SGA Oscar!Fic: Idol
Mar. 5th, 2006 04:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinityofoneI am so insanely jealous of everyone who gets to watch the Oscars tonight. I don’t get to, so what follows can partly be blamed on accidents of time and space.
It can also, like so many things, be blamed on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
siriaeve. ;-) A few weeks ago, she and I were having another one of our crazy (typical) conversations, during which one of us said, “Hey, you know what would be funny? If John were a movie star and Rodney were his agent!” Now, any sane person would have left it at that—ha ha, chuckle, yeah. But I never claimed to be sane.
Further,hackthis had to come along at just the wrong (right?) moment and pimp Entourage to me. And then blueandomlettes had to go be all generous or whatever and send me the first six episodes.
Plus, I totally promised sex-in-a-limo a while back. *eg* And so:
Title: Idol
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Length: ~3550 words
Summary: AU Oscar!fic.
Less than an hour ‘til showtime, and John’s smile looked brittle enough to break.
“It’s fine,” he told Karma, the stylist. “Really. Really. It’s fine.”
Karma pursed her unnaturally full lips. “But...maybe some mousse?”
“Hey! Just a sec,” Rodney added, tugging his headset a short distance away from his mouth. “Hey. If he said it’s fine, it’s fine. You can...” He waved his hand. “Yes. Leave. Thank you.” He yanked the mic back up to his mouth. “Right. I’m listening.” He flashed a hand in John’s direction: Five minutes. “No, I don’t care if Matthew McConaughey’s interested! You want the best, baby, I know you do. And I’m looking at the best right now. He’s sitting right here, all dressed up and ready to go win an Oscar. Uh-huh. Well, I look forward to that call, but you better start dialing now, ‘cause these lines are going to be ringing off the hook once we’ve got the gold. Right. Love you, too, babe.” He switched off the phone and tossed the headset onto the counter. “Idiot.”
“I’m not going to have to make a formal apology to anyone again, right?” John asked, squinting nervously at his reflection in the plasma-screen TV hanging above the microwave. He frowned. “Rodney, she did something to it.”
Rodney was nervously checking his watch. “It’s—” He caught John’s distressed expression. “Oh, come here,” he said, stepping forward. He pushed his fingers up into John’s hair—more recognizable, said an article in Entertainment Weekly, than George Clooney’s chin, than Julia Roberts’ smile, than John Sheppard’s very own profile—and scratched his fingers around, massaging John’s scalp and working most of the product out. “There,” he said, stepping back, satisfied. He wiped his hand on the $2,000 drapes. “It looks ready to star in its own movie. Now can we go?”
“You know, I’m the one who’s supposed to be nervous, not you,” John said, giving his reflection one more anxious glance and possibly mumbling “Bad Karma” under his breath.
“Well, I’m being nervous on your behalf,” Rodney said, as they stepped out the front door to where Steven was waiting with the limo. Rodney pushed past John and tumbled inside. “It’s part of my job.
“Unlike, I should remind you,” he added, as John slid in beside him and Steven closed the door, “being your date to the Oscars, which, don’t get me wrong, I will appreciate on a purely visceral level—it’s not often one gets to be in sniffing distance of Angelina Jolie—but Buffy—” that was John’s publicist “—was on my case for four hours last night. This is going to cause more rumors and speculation than the time Kevin Spacey arrived at the ceremony arm in arm with his mom.”
“You should have called Kevin Spacey,” John said lightly. “We could have gone together, saved Access Hollywood from having to do two stories instead of one.”
Rodney ignored this. “You know,” he said, “I was once mistaken for Kevin Spacey at a restaurant. A lady from Missoula, Montana gave me a jar of jam.”
John had heard this story before, and he’d been meaning to ask: “Why jam?”
A shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe Kevin Spacey likes jam?”
“Call Access Hollywood,” John said, leaning back, staring out the darkened window as they slid (or rather, lurched: there was construction going on, and orange traffic cones littered everywhere) down Sunset Boulevard. “They can do a story on that, too.”
“Then there was the guy who stopped me in Whole Foods to tell me how much he enjoyed Kill Bill...”
“I’m not going to win,” John said.
Rodney sat up too quickly, scraping his head against the limo’s ceiling. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not going to win,” John repeated. He shrugged his shoulders. “I just wanted you to know that I know.”
Rodney opened his mouth, the denial ready on his lips.
“Don’t,” John said. He laughed, without humor. “You really suck at lying, Rodney.”
“Hey!” said Rodney, insulted. “I’m an agent! Lying’s the first item on my resume! I’m a fantastic liar!”
“Yeah, well,” John said, the corners of his mouth curving up in something that was almost a smile. “You really suck at lying to me.”
Rodney folded his arms over his chest, sinking back into the seat. “I hate you,” he groused. “Why can’t you be stupid and easily manipulated like everyone else’s clients?”
The smile grew, just a tad.
“But no, there have to be actual thoughts being formed beneath that trademark ‘do of yours, and I have to worry about you not just blindly doing everything I tell you, and you getting into political debates with Jay Leno when you’re supposed to be promoting your movie, and David Duchovny constantly monopolizing you at parties.”
