Lest Ye Be Judged: Advocatus Diaboli
Title: Lest Ye Be Judged, Part 4 (of 4): Advocatus Diaboli
Author: dark_orion
Rating: G. Once again, Simon puts the damper on the boysmut. Sorry.
Pairing: Mavid. Do I really need to say at this point?
Summary: Less than four hours ago, Simon would have said that he was absolutely certain of what the outcome would be for this latest season of American Idol. Now, however, an hour and a half after the show had gone off the air for the night, Simon wasn’t as sure.
Warnings, Disclaimers, etc.: Not mine. Implied boy!kissing. Also, I'm super-tired right now. Does that count as a warning?
Author's Notes: And here it is, the final part of "Lest Ye Be Judged." I have to say, this one kicked my ass a little bit. I'm pretty sure I understand Simon's perspective on the final performance night (understand, not agree with :( Bad Simon for dissing Cookie.), but getting it into written word was a little hard. Anyway, I'm glad to have finally gotten it all out. Thank you all for your fantastic feedback so far, and I hope you like it! (P.S. I'm so tired I'm about to pass out on my keyboard, so if anything looks funky, please let me know so that I can fix it when I'm more conscious. Thankies!)
Part One: Lest Ye Be Judged
Part Two: Should Happen to Fall
Part Three: To Reach the Soul
Vignette, Part A: The Fire Itself
Vignette, Part B: The Fire Itself
Advocatus Diaboli
As Simon prowled the corridors of the oversized monstrosity that was the Nokia Theater, cursing that the producers had chosen the most damnably difficult to find room in the underbelly of the building to serve as his temporary dressing room-and that was the last time he called Nigel Lythgoe a “pompous ass,” at least to his face, because really, he should have known that the man would be this petty-the judge was distinctly unhappy, and not only because he’d been roaming back and forth through mostly empty corridors like a directionally challenged idiot for the past ten minutes.
Less than four hours ago, Simon would have said that he was absolutely certain of what the outcome would be for this latest season of American Idol. In fact, he had been telling anyone who asked that the obvious winner was David Cook and that tonight’s final performances were just a formality, as the ending was already assured.
Now, however, an hour and a half after the show had gone off the air for the night, Simon wasn’t as sure.
He had tried not to become invested in the outcome of this season’s competition, but he supposed he should have realized that that was already a lost cause the moment his professional interest in David’s wellbeing as a contestant turned into personal concern for David as an individual, when the idea of the elder David winning the title became less disinterested analysis of who should win and more vested interest in who Simon wanted to win.
That was certainly not to say that Simon didn’t still want David Cook to be named the victor when the finale aired the following night. Out of all the contestants that had been on the show this year, from Hollywood and onward, David had worked the hardest to be where he was, had taken more risks than the rest of the Top 12 combined, and by and large, those risks had always paid off. Simon hated the idea that after all that, David could be robbed of a much-deserved victory just because of the missteps he had made during the final performance night.
Only because there was no one around at the moment to see-the only people not still gathered in the pressroom being the cleaning staff, and they were all mostly going about their business attempting to right the mess in the main theater-Simon allowed himself to lean back against a wall, halfway behind one of countless rolling costume racks, this one filled to capacity with the most hideous array of clothing and accessories Simon had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. He bowed his head as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, sighing deeply.
Truth be told, he should have still been in the pressroom himself instead of wandering the labyrinthine corridors of the Nokia, stalking his own personal Minotaur of a dressing room, but when the opportunity to escape early had presented itself, Simon had jumped at the chance, glaring viciously enough at the handful of reporters who tried to intercept him as he made his way out that they all backed off without his having to say a word.
His reasons for leaving had been twofold. One, there was only so long a person could stand in front of what amounted to a glorified shower curtain, despite the American Idol and FOX logos stamped on every bit of free space, and still maintain a pretense of dignity. Two, he had been disappointed enough in the show during the actual broadcast, and he had no desire to rehash it over and over again, as it seemed that was all the reporters wanted him to do.
The press had been unaccountably fixated on his comments about the elder David’s performances, and for the life of him, Simon couldn’t discern why. As far as Simon was concerned, he had been making the same kind of commentary he had all season.
David’s first performance, Simon believed, had been his best of the night. David had sung the song beautifully, had managed to make the song his own while still remaining faithful to the original version. Although Simon agreed with Randy that David could have done more with the song, Simon also felt that that bit of above and beyond shouldn’t be expected of David for every performance, certainly not with the time constraints under which the contestants were currently working.
