FIC: Pinks (AI: Ryan/Simon, PG)
Sep. 22nd, 2008 01:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_water_clockAuthor: Clio
Title: Pinks
Pairing: American Idol: Simon Cowell/Ryan Seacrest
Rating: PG
Summary: In which Simon figures out how to comfort a Ryan who doesn't want to be comforted.
Length: 775 words.
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Insta-reaction to the Emmys. Insta-beta'd by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ali_wildgoose
Simon had said last year that he wouldn't go again and he didn't. He watched the show at a party, sitting with Elton John and some other friends; Randy was around someplace. When it started running long he received increasingly frustrated texts. Say what you will about Ryan's job hosting the previous year—he got that show in on time.
When Ryan's category came up he could feel that people were watching him, and he was annoyed, so when they took the break he went out back to smoke a cigarette. He could see the screen from where he was, through one of the windows, and he thought, "please, let it be Bergeron."
But it was Probst. Worst possible scenario.
Okay, Mandel would have actually been worst, but Ryan had always had a strange jealousy of Probst. Silly, really; there was no universe in which that … person was more handsome than Ryan, and if there was, Simon didn't want to live in it. He went back inside and sat down, and his pocket was vibrating:
just say it here and get it over with not in front of other people
Simon's eyes widened and Elton leaned over. "How bad is he?"
Simon showed him the screen.
Elton winced, which was dead unhelpful. "I'm glad I don't have to soothe those ruffled feathers tonight."
Ryan was exhausted. He'd spent most of the parties dodging Kathy Griffin, because he did NOT need to hear it from that see-you-next-tuesday. Simon had only replied to his text with:
Wrong man won. See you at home.
And in fact Ryan hadn't seen much of Simon that evening. As he worked the parties he kept thinking that the good part about everyone in town thinking that you're a robot is that no one can tell when you're faking it.
But when the car came, Simon was in it. Ryan wasn't sure, quite, whether to be glad of that—he loved Simon, but the man wasn't exactly comforting. Then again, Ryan wasn't sure he wanted to be comforted. He wasn't sure what he wanted, full stop.
"Well?" Ryan asked, looking out the window.
"Well, I'm glad I didn't go. Can't believe that Piven idiot won again."
"I know," Ryan said, tapping Simon's outer thigh with the back of his hand. "So, um, what did you think otherwise?"
"I thought Groban was good. That Laugh-In bit was horrid. The set idea was abandoned awfully quickly. Should we watch this John Adams program?"
"I don't think it would hold your interest."
"Right. Hurrah for Mad Men. Maybe people will start smoking again."
Ryan shook his head. "Keep dreaming." He looked out the window again. "Where are we going? This isn't the way home."
"I know," Simon said. "Also, if I know you, you haven't eaten anything since what, 3pm?"
"I've had two protein bars since then, actually," Ryan said.
"Mmm," Simon replied.
The car turned into a parking lot filled with cars and picnic tables behind a hot dog stand that said "Pink's". "Aww, darling," Ryan said.
After they parked, Simon leaned forward to the driver. "Two stretch chili cheese dogs, onion rings, a black cherry and a root beer," he said, and the driver went out to the line.
"You know," Ryan said, fiddling with his blackberry, "the first time I came here Merv brought me."
"I know. That's why I wanted to bring you here. That, and you'll feel better once you've eaten something bad for you."
"Heh." Ryan fiddled some more, nervously, then said, "You still haven't said anything. How long do I have to wait for the other shoe to drop?"
Simon shrugged. "What is there to say, Ryan? Probst hosts no other shows, owns no other shows, and is marrying a girl he met when she was a contestant on his little show. Really, what else does he have?"
"I met you on the show."
"Yes, but I'm not a losing contestant; I'm one of the top 100 TV figures of all time."
"You were number 100, Simon."
"Still on the list."
"Well … I still have an Emmy, and you don't!"
"There you go," Simon muttered.
"And I'll win more, too. I'll win tons. I have lots of shows."
Simon nodded. "I'm sure you will."
"Merv always said it's better to be behind the scenes."
"I don't have to tell you he'd be proud of you, Ryan, because he already did." Simon looked up and saw the driver coming back to the car. "Feel better?"