“Dei sub numine viget,” John said cheerily. “Us Princeton alumns need to stick together.
“It’s really okay, though,” he added as Rodney mumbled something about Yale Law! Harvard School of Business! “I mean, I still can’t believe I was even nominated.”
“It is hard to believe that anyone at SAG has any sense,” Rodney admitted. “But John, you know— Your performance—”
“Washed up TV actors don’t win Oscars, Rodney,” John said tightly. “No, it’s okay,” he insisted, as Rodney started sputtering again. “I know I have a good fanbase from Crossing Into Blue, and I know you’ve done a lot to keep them loyal. But the Academy’s a bunch of sixty-year-old men who maybe occasionally used to tune in for Judging Amy. They—” He swallowed. “This was a courtesy nom. ‘Thank you for fifteen years of your life. Now go back to Jersey.’ You know as well as I do that they’re never going to take me seriously.”
John would never tell him this, but Rodney was a terrible actor. He could never fully embody the persona he tried to project: his eyes always gave him away.
Now Rodney looked at him, wide blue gaze, and lifted his chin. “You deserve—”
John turned away. “We’re here,” he said, as the limo pulled up in front of the Kodak Theatre. “C’mon,” he said, as the door opened and the late afternoon California sunlight poured in. “Smile, Rodney,” and the grin he flashed in demonstration was as sharp and strong as pointed steel.
*
Making his way up the red carpet, John answered questions about his hair, the chain of amusement parks he was rumored to be thinking about buying (“Only rumors, but that’s not a bad idea”), his hair, how he felt being nominated (“Honored, really honored”), who did his hair, whether he was surprised by Crossing Into Blue’s sudden cancelation (“Yes”), whether he’d permit them to touch his hair (“Um. You can touch McKay’s hair.” “Hey!”), why he hadn’t brought his girlfriend—and who was it he was dating again? (“Really, there are just too many lovely ladies to choose from—I wouldn’t want to insult the others by singling one out”), and his hair. He smiled amiably through this moving interrogation, shoulders back and easy, but as they neared the end of the line, his hand sought Rodney’s arm, nails biting deep enough to leave marks.
“She’s coming,” he hissed. “Quick, do your thing.”
Rodney’s mouth spread into a wide, shark-like grin. “Hello, Joan,” he said.
Awestruck spectators watched as, in a complete defiance of the laws of multiple facelifts and the best Beverly Hills Botox, the smile sagged. The microphone drooped. She fled.
“Oh yeah,” Rodney said, patting down his lapels, “she’s totally hot for me.”
John gave him a comically appalled look, and several flashbulbs went off, practically ensuring its presence in People Magazine next week. “Rodney, she’s Joan Rivers.”
“Sometimes I disgust myself,” Rodney admitted. He sounded mournful. “A sense of shame: it’s my one major failing as an agent.”
“I, on the other hand,” John whispered, “am the envy of every single person on the red carpet.” He caught Samuel L. Jackson’s eye as Joan descended and met his jealous expression with a smirk.
“Hey,” said Rodney, noticing this, “if you run into him at the bar, give him this, okay? Thanks.” He pressed one of the thousand business cards he kept secreted about his person (“Trick I learned from an old friend”) firmly into John’s hand.
John snorted softly. “You think Samuel L. Jackson is going to dump his agent and ask you to represent him just because you frighten Joan Rivers?”
Rodney gave him the look he usually reserved for waiters who got his order wrong, women who wore Uggs with mini skirts, and studio heads.
“Actually, there’s a distinct possibility,” John amended, and tucked the card away.
The show was starting soon, so the were rushed past the canapés (“Relax, Rodney, they’ll be plenty at the afterparties”) and into the theater itself, down to their fourth row seats (sort of the nominees—unlikely to win area, John thought, nodding to Johnny Depp). Rodney stumbled into his seat after trodding on Charlize Theron’s foot and getting way too excited about it for someone who had been in the business for ten years, and then the warning announcement came on; and the camera was rolling; and they were on the air, they were off and running.
John settled back and tried to enjoy the show. Jon Stewart was hosting again, and he was funny and engaging (despite making the obvious crack about John’s hair winning an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor); but as the ceremony crept slowly into its third hour and through yet another tedious musical number, John began to feel itchy, like something was trying to claw its way out of his skin. At the next commercial break, he pushed past Rodney and walked stiffly up the aisle.
In the bathroom, he waited until Clint Eastwood had finished using the urinal, then bent over the sink and splashed water on his face. He would look blotchy now, but at least he would be able to breathe.
He was still braced against the cool marble sink, attempting to do just that, when Rodney barreled into the room. “What do you think you’re doing, trying to become the next Renée Zellweger? Your category’s about to be called!”
“I just need a moment, all right?” He glanced up. He saw Rodney: arms folded, worry etched across his forehead, bathed in the soft golden light filtering through the bathroom’s ridiculous Art Deco sconces. His fingers slipped on the wet marble; reaching out: “Rodney. Rodney, just—”
“Yeah, okay,” stepping forward, into his arms, “manly hug, okay.”