Unfortunately, David’s two other performances had been something of a letdown. He would not argue that both had been quite good from a technical standpoint-David had sung both songs well, and the physicality of his performance had been engaging. It was the song choice with which Simon took issue.
Certainly Simon had not been expecting Grammy-worthy material-not from the Idol songwriting competition, no-from the ten songs from which the contestants had been allowed to choose, but he felt that David had made the wrong choice selecting “Dream Big.” These were songs that had initially been written and had competed to be the song sung by the winner of American Idol, and as such, there were expectations that came part and parcel with them. Simon prided himself on knowing the Idol audience, what they wanted to see and hear, what they responded to, and he was afraid that David’s song choice had fallen short in those areas. For better or worse, Idol’s audience, both at home and in the theater, responded to slow, melodramatic ballads which showcased the vocal prowess of the contestant, money note after money note. “Dream Big” was none of these things, despite the big ending note, and although David was their resident rock ‘n’ roll singer, Simon was afraid that by singing this particular song at this particular moment, David hadn’t done himself any favors.
The problems presented by the third performance had been similar in nature. For the contestants’ choice segment, it had become the custom for each contestant to choose a song that they had already performed, one that had been an audience favorite-again this was something that the audience had come to expect, and while David had successfully gone against expectation before, Simon feared that choosing to sing a completely new song, instead of one of the many that the members of the core voting audience would sell their souls to hear again, would backfire horribly. As beautiful as “The World I Know” was, and as much as Simon understood the David’s professed desire for the competition to be a progression, the judge wished that David had played it safe, singing “Hello” or “Billie Jean.”
Simon slumped back farther against the wall. His head tilted back to rest against cool plaster, Simon briefly considered simply sliding down to sit on the floor, though remembering the last time he’d tried that, he quickly discarded the idea. It was just that he was so tired and disappointed, and all he wanted to do was find his dressing room, dammit, so that he could sit down on something from which he had the hope of rising again.
Just as Simon was contemplating renewing his search for his elusive dressing room, he heard someone approaching from around the corner about twenty feet to his left. It was probably just another of the cleaning staff, but Simon wasn’t in the mood to put up with anyone, especially since those custodians he’d run into already-some multiple times in his fruitless wanderings-were starting to look at him like he’d lost his mind. The footsteps were too close for escape to be an option, so Simon reached out for the overstocked costume rack that had already been partially in front of him and angled it so that, if he ducked a bit, he would be hidden completely from the left. He was aware that his behavior was rather juvenile, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not if it kept him from having to deal with whoever was approaching.
The sound of the footsteps stopped once whoever it was reached the bend in the corridor, as if pausing to decide whether to continue on down the corridor or travel back the way they’d come and try a different route. However, before the person could decide on a course of action, Simon heard another set of footsteps, these running, coming from the same direction as the first had.
“Mike, what the hell are you doing?” came a voice-out of breath, so presumably from the same source as the running footsteps-and Simon was surprised to realize that it was David’s. The man should have still been in the pressroom being mobbed by reporters; Simon had managed to get away without too much trouble, but he couldn’t figure out how David had escaped, being that he was one of the two remaining stars of the show and the producers were notorious for all but sitting on contestants to keep them answering questions for as long as the reporters asked them. Presuming that “Mike” was Michael Johns-hardly an extreme stretch of the imagination-he should have faced a similar set of complications extracting himself from the media, and Simon could well imagine that there were several panicked contestant handlers currently searching for the two men.
Which raised the question: why were they there?
“I know he came down here. I saw him leave.” Yes, indeed Michael Johns, but Simon had never heard him so angry before.
“Who?” David asked, sounding like his breathing was mostly back under control.
“Cowell.” Simon was taken slightly aback by the growl he heard in Michael’s voice. “I swear, once I get my hands on him…”
Although Simon had not been considering stepping out of hiding, because he really had no desire to reveal that he’d been hiding in the first place, that decision was reinforced by Michael’s statement. While Simon was not afraid of the younger man by any means and certainly he never shied away from conflict, his curiosity was peaked; he couldn’t think of anything he’d done to provoke that kind of reaction from Michael, and his current predicament gave him the perfect excuse to eavesdrop. After all, in his time, Simon had made quite a few people angry with him for reasons that he could never determine, so it would be novel, at least, to know what provoked such anger on this occasion.