Ryan blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
"Good. Eat your hot dog."
Title: Pinks
Pairing: American Idol: Simon Cowell/Ryan Seacrest
Rating: PG
Summary: In which Simon figures out how to comfort a Ryan who doesn't want to be comforted.
Length: 775 words.
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Insta-reaction to the Emmys. Insta-beta'd by
ali_wildgooseSimon had said last year that he wouldn't go again and he didn't. He watched the show at a party, sitting with Elton John and some other friends; Randy was around someplace. When it started running long he received increasingly frustrated texts. Say what you will about Ryan's job hosting the previous year—he got that show in on time.
When Ryan's category came up he could feel that people were watching him, and he was annoyed, so when they took the break he went out back to smoke a cigarette. He could see the screen from where he was, through one of the windows, and he thought, "please, let it be Bergeron."
But it was Probst. Worst possible scenario.
Okay, Mandel would have actually been worst, but Ryan had always had a strange jealousy of Probst. Silly, really; there was no universe in which that … person was more handsome than Ryan, and if there was, Simon didn't want to live in it. He went back inside and sat down, and his pocket was vibrating:
just say it here and get it over with not in front of other people
Simon's eyes widened and Elton leaned over. "How bad is he?"
Simon showed him the screen.
Elton winced, which was dead unhelpful. "I'm glad I don't have to soothe those ruffled feathers tonight."
Ryan was exhausted. He'd spent most of the parties dodging Kathy Griffin, because he did NOT need to hear it from that see-you-next-tuesday. Simon had only replied to his text with:
Wrong man won. See you at home.
And in fact Ryan hadn't seen much of Simon that evening. As he worked the parties he kept thinking that the good part about everyone in town thinking that you're a robot is that no one can tell when you're faking it.
But when the car came, Simon was in it. Ryan wasn't sure, quite, whether to be glad of that—he loved Simon, but the man wasn't exactly comforting. Then again, Ryan wasn't sure he wanted to be comforted. He wasn't sure what he wanted, full stop.
"Well?" Ryan asked, looking out the window.
"Well, I'm glad I didn't go. Can't believe that Piven idiot won again."
"I know," Ryan said, tapping Simon's outer thigh with the back of his hand. "So, um, what did you think otherwise?"
"I thought Groban was good. That Laugh-In bit was horrid. The set idea was abandoned awfully quickly. Should we watch this John Adams program?"
"I don't think it would hold your interest."
"Right. Hurrah for Mad Men. Maybe people will start smoking again."
Ryan shook his head. "Keep dreaming." He looked out the window again. "Where are we going? This isn't the way home."
"I know," Simon said. "Also, if I know you, you haven't eaten anything since what, 3pm?"
"I've had two protein bars since then, actually," Ryan said.
"Mmm," Simon replied.
The car turned into a parking lot filled with cars and picnic tables behind a hot dog stand that said "Pink's". "Aww, darling," Ryan said.
After they parked, Simon leaned forward to the driver. "Two stretch chili cheese dogs, onion rings, a black cherry and a root beer," he said, and the driver went out to the line.
"You know," Ryan said, fiddling with his blackberry, "the first time I came here Merv brought me."
"I know. That's why I wanted to bring you here. That, and you'll feel better once you've eaten something bad for you."
"Heh." Ryan fiddled some more, nervously, then said, "You still haven't said anything. How long do I have to wait for the other shoe to drop?"
Simon shrugged. "What is there to say, Ryan? Probst hosts no other shows, owns no other shows, and is marrying a girl he met when she was a contestant on his little show. Really, what else does he have?"
"I met you on the show."
"Yes, but I'm not a losing contestant; I'm one of the top 100 TV figures of all time."
"You were number 100, Simon."
"Still on the list."
"Well … I still have an Emmy, and you don't!"
"There you go," Simon muttered.
"And I'll win more, too. I'll win tons. I have lots of shows."
Simon nodded. "I'm sure you will."
"Merv always said it's better to be behind the scenes."
"I don't have to tell you he'd be proud of you, Ryan, because he already did." Simon looked up and saw the driver coming back to the car. "Feel better?"
Ryan blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
"Good. Eat your hot dog."