“Thank you,” John said, into Rodney’s shoulder. “You’ve always—thank you.”
Rodney’s manly backpats had dissolved into anxious circles against tense shoulderblades, wrinkling the material of John’s $4,000 Armani suit; John really had to hope that Clint wasn’t going to come back, having remembered that he had forgotten to wash his hands.
Then John thought, Fuck it.
Or maybe: Make my day.
Raising his head, cheek scraping against Rodney’s, he found Rodney’s mouth and he kissed him. He’d kissed lots of women, both on camera and off, and it always surprised him how different—how wonderfully, refreshingly different—this was.
Rodney sank instinctively into the kiss, pushing John up against the edge of the sink, licking into his mouth. Then he jerked back, sudden and fast, still holding two handfuls of John’s increasingly rumpled suit.
“What are you doing?” he hissed. “We can’t do this here! If we get caught, you’ll never work in this town again!”
“Why,” John growled, “‘cause I’m fucking a man?”
“‘Cause you’re fucking your agent!”
John laughed, quiet and low in his throat. Then he grabbed Rodney by the collar and kissed him again.
Jake Gyllenhaal paused for a moment in the bathroom door; then hastily he retreated into the lobby, wide-eyed, breathing hard.
“So,” John said, drawing back, “when this is all over, when it all falls apart—”
“John—”
“—Rodney. You still have contacts in Vancouver, right?”
Rodney’s expression was intensely irritated—and also, undeniably, affectionate. He reached up and straightened John’s tie, smoothing the creases out of the charcoal silk. “We’ll take the Canadian film industry by storm,” he promised. He pushed John toward the door. “Now, for God’s sake, at least be in your chair when they read your name. Buffy’s going to kill me.”
John walked back out into the auditorium with his shoulders set and kicked his seat-holder out just in time to hear Kate Winslet announce, “And the nominees for Best Actor are...”
Rodney slipped in beside him as his own name was called. He squeezed his hand, swift pressure of palm against palm. John squeezed back—judging from Rodney’s expression, hard enough to hurt.
“And the Oscar goes to—”
John sucked in a breath. His world whited out.
Then there was clapping, echoing applause, and Rodney screeching “Holy crap!” into his ear and jerking him up, yanking him up to his feet. Hands on his back, pushing him forward: he was vaguely aware of walking down the aisle instead of up, of being surrounded by beautiful, beaming faces. Somehow he made the steps without tripping. He realized he was smiling, broad and sloppy and completely unlike...and somebody pushed the statue into his hands, solid and heavy and real.
“Wow,” he said, staring out into the crowd, finding the face he was looking for, “Thanks.”
*
“Who am I, Chad Lowe?” Rodney demanded as John fell (gracefully) into the limo.
“Huh?” he said.
“You didn’t thank me!” Rodney said, but his grin was almost as wide as John’s. He stared at the statue—both of them did—like Indiana Jones before the golden idol. “I’m willing to make the sacrifice, however,” Rodney continued, absently, “since it got you into the record books. Buffy’s going to be thrilled.”
“What?” said John. It was so shiny.
“You just beat out Alfred Hitchcock,” Rodney explained, “for the shortest acceptance speech in Oscar history.”
“Oh,” John said. He looked down at the statue in his lap, then up at Rodney. “I was somewhat...overwhelmed.”
Rodney’s face was all big, crooked grin; John loved it, loved to see it. “Yes, well,” Rodney said, smiling at him, “you—”
His phone rang.
“Ha!” he said. “And that’ll be Warners calling back to beg. This is gonna be—hey!”
John snatched the headset out of Rodney’s hand and tossed it behind him onto the seat. Pinning Rodney against the side of the car, “Why don’t we make ‘em sweat?” he said.
For a second, Rodney looked torn. Then John pressed more firmly into his lap, and the indecision melted away. “I like the way you think,” he said, finally, nipping at John’s lower lip.
“Really?” John said. “You sure you don’t want to trade me in for a younger, stupider client?”
Rodney was fumbling at the unfamiliar buttons on John’s suit pants. “You sure you don’t want to run away to Canada?”
The limo took a turn a little awkwardly, and they both were jostled, limbs tangling even further. Rodney’s face registered pain as something hard and pointy dug into his side.
John’s laugh was neither particularly manly nor especially dignified. “Is that my Oscar or am I just happy to see you?”
Rodney rolled his eyes. “You’ve been waiting all night to say that, haven’t you?”
“All night?” John said. “Try fifteen years!”
“I know,” Rodney said, with a placating kiss, “but do you think maybe you can bear to put it down for five minutes? I don’t think I’m quite ready for a threesome.”
“You’re just jealous,” John said, but he set the statue aside.
Much better anyway, to have his hands on Rodney: stroking against the back of his neck, working his way under his collar, loosening that stupid bow tie. Rodney momentarily abandoned his efforts to get John out of his trousers in order to press his hand against John’s face, the side of his jaw: touch his lips, feel him smile. John sucked Rodney’s thumb into his mouth—tasting him, the subtle flavor of his skin—and Rodney ground down against his lap before letting the freed digit slide wetly down John’s chin. “I’m going to blow you,” Rodney said, in the same straight-forward way he would announce, I’m going to meet you for lunch at Kate Mantellini. John was, he’d been told, a difficult client; but he could also be very, very accommodating.
