. "Throw out that design, and maybe I'll forgive you."

God sighed in resignation, but the Word could see that He was trying not to smile, even though Lucifer was looking away. "All right, all right. We'll put this one aside. Happy now?"

"I accept your apology," said Lucifer quickly.

(Later, just to get on the angel's nerves, the Word snuck back and made the "bear" on his own. Well, the Holy Spirit helped a little. The point is, when the Creation project was done, it was the only creature on Earth that could accurately be referred to as "godless.")




II.
Garden of Gethsemane, Jerusalem: ~33 A.D.

Jesus knew that every aspect of this night would be itemized, analyzed, and romanticized by millions of faithful believers over the next two millennia or so, but right now he didn't feel particularly glorious. He just felt tired.

Also, he was sweating like a pig. Fear will do that to a man.

"Dad, please," he said quietly, sitting on a rock. "Can I not do this? I mean, in the end it's Your call. But..."

"Here," interrupted a voice, and a small towel that had been soaked in ice water was pressed into his hand.

It was kind of ridiculous to accept the relief, given the amount of pain he was scheduled to go through in a couple of hours, but Jesus wiped the sweat from his brow and held the cool cloth to his neck anyway. "Thanks, Dad. What's with the getup?"

"The clothes?" replied God from his perch on the next rock. "I know they won't come into fashion for a couple thousand years, but they're comfortable. And I think the grey-on-grey sets off My hair."

"Not the clothes -- I'm talking about that body You're wearing to disguise Your Glorious Presence. Although the futuristic clothes are still going to freak out the guys, if any of them come up to check on me."

"They won't. They're all out cold."

Jesus groaned. "I told them not to fall asleep! I'm surrounded by idiots."

God shrugged. "It happens."

"So why are You here, Dad? I thought that was the whole point of me doing time as a human -- to act in Your place. Unless You've decided to call this off."

"No, it's still on. Sorry, son." God looked away, his guilty appearance magnified by the hangdog face He was wearing.

"If You feel that bad about it, why are You going through with it?"

"I'd stop it if I could. I mean, technically I know I can do anything. But I set up this Creation with rules, and I'm going to follow them."

"Fair enough. But if there has to be a punishment, why not make Satan take it? He's the one who started the whole sin thing, not me."

"Because he wouldn't understand. And you do."

"What do I understand?"

"That I'm not punishing you because I hate you."

For a moment there was silence, except for the night wind and the crickets of Gethsemane.

"Okay, You got me there," said Jesus at last. "Satan wouldn't get that at all."

"Exactly."

It was time to go -- Judas was on the way, and the guys would want to be awake when he showed up -- and, as he handed back the cool towel, Jesus found himself grinning. "See You in three days."




III.
New York City, United States: 2005 A.D.

As soon as he was alone in the studio, Stephen stood on his chair and spun it in a circle for the sheer thrill of it.

God -- no, it was "Jon" now, wasn't it? -- thought he could turn the tables with a silly TV show, did he? Well, Stephen would do him one better. Now he had a TV show of his own, and this one wouldn't be silly. It would be prestigious. It wouldn't be long now before he had an army of devoted followers who weren't pagan hippies or teenagers wearing too much black makeup.

"I rule," he said out loud.

The Wørd graphic swung into being on the screens around him. Better To Host The Report Than Serve On The Daily Show, Is That It?

Stephen had no idea how Arial Narrow could manage to come off as smug, but it did.

"Of course it's better," he snapped. "It was humiliating, working for Jon. Did you see the sign they hung over the door? 'Abandon News, All Ye Who Enter Here'! He took a perfectly intimidating phrase from my gates and mocked it!"

Mocking Things Is His Job Now, pointed out the Wørd.

"And I can do this one better than Him too. You watch."

You Won't Even Do Better Than Barry Manilow.

Stephen grabbed his cell phone and was halfway to dialing Jon before he could stop himself. Shake it off, Lucifer, he ordered as he let it go, addressing himself by the name he had used before he had cut ties with his Father. He didn't need Jon's help to deal with onmiscience-based teasing. Not any more. "Just because you're omniscient doesn't mean you can't be wrong."

You'll Lose.

Stephen stuck his fingers in his ears and ululated loudly.

Since the Wørd was a graphic, the noise had no effect on Stephen's ability to see the next set of letters: Why Are You Doing That?

"No reason!" snapped Stephen, feeling his face heat up and hating that he couldn't stop it. Damn demonstrative human bodies. "Are you going to interfere like this every time I do a Wørd?"

Until Dad Gets Around To Punishing You, Yes.

A sudden frisson ran down Stephen's spine. He did his best to ignore it. "Is He really going to do it?"

Do What?

"Punish me!" whined Stephen. "Tell me what a bad boy I've been. Throw me down, and torment me until I beg Him for mercy. Name me as His and take me! Is He going to do it?"

He paused, partly because the text on the screens had been replaced by a subdued version of his logo, and partly because his body was now responding in a whole new way that he wasn't entirely sure he wanted the Wørd to know about.

Okay, Look, said the text when it reappeared. I'm Okay With You Lusting After My Dad, But I Don't Need Details.

For a moment Stephen just spluttered incoherently. "I do not lust after Jon!" he spat at last. "We don't even talk!"

You Talked On The Toss Earlier This Evening.

"Facts!" cried Stephen, waving a hand derisively. "This is not about facts. This is about -- well, you know what the word is."

Truthiness, said the Wørd. Says You. But I Say The Word Is Love.

"That was the Beatles."

Even Better. They're Bigger Than Me.




IV.
London Heathrow Airport, England: 2008 A.D.

"Anderson!"

The man in question jumped, suddenly aware that the whole crew was looking at him in bemusement. "What did I miss?"