“C’mon, Mike. You’re not going to do anything to Simon.”
“You wanna bet? After the things he said to you tonight, he’ll be lucky if I only hit him.”
First the reporters and now Michael-for the second time that night, Simon was left wondering why his commentary during show that evening seemed to be so noteworthy. He was positive he’d recall something that provoked this kind of reaction from someone as normally good-humored as Michael Johns.
Simon heard David sigh. “It’s okay, really.”
“No, it’s not,” Michael retorted, almost before the last word was out of David’s mouth. “He insulted you for no reason. You were absolutely fantastic tonight.” When David made a sound as if to contradict that statement, Michael interrupted, “Shut up. You were. And every time he opened his mouth, he sounded like your performance was something he’d found on the bottom of his shoe.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” David broke in quickly. “Hey, he said that my first song was phenomenal.” Even from a distance, Simon could tell that David was making his tone intentionally light, trying to defuse Michael’s anger.
“Yeah, after qualifying it by saying that you looked stiff and tense! And that was the closest he got to saying anything positive about your performances all night.”
“He said I was a good person-that was nice,” David tried again.
“Right before he slammed you yet again. Honestly, not the right song? You sounded amazing, you had the crowd going, and all he can say is that your song choice sucks? What the hell is that? I mean, I thought he was supposed to be…”
“On my side?” David finished. His voice sounding determinedly patient, David continued, “He’s a judge, Mike. He’s supposed to be impartial.”
“Oh, really?” Michael’s voice sounded strained. Simon suspected it was due to an effort to keep from shouting. “Then how do you explain how much he was fawning over Archuleta? Did that look like impartiality to you?”
David’s voice turned hard for the first time. “Now you’re not being fair. Archie did a great job.”
Simon heard Michael sigh, and when the man spoke again, it sounded as if that sigh had taken all Michael’s anger with it. “I know, Dave. I’m sorry. It’s just… I want this for you so bad.”
Simon heard a rustling sound and imagined that David had put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. If it had been put anywhere else, Simon thought he was better off not knowing about it.
“I know you do, and I appreciate it. But whatever happens, I’m good with it. Archie’s a great kid; I have no problem taking silver to him. I already got you out of this-anything else is just icing.”
Simon was fairly certain the huff of laughter that followed came from Michael. He then heard more rustling, but he decided not to think about that.
“You big sap,” Michael said, smile in his voice.
“This from the man who’s holding one of my favorite t-shirts hostage.”
“Only because it looks better on me.”
“Asshole.” David’s voice was fond, despite the insult.
“Love you, too.”
The noises that Simon heard next were unmistakable, and it was almost enough to make Simon come out of hiding because he had warned them about doing that kind of thing where they could be caught. As it was, he could only could only clap a hand frustratedly over his eyes, hoping that no one else approached or was, God, in earshot.
Fortunately, less than a minute later, both men seemed to come to their senses, and the noises ceased.
David cleared his throat, as if taking a beat to regain his composure. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “We should, ah, get back to the pressroom. I didn’t exactly let the handlers know where I was going, so they’re probably freaking out right now.”
“Yeah,” Michael agreed, voice just as affected.
Simon heard the men take a couple of steps in the direction from which they’d come before they stopped again.
“Wait, your tie-it’s kinda…” Michael said.
“You and your grabby hands.”
“You like my grabby hands-”
That was something that Simon could have lived his whole life without knowing, thanks.
Michael continued, “-especially since they’re going to fix your tie for you.”
David’s grin was audible. “Well, it’s only fair, considering they’re the reason it’s screwed up in the first place.”
“I live to serve,” Michael shot back sarcastically, and Simon could hear the sound of silk sliding along a shirt collar. “There, all better.”
“Good,” David replied. “Now let’s get going before you destroy any more of my clothing.”
“One time…” Michael groaned as two started walking again.
“And you’re never going to live it down either.”
The sound of their footsteps trailed away, intermingled with the sound of laughter.
As the coast cleared, Simon straightened out of his slight crouch, and his hands came up absentmindedly to slide along the top bar of the clothing rack, hangers biting into the flesh of his palms as he braced himself against it, staring across the top of it at the spot the two younger men had occupied a moment ago.