The limo bounced again as Rodney slid down between John’s legs; he’d probably hear complaints about Rodney’s knees later. But now there were just Rodney’s hands strong on his thighs, and the scratch of Rodney’s hair under his fingertips. He circled down, rubbing the delicate shell of Rodney’s right ear; Rodney nuzzled up into his hand as he finally undid John’s fly. “This is mine,” he said, stroking his thumb (John could still taste it in his mouth) along the bottom of John’s dick: “the only part of you that no one else gets to see.”
“Unless we get a really good offer,” John said.
“Well, yeah. Of course.”
John’s chuckle turned into a sigh as Rodney kissed the head of his cock, as he gripped him with solid, callused fingers, with sweat-smooth palm, and jerked him slowly as he sucked. They were gliding through Beverly Hills, and for once, staring out through tinted windows, John didn’t feel like an impostor. He felt like he owned this town.
When he came it was almost gentle, a long, slow release. He pet Rodney’s head with the back of his knuckles, then eagerly leaned back as Rodney clambered up his body to kiss him. John always liked that, tasting his come in Rodney’s mouth. He felt well-looked after.
Steven was taking the long way ‘round: they were contractually required to be fashionably late: they had plenty of time. Rodney’s erection was a firm weight against John’s side, but Rodney seemed perfectly content to keep kissing him, to keep necking like a couple of teenagers, on their way back from the senior prom.
John was content, too. Content but still greedy: he wanted more, he wanted skin, and while they couldn’t really get naked in the back of the limo, he could free Rodney’s cock and touch that expanse of flesh, run his hand lazily up and down the shaft, occasionally flicking his thumb up to tease the head. Rodney sighed and shifted against him, half in and half out of his lap, leg squeezed firmly between John’s knees. They rocked with the movement of the car, and Rodney arched his neck, panting hotly. “John, John—” he said, and John loved the way Rodney said his name, like he knew the person he was addressing, like it was really his.
But at the same time John’s brain was filled with another realization: “Academy Award Winner John Sheppard!” he declared.
They hit a bump, sending Rodney tumbling forward against John’s chest. “While I’m very proud,” Rodney said, extracting himself—though not fully, not from John’s hand—“I am not calling you that in bed.”
John rubbed his nose against Rodney’s neck, then tilted his head up and nibbled Rodney’s ear. “No, but they have to now. Like in trailers and stuff.” Another bite, firm on the lobe. “My agent might demand it.”
“Your agent might—mhrgh,” Rodney said, as John scraped his teeth across Rodney’s neck, teasing a favorite patch of skin just above his jugular. “Can’t—hickey—” Rodney warned. “Someone might—” But no one would notice. Everyone would be too busy looking at John; and maybe they’d lower their gaze for once, see beyond the top of his skull, the upper layer—even if it was just the glint of gold in his hand that caught their eyes. It was certainly a start.
“Look at me, look at me,” John said, drawing back, blinking up into Rodney’s face, his eyes. Rodney met his gaze head on: unflinching, unawed. No—realistically pleased with what was there, with what there was.
“You movie stars,” he said, arching into John’s hand, and came.
Then he said, “Oh shit.”
John looked down at his $500 shirt, now striped with Rodney’s come. “Shit,” he agreed.
They had afterparties to go to; John—and more importantly, his statue—couldn’t not make an appearance. “It’s all right, don’t worry,” said Rodney McKay, agent extraordinare, “I’ll think of something.”
Which was how John Sheppard—pardon, Academy Award Winner John Sheppard—ended up arriving at the Governor’s Ball wearing his suit jacket open and loose around his hips, an old t-shirt of Rodney’s thrown on underneath.
He made the cover of Us, People, Entertainment Weekly, InStyle and The National Enquirer (“Oscar Winner: ‘I Won’t Be Satisfied Until I’ve Bought Out Six Flags!’”).
Within a week, sales of I’m With Genius tees had gone up 300%.
Rodney signed Samuel L. Jackson. John got a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame—the good bit, barely a stone’s throw from Steve McQueen’s.
They made many more movies (some of them in Canada, but only because that suddenly became cool), and lots and lots of money, all without John having to show his penis to anybody but Rodney.
(And they both lived happily ever after.)
*************
NOTES:
1. This is of course 100% based on how Hollywood really is. Or on an article I read in a magazine once.
2. John’s canceled TV show was going to be called Into the Blue after the USAF slogan: ‘Cross Into the Blue.’ Then Siria pointed out that that’s also the name of a bad Jessica Alba movie. Curse you, Jessica Alba, CURSE YOU!
3. And because Siria was sad, I would just like to clarify that Johnny Depp wins the Best Actor Oscar the very next year. He invites John and Rodney to come celebrate at his house in France, where they drink lots of wine and have lots and lots of sex. (Johnny can join in, if you really want.)