"Drinks," repeated Neil tersely. "I'm getting. You want?"

"Oh." Anderson shook his head, trying to focus. "I'm fine, thanks."

"So I woke you up for nothing?" Neil sighed. "Come on, Anderson, get your head out of the clouds."

"Sorry," said Anderson sheepishly as the camera operator headed off down the terminal.

Neil didn't know how just how close to the mark his throwaway phrase had been. Anderson had been in the clouds -- though he still wasn't sure if they were literal or metaphorical or what. Specifically, he had been to Heaven, along with Hell and the elevator that apparently moved between them. He had met God face to face, nearly been assaulted by the Devil, and then been returned to life as part of a bargan that involved neither Heaven nor Hell wanting to deal with Bill O'Reilly.

In spite of the fact that that last part made a lot of sense, Anderson wasn't sure whether any of it had been real. Maybe it had been an incredibly detailed dream. Or a side effect of the attempted poisoning -- maybe he had gotten hallucinations instead of death. Or maybe he was just going crazy.

He had been tempted to ask Keith, who had also been there, for confirmation. (He wasn't about to bring this up with O'Reilly.) But if it turned out to be all in Anderson's head, Keith would never let him hear the end of it.

Besides, God and Satan couldn't really be Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. Right?

"I think I'm gonna need a drink after all," he announced, standing up. "Anyone else want--?"

The exasperated looks told him all he needed to know.

*

Anderson ordered something at random, which turned out to involve a lengthy process of mixing. He watched the barista with the same distraction that had been plaguing him ever since his return to life, or consciousness, or sanity. Whathever it had been.

"Traveling far?" asked the barista. His accent wasn't British; it sounded vaguely Middle Eastern, but beyond that Anderson couldn't pin it down.

"Pretty far, yeah."

"Thought so." The other man smiled. "You look like you've come a long way."

"...you could say that."

The smile was friendly and open and, somehow, reassuring. Anderson was sure he had never seen the man before in his life, but this felt like the smile of someone who knew him well, who would listen to anything he said and not judge.

Still, he didn't volunteer any more information, so it was left up to the barista to reply. "Don't let it get you down, all right? When you're done traveling, there's a nice place waiting for you."

He was probably talking about Anderson's house, but the image that came to mind was that of Stephen/Satan in a room with red walls, smirking as he twirled a bottle of lube in one hand. Anderson shuddered.

"I've got it all ready," continued the barista.

For a weird moment Anderson thought he was talking about the room, until he saw the cup the man was holding out. "Oh -- thanks. How much--?"

"This one's on the house," the other man replied, his smile still warm.

Anderson's eyebrows jumped, but in spite of the recent assassination attempt he couldn't bring himself to feel suspicious of this man. "Thank you," he stammered.

"Oh, and -- Anderson? Talk to Keith about it."

Anderson nearly choked mid-sip, and doubled over in a coughing fit. When he got it under control enough so that he could see again, there was no one behind the counter.

He stared.

A moment later, a ponytailed girl wearing the coffee shop's uniform stuck her head out from the back and gasped. "Oh, sir, I'm sorry to keep you waiting! I thought I heard someone out here. Can I help you?"

It took Anderson only a moment to right himself. "No, thank you," he replied. "I've already been helped."

Glancing at his watch, he took a quick gulp of the drink and jogged with the rest back to the gate. Didn't want to be late for his flight to Damascus.




V.
Lake of Fire Resort and Spa, Hell: A thousand years hence (give or take).

Stephen moaned.

He hadn't meant to. Jon had ordered him not to make a sound, and so he was trying. He really was.

But he was also lying spread-eagled on his stomach on sheets with a thread count higher than was humanly possible, with Jon's Glorious Presence pulsing inside him and Jon Himself sitting beside him just out of reach, and then two leather-gloved fingers had brushed the back of his neck on precisely the spot you would grab to pick up a kitten who had been naughty and of course he had moaned.

The physical contact withdrew immediately, and the Spirit moving within him stilled from a full-body pulse to an incessant hum. Stephen might have panicked, but his wrists and ankles were still bound, not by any physical restraint but by Jon's Will alone.

Even now, the Lord was with him.

Gasping for breath, fighting the urge to surrender and whimper himself hoarse, he craned his neck and let his eyes do the pleading. Jon's back was turned, but He knew.

"Every time, Stephen," He said firmly, voice low and rough and thrilling. "Every time I tell you to keep quiet, I have to punish you. When will you learn? What's going to teach you? Am I going to have to spank you?"

"Jesus Christ!" yelped Stephen.

It was so obviously out-of-scene that Jon snapped back to His normal voice, while His Presence within Stephen shifted to the divine equivalent of a thick fluffy blanket wrapped around him. "So, uh, no spanking, then?" He asked, turning to meet Stephen's eyes--

--and then following his gaze to the door.

Sure enough, there stood Jesus, hands clutching a cardboard box, eyes tightly shut. "John-said-you-might-want-these-and-to-hurry-them-down-to-you-and-I-saw-nothing!" he exclaimed, tossing the box into the room and fleeing as it skidded across the floor.

With a groan, Jon flopped down on the bed next to Stephen. "Oh, Me, that was embarrassing," He muttered, rubbing His eyelids with the heels of His hands before wrapping a protective arm around Stephen. "I'd been waiting for a quiet time to sit down and tell him..."

"Well, don't worry about that," replied Stephen, trying to sound confident and dismissive as he curled up against Jon's chest. "He had this figured out before You did."




cf.:
I. John 1:1-5
II. Luke 22:39-46
IV. John 14:1-3, Luke 24:13-25, Acts 9:4-7
V. Revelation 20:10