To say that Michael and David’s conversation had given him pause would have been something of an understatement. It had never occurred to Simon that his comments during the broadcast could have been taken in that fashion, but now that he thought about it, though, it seemed that the reporters in the pressroom might have shared Michael’s interpretation of Simon’s commentary, if their repeated questioning was anything to go by-although, to be honest, Simon had been too busy contemplating escape from the madhouse actually to bother listening to what the vultures had to say.
One of the things for which Simon always strived as an American Idol judge was to maintain his self-possession on air. No matter what insults were thrown his direction, no matter what the surprises, good or ill, contestant performances presented, Simon kept his wits about him and crafted his responses in such a way that he knew precisely what their effect on the audience would be. As such, it was more than a little disconcerting for Simon to be confronted with the idea that he might have so misinterpreted his own actions, his own responses.
Simon shoved away from the clothing rack-not terribly violently, although the bang it made as it struck the wall nevertheless was admittedly satisfying-and turned on his heel to head down the hallway in the direction from which he’d originally come. To hell with his dressing room-as much as he’d wanted to change into street clothes before heading home, the need to review the night’s show, a need which seemed to become more pressing with every second, was such that it would not allow more time spent vainly wandering hallways.
Simon followed the brightly lit signs to the closest exit and stepped out the door into the cool night air, striding briskly towards the parking deck.
~~~~
Simon pressed a button on the overly extravagant remote control that allowed him to turn of the television and DVR simultaneously, then carelessly tossed the rather expensive piece of equipment onto the coffee table, uncaring of where it fell. He fell back against the sofa cushions, rubbing viciously at his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, aware that he was probably doing irreparable damage to his tuxedo jacket, which had been hastily thrown over the back of the sofa and was now being crushed under the weight of his body, but that kind of trivial concern paled in the face of the damage that Simon’s miscalculated and frighteningly uncontrolled comments might have done to David.
It wasn’t often that Simon had occasion to feel like a jerk-sure, he’d been dubbed one more times that he could count; however, that was usually by people who reacted poorly to Simon’s particular brand of truth, and since Simon well knew that in the long run the hard truth could be less cruel than a gentle lie, Simon felt no remorse at being the one who delivered such blunt honesty, certainly never felt like a jerk for it.
And it wasn’t the fact that he had been honest with David that Simon regretted now-because after rewatching the night’s show, he still believed that he’d spoken truthfully regarding David’s performances, that although the delivery had been quite good, the content itself was lacking, but now Simon couldn’t help acknowledging that the precise opposite could have been said about his own ‘performances’ during the show earlier that night: while he felt the content of his comments to be spot on, the delivery of said comments was admittedly quite poor.
Simon had never particularly enjoyed watching himself on television-which he was sure would surprise some people unto no end-but this time had been especially unpleasant. He thought he’d started out the night fine, but by the time his on-screen self was criticizing David’s final performance, Simon almost couldn’t bring himself to watch. At the time, in his head, as he’d told David he should have sung “Hello” or “Billie Jean,” it had sounded like sage, reasonable advice, but seeing it now, via the merciless eyes of the television camera, Simon couldn’t believe how much he’d sounded like a petulant child whining that the treat he’d received was not the one he’d wanted.
Pulling his hand from his eyes, he dragged it down over his face, finally allowing it to drop into his lap as he opened his eyes again. The blank television screen stared accusingly back at him, and Simon stood, wincing as his knees popped, and turned his back on it, pacing without a real destination in mind and finding himself in the kitchen.
Simon opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water from its mostly empty interior, twisting off the cap and tossing it into the trashcan, but he didn’t drink. He sat down on one of the stools at the kitchen island, bottle of water on the countertop before him, both hands wrapped around the glass that was beginning to fog with condensation.
As he watched droplets form on the sides of the water bottle, swelling until their weight carried them down the glass to fall chillingly against his hands, Simon reconsidered the night’s show in light of the new perspective into which he’d been forced.
Watching the show back, what had been most clear, aside from his own petty childishness, had been that the final outcome had not been as clear-cut as he’d originally believed it to be. As the show went off the air that night, Simon had believed the younger David’s triumph to be overwhelming, but later, watching the televised version had given him a certain distance from the events of the night, lending him an objectivity that Simon hadn’t realized he’d been lacking.