4. Clint Eastwood is so going to sue me for implying that he doesn’t wash his hands after he takes a piss.
5. I love L.A. Unironically. The end.
It can also, like so many things, be blamed on
siriaeve. ;-) A few weeks ago, she and I were having another one of our crazy (typical) conversations, during which one of us said, “Hey, you know what would be funny? If John were a movie star and Rodney were his agent!” Now, any sane person would have left it at that—ha ha, chuckle, yeah. But I never claimed to be sane.Further,
hackthis had to come along at just the wrong (right?) moment and pimp Entourage to me. And then blueandomlettes had to go be all generous or whatever and send me the first six episodes.Plus, I totally promised sex-in-a-limo a while back. *eg* And so:
Title: Idol
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Length: ~3550 words
Summary: AU Oscar!fic.
“We can’t do this here! If we get caught, you’ll never work in this town again!”
“Why, ‘cause I’m fucking a man?”
“‘Cause you’re fucking your agent!”
Less than an hour ‘til showtime, and John’s smile looked brittle enough to break.
“It’s fine,” he told Karma, the stylist. “Really. Really. It’s fine.”
Karma pursed her unnaturally full lips. “But...maybe some mousse?”
“Hey! Just a sec,” Rodney added, tugging his headset a short distance away from his mouth. “Hey. If he said it’s fine, it’s fine. You can...” He waved his hand. “Yes. Leave. Thank you.” He yanked the mic back up to his mouth. “Right. I’m listening.” He flashed a hand in John’s direction: Five minutes. “No, I don’t care if Matthew McConaughey’s interested! You want the best, baby, I know you do. And I’m looking at the best right now. He’s sitting right here, all dressed up and ready to go win an Oscar. Uh-huh. Well, I look forward to that call, but you better start dialing now, ‘cause these lines are going to be ringing off the hook once we’ve got the gold. Right. Love you, too, babe.” He switched off the phone and tossed the headset onto the counter. “Idiot.”
“I’m not going to have to make a formal apology to anyone again, right?” John asked, squinting nervously at his reflection in the plasma-screen TV hanging above the microwave. He frowned. “Rodney, she did something to it.”
Rodney was nervously checking his watch. “It’s—” He caught John’s distressed expression. “Oh, come here,” he said, stepping forward. He pushed his fingers up into John’s hair—more recognizable, said an article in Entertainment Weekly, than George Clooney’s chin, than Julia Roberts’ smile, than John Sheppard’s very own profile—and scratched his fingers around, massaging John’s scalp and working most of the product out. “There,” he said, stepping back, satisfied. He wiped his hand on the $2,000 drapes. “It looks ready to star in its own movie. Now can we go?”
“You know, I’m the one who’s supposed to be nervous, not you,” John said, giving his reflection one more anxious glance and possibly mumbling “Bad Karma” under his breath.
“Well, I’m being nervous on your behalf,” Rodney said, as they stepped out the front door to where Steven was waiting with the limo. Rodney pushed past John and tumbled inside. “It’s part of my job.
“Unlike, I should remind you,” he added, as John slid in beside him and Steven closed the door, “being your date to the Oscars, which, don’t get me wrong, I will appreciate on a purely visceral level—it’s not often one gets to be in sniffing distance of Angelina Jolie—but Buffy—” that was John’s publicist “—was on my case for four hours last night. This is going to cause more rumors and speculation than the time Kevin Spacey arrived at the ceremony arm in arm with his mom.”
“You should have called Kevin Spacey,” John said lightly. “We could have gone together, saved Access Hollywood from having to do two stories instead of one.”
Rodney ignored this. “You know,” he said, “I was once mistaken for Kevin Spacey at a restaurant. A lady from Missoula, Montana gave me a jar of jam.”
John had heard this story before, and he’d been meaning to ask: “Why jam?”
A shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe Kevin Spacey likes jam?”
“Call Access Hollywood,” John said, leaning back, staring out the darkened window as they slid (or rather, lurched: there was construction going on, and orange traffic cones littered everywhere) down Sunset Boulevard. “They can do a story on that, too.”
“Then there was the guy who stopped me in Whole Foods to tell me how much he enjoyed Kill Bill...”
“I’m not going to win,” John said.
Rodney sat up too quickly, scraping his head against the limo’s ceiling. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not going to win,” John repeated. He shrugged his shoulders. “I just wanted you to know that I know.”
Rodney opened his mouth, the denial ready on his lips.
“Don’t,” John said. He laughed, without humor. “You really suck at lying, Rodney.”
“Hey!” said Rodney, insulted. “I’m an agent! Lying’s the first item on my resume! I’m a fantastic liar!”
“Yeah, well,” John said, the corners of his mouth curving up in something that was almost a smile. “You really suck at lying to me.”
Rodney folded his arms over his chest, sinking back into the seat. “I hate you,” he groused. “Why can’t you be stupid and easily manipulated like everyone else’s clients?”
The smile grew, just a tad.
“But no, there have to be actual thoughts being formed beneath that trademark ‘do of yours, and I have to worry about you not just blindly doing everything I tell you, and you getting into political debates with Jay Leno when you’re supposed to be promoting your movie, and David Duchovny constantly monopolizing you at parties.”
“Dei sub numine viget,” John said cheerily. “Us Princeton alumns need to stick together.
“It’s really okay, though,” he added as Rodney mumbled something about Yale Law! Harvard School of Business! “I mean, I still can’t believe I was even nominated.”
“It is hard to believe that anyone at SAG has any sense,” Rodney admitted. “But John, you know— Your performance—”
“Washed up TV actors don’t win Oscars, Rodney,” John said tightly. “No, it’s okay,” he insisted, as Rodney started sputtering again. “I know I have a good fanbase from Crossing Into Blue, and I know you’ve done a lot to keep them loyal. But the Academy’s a bunch of sixty-year-old men who maybe occasionally used to tune in for Judging Amy. They—” He swallowed. “This was a courtesy nom. ‘Thank you for fifteen years of your life. Now go back to Jersey.’ You know as well as I do that they’re never going to take me seriously.”
John would never tell him this, but Rodney was a terrible actor. He could never fully embody the persona he tried to project: his eyes always gave him away.
Now Rodney looked at him, wide blue gaze, and lifted his chin. “You deserve—”
John turned away. “We’re here,” he said, as the limo pulled up in front of the Kodak Theatre. “C’mon,” he said, as the door opened and the late afternoon California sunlight poured in. “Smile, Rodney,” and the grin he flashed in demonstration was as sharp and strong as pointed steel.
*
Making his way up the red carpet, John answered questions about his hair, the chain of amusement parks he was rumored to be thinking about buying (“Only rumors, but that’s not a bad idea”), his hair, how he felt being nominated (“Honored, really honored”), who did his hair, whether he was surprised by Crossing Into Blue’s sudden cancelation (“Yes”), whether he’d permit them to touch his hair (“Um. You can touch McKay’s hair.” “Hey!”), why he hadn’t brought his girlfriend—and who was it he was dating again? (“Really, there are just too many lovely ladies to choose from—I wouldn’t want to insult the others by singling one out”), and his hair. He smiled amiably through this moving interrogation, shoulders back and easy, but as they neared the end of the line, his hand sought Rodney’s arm, nails biting deep enough to leave marks.
“She’s coming,” he hissed. “Quick, do your thing.”
Rodney’s mouth spread into a wide, shark-like grin. “Hello, Joan,” he said.
Awestruck spectators watched as, in a complete defiance of the laws of multiple facelifts and the best Beverly Hills Botox, the smile sagged. The microphone drooped. She fled.
“Oh yeah,” Rodney said, patting down his lapels, “she’s totally hot for me.”
John gave him a comically appalled look, and several flashbulbs went off, practically ensuring its presence in People Magazine next week. “Rodney, she’s Joan Rivers.”
“Sometimes I disgust myself,” Rodney admitted. He sounded mournful. “A sense of shame: it’s my one major failing as an agent.”
“I, on the other hand,” John whispered, “am the envy of every single person on the red carpet.” He caught Samuel L. Jackson’s eye as Joan descended and met his jealous expression with a smirk.
“Hey,” said Rodney, noticing this, “if you run into him at the bar, give him this, okay? Thanks.” He pressed one of the thousand business cards he kept secreted about his person (“Trick I learned from an old friend”) firmly into John’s hand.
John snorted softly. “You think Samuel L. Jackson is going to dump his agent and ask you to represent him just because you frighten Joan Rivers?”
Rodney gave him the look he usually reserved for waiters who got his order wrong, women who wore Uggs with mini skirts, and studio heads.
“Actually, there’s a distinct possibility,” John amended, and tucked the card away.
The show was starting soon, so the were rushed past the canapés (“Relax, Rodney, they’ll be plenty at the afterparties”) and into the theater itself, down to their fourth row seats (sort of the nominees—unlikely to win area, John thought, nodding to Johnny Depp). Rodney stumbled into his seat after trodding on Charlize Theron’s foot and getting way too excited about it for someone who had been in the business for ten years, and then the warning announcement came on; and the camera was rolling; and they were on the air, they were off and running.
John settled back and tried to enjoy the show. Jon Stewart was hosting again, and he was funny and engaging (despite making the obvious crack about John’s hair winning an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor); but as the ceremony crept slowly into its third hour and through yet another tedious musical number, John began to feel itchy, like something was trying to claw its way out of his skin. At the next commercial break, he pushed past Rodney and walked stiffly up the aisle.
In the bathroom, he waited until Clint Eastwood had finished using the urinal, then bent over the sink and splashed water on his face. He would look blotchy now, but at least he would be able to breathe.
He was still braced against the cool marble sink, attempting to do just that, when Rodney barreled into the room. “What do you think you’re doing, trying to become the next Renée Zellweger? Your category’s about to be called!”
“I just need a moment, all right?” He glanced up. He saw Rodney: arms folded, worry etched across his forehead, bathed in the soft golden light filtering through the bathroom’s ridiculous Art Deco sconces. His fingers slipped on the wet marble; reaching out: “Rodney. Rodney, just—”
“Yeah, okay,” stepping forward, into his arms, “manly hug, okay.”
“Thank you,” John said, into Rodney’s shoulder. “You’ve always—thank you.”
Rodney’s manly backpats had dissolved into anxious circles against tense shoulderblades, wrinkling the material of John’s $4,000 Armani suit; John really had to hope that Clint wasn’t going to come back, having remembered that he had forgotten to wash his hands.
Then John thought, Fuck it.
Or maybe: Make my day.
Raising his head, cheek scraping against Rodney’s, he found Rodney’s mouth and he kissed him. He’d kissed lots of women, both on camera and off, and it always surprised him how different—how wonderfully, refreshingly different—this was.
Rodney sank instinctively into the kiss, pushing John up against the edge of the sink, licking into his mouth. Then he jerked back, sudden and fast, still holding two handfuls of John’s increasingly rumpled suit.
“What are you doing?” he hissed. “We can’t do this here! If we get caught, you’ll never work in this town again!”
“Why,” John growled, “‘cause I’m fucking a man?”
“‘Cause you’re fucking your agent!”
John laughed, quiet and low in his throat. Then he grabbed Rodney by the collar and kissed him again.
Jake Gyllenhaal paused for a moment in the bathroom door; then hastily he retreated into the lobby, wide-eyed, breathing hard.
“So,” John said, drawing back, “when this is all over, when it all falls apart—”
“John—”
“—Rodney. You still have contacts in Vancouver, right?”
Rodney’s expression was intensely irritated—and also, undeniably, affectionate. He reached up and straightened John’s tie, smoothing the creases out of the charcoal silk. “We’ll take the Canadian film industry by storm,” he promised. He pushed John toward the door. “Now, for God’s sake, at least be in your chair when they read your name. Buffy’s going to kill me.”
John walked back out into the auditorium with his shoulders set and kicked his seat-holder out just in time to hear Kate Winslet announce, “And the nominees for Best Actor are...”
Rodney slipped in beside him as his own name was called. He squeezed his hand, swift pressure of palm against palm. John squeezed back—judging from Rodney’s expression, hard enough to hurt.
“And the Oscar goes to—”
John sucked in a breath. His world whited out.
Then there was clapping, echoing applause, and Rodney screeching “Holy crap!” into his ear and jerking him up, yanking him up to his feet. Hands on his back, pushing him forward: he was vaguely aware of walking down the aisle instead of up, of being surrounded by beautiful, beaming faces. Somehow he made the steps without tripping. He realized he was smiling, broad and sloppy and completely unlike...and somebody pushed the statue into his hands, solid and heavy and real.
“Wow,” he said, staring out into the crowd, finding the face he was looking for, “Thanks.”
*
“Who am I, Chad Lowe?” Rodney demanded as John fell (gracefully) into the limo.
“Huh?” he said.
“You didn’t thank me!” Rodney said, but his grin was almost as wide as John’s. He stared at the statue—both of them did—like Indiana Jones before the golden idol. “I’m willing to make the sacrifice, however,” Rodney continued, absently, “since it got you into the record books. Buffy’s going to be thrilled.”
“What?” said John. It was so shiny.
“You just beat out Alfred Hitchcock,” Rodney explained, “for the shortest acceptance speech in Oscar history.”
“Oh,” John said. He looked down at the statue in his lap, then up at Rodney. “I was somewhat...overwhelmed.”
Rodney’s face was all big, crooked grin; John loved it, loved to see it. “Yes, well,” Rodney said, smiling at him, “you—”
His phone rang.
“Ha!” he said. “And that’ll be Warners calling back to beg. This is gonna be—hey!”
John snatched the headset out of Rodney’s hand and tossed it behind him onto the seat. Pinning Rodney against the side of the car, “Why don’t we make ‘em sweat?” he said.
For a second, Rodney looked torn. Then John pressed more firmly into his lap, and the indecision melted away. “I like the way you think,” he said, finally, nipping at John’s lower lip.
“Really?” John said. “You sure you don’t want to trade me in for a younger, stupider client?”
Rodney was fumbling at the unfamiliar buttons on John’s suit pants. “You sure you don’t want to run away to Canada?”
The limo took a turn a little awkwardly, and they both were jostled, limbs tangling even further. Rodney’s face registered pain as something hard and pointy dug into his side.
John’s laugh was neither particularly manly nor especially dignified. “Is that my Oscar or am I just happy to see you?”
Rodney rolled his eyes. “You’ve been waiting all night to say that, haven’t you?”
“All night?” John said. “Try fifteen years!”
“I know,” Rodney said, with a placating kiss, “but do you think maybe you can bear to put it down for five minutes? I don’t think I’m quite ready for a threesome.”
“You’re just jealous,” John said, but he set the statue aside.
Much better anyway, to have his hands on Rodney: stroking against the back of his neck, working his way under his collar, loosening that stupid bow tie. Rodney momentarily abandoned his efforts to get John out of his trousers in order to press his hand against John’s face, the side of his jaw: touch his lips, feel him smile. John sucked Rodney’s thumb into his mouth—tasting him, the subtle flavor of his skin—and Rodney ground down against his lap before letting the freed digit slide wetly down John’s chin. “I’m going to blow you,” Rodney said, in the same straight-forward way he would announce, I’m going to meet you for lunch at Kate Mantellini. John was, he’d been told, a difficult client; but he could also be very, very accommodating.
The limo bounced again as Rodney slid down between John’s legs; he’d probably hear complaints about Rodney’s knees later. But now there were just Rodney’s hands strong on his thighs, and the scratch of Rodney’s hair under his fingertips. He circled down, rubbing the delicate shell of Rodney’s right ear; Rodney nuzzled up into his hand as he finally undid John’s fly. “This is mine,” he said, stroking his thumb (John could still taste it in his mouth) along the bottom of John’s dick: “the only part of you that no one else gets to see.”
“Unless we get a really good offer,” John said.
“Well, yeah. Of course.”
John’s chuckle turned into a sigh as Rodney kissed the head of his cock, as he gripped him with solid, callused fingers, with sweat-smooth palm, and jerked him slowly as he sucked. They were gliding through Beverly Hills, and for once, staring out through tinted windows, John didn’t feel like an impostor. He felt like he owned this town.
When he came it was almost gentle, a long, slow release. He pet Rodney’s head with the back of his knuckles, then eagerly leaned back as Rodney clambered up his body to kiss him. John always liked that, tasting his come in Rodney’s mouth. He felt well-looked after.
Steven was taking the long way ‘round: they were contractually required to be fashionably late: they had plenty of time. Rodney’s erection was a firm weight against John’s side, but Rodney seemed perfectly content to keep kissing him, to keep necking like a couple of teenagers, on their way back from the senior prom.
John was content, too. Content but still greedy: he wanted more, he wanted skin, and while they couldn’t really get naked in the back of the limo, he could free Rodney’s cock and touch that expanse of flesh, run his hand lazily up and down the shaft, occasionally flicking his thumb up to tease the head. Rodney sighed and shifted against him, half in and half out of his lap, leg squeezed firmly between John’s knees. They rocked with the movement of the car, and Rodney arched his neck, panting hotly. “John, John—” he said, and John loved the way Rodney said his name, like he knew the person he was addressing, like it was really his.
But at the same time John’s brain was filled with another realization: “Academy Award Winner John Sheppard!” he declared.
They hit a bump, sending Rodney tumbling forward against John’s chest. “While I’m very proud,” Rodney said, extracting himself—though not fully, not from John’s hand—“I am not calling you that in bed.”
John rubbed his nose against Rodney’s neck, then tilted his head up and nibbled Rodney’s ear. “No, but they have to now. Like in trailers and stuff.” Another bite, firm on the lobe. “My agent might demand it.”
“Your agent might—mhrgh,” Rodney said, as John scraped his teeth across Rodney’s neck, teasing a favorite patch of skin just above his jugular. “Can’t—hickey—” Rodney warned. “Someone might—” But no one would notice. Everyone would be too busy looking at John; and maybe they’d lower their gaze for once, see beyond the top of his skull, the upper layer—even if it was just the glint of gold in his hand that caught their eyes. It was certainly a start.
“Look at me, look at me,” John said, drawing back, blinking up into Rodney’s face, his eyes. Rodney met his gaze head on: unflinching, unawed. No—realistically pleased with what was there, with what there was.
“You movie stars,” he said, arching into John’s hand, and came.
Then he said, “Oh shit.”
John looked down at his $500 shirt, now striped with Rodney’s come. “Shit,” he agreed.
They had afterparties to go to; John—and more importantly, his statue—couldn’t not make an appearance. “It’s all right, don’t worry,” said Rodney McKay, agent extraordinare, “I’ll think of something.”
Which was how John Sheppard—pardon, Academy Award Winner John Sheppard—ended up arriving at the Governor’s Ball wearing his suit jacket open and loose around his hips, an old t-shirt of Rodney’s thrown on underneath.
He made the cover of Us, People, Entertainment Weekly, InStyle and The National Enquirer (“Oscar Winner: ‘I Won’t Be Satisfied Until I’ve Bought Out Six Flags!’”).
Within a week, sales of I’m With Genius tees had gone up 300%.
Rodney signed Samuel L. Jackson. John got a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame—the good bit, barely a stone’s throw from Steve McQueen’s.
They made many more movies (some of them in Canada, but only because that suddenly became cool), and lots and lots of money, all without John having to show his penis to anybody but Rodney.
(And they both lived happily ever after.)
*************
NOTES:
1. This is of course 100% based on how Hollywood really is. Or on an article I read in a magazine once.
2. John’s canceled TV show was going to be called Into the Blue after the USAF slogan: ‘Cross Into the Blue.’ Then Siria pointed out that that’s also the name of a bad Jessica Alba movie. Curse you, Jessica Alba, CURSE YOU!
3. And because Siria was sad, I would just like to clarify that Johnny Depp wins the Best Actor Oscar the very next year. He invites John and Rodney to come celebrate at his house in France, where they drink lots of wine and have lots and lots of sex. (Johnny can join in, if you really want.)
4. Clint Eastwood is so going to sue me for implying that he doesn’t wash his hands after he takes a piss.
5. I love L.A. Unironically. The end.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-05 08:36 pm (UTC)I don't think it's fair how awesome and fun you made this.