Simon realized he had become so invested in how the elder David acquitted himself on the show that when the younger man had not performed in precisely the manner Simon had expected of him, Simon had overreacted. He felt that what he’d said still held true, but Simon now wished that he’d kept some of those thoughts to himself, saved them for a time more appropriate to their expression, or at least had found a way of conveying them that didn’t make him sound quite so disrespectful of David.
On the other hand, Simon considered, finally taking a sip of water that was quickly on its way to becoming lukewarm, it might have been better if he’d really intended to be mean. Simon knew that viewers often voted vociferously in reaction to any particularly harsh criticism he gave a contestant, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t used that to his advantage a time or two, when a favorite contestant of his had an off week. If he’d been more cutting in his criticism of David, been more intentionally insulting, Simon could have provoked a similar reaction in the viewing audience; however, as it was, Simon was concerned that the things that he’d said would only be enough to prompt swing voters into calling in for Archuleta.
Taking another swig of water, Simon considered his options. There was nothing he could do now to remedy the damage his comments had potentially done-perspective had come a little too late for that…
But maybe he could, at least in some small way, try to make it up to David.
~~~~
“I want to congratulate both of you last night, because I thought on the night it was a terrific show. I went back home to watch it… It wasn’t quite so clear-cut as we’d called it, and in fact, David, I will take this opportunity to apologize because I think I was verging on disrespectful with you, and I don’t think you deserve that.”
Simon had never been a big believer in apologies. In his experience, they were rarely ever needed when they were said, and when they were said, they were rarely ever meant. Simon’s apologies to both Carly and Brooke earlier in that season had followed that same pattern. He’d said he was sorry for the various perceived insults, but he hadn’t truly meant it-he did not regret a single thing that he’d told either girl, because he truly believed that those were things that each needed to hear, and expressing those things in the manner he’d had ensured that he was listened to.
Ever since he’d set foot on the red carpet that afternoon before the finale, Simon had been mobbed by reporters, each wanting to know his thoughts on the previous night’s performances, his opinion of how the voting last night had gone. Simon had stepped onto the red carpet with a mission, and from the first reporter until the last before he’d finally been able to leave them all behind and enter the Nokia Theater, Simon had made a point of telling each that he’d been wrong the night before, that in his opinion, David Cook was the clear winner.
Simon admitted to being wrong only slightly more frequently than he apologized, and so Simon felt he could safely say that he left quite a few reporters in shock that afternoon, if the frozen expressions on their faces were anything to go by. It had all actually been quite entertaining…
But it wasn’t enough.
It was all well and good to let everyone else know that he had been wrong, but it was David to whom Simon had been unaccountably rude.
So when the moment came, when Seacrest turned to him after Paula had finished her ramblings, Simon knew precisely what he wanted to say-something that both needed to be heard and was meant wholeheartedly.
~~~~
For once in his life, Simon had absolutely nothing to complain about.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The confetti falling from the ceiling had an annoying tendency to try to fall into his mouth, and he could feel multiple bits of paper stuck all over his person. Paula kept jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow as she bounced around, trying to hug everyone within arm’s reach. He also couldn’t exactly see anything that was going on, as David was converged upon by the eleven other contestants, save for occasional snatched glimpses at the large screens to either side of the main stage, and he was pretty sure that somewhere in there, he’d heard David singing not only about magic rainbows, but also about tasting moments, for pity’s sake.
Perhaps more accurately, and more surprisingly, even with all this taken into consideration, Simon couldn’t find anything he wanted to complain about.
Simon had said earlier that he didn’t care who won tonight, but now that the results had been read, Simon could admit that that was a lie. As Seacrest had paused before reading the last name of the winner, obviously milking the moment for every bit of suspense that he could, Simon, breath caught in his chest, had felt his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands as he clenched fists kept carefully hidden under the judges’ desk. When the first indication of the ‘C’ in ‘Cook’ escaped Seacrest’s lips, Simon had thrown those fist into the air, barely keeping from accidentally clipping Paula in the jaw as she shot to her feet in her own excitement, grateful beyond measure that the cheers of the audience masked the whoop of victory that he couldn’t keep from escaping his mouth.
Simon couldn’t remember ever being this elated about a contestant’s victory, and as he’d shaken Randy’s hand and hugged Paula-and if he needed any more evidence how far gone he was, he’d been the one to offer the hug-he hadn’t been able to take his eyes from David, gaze only transferring from the man himself to the large screen to the right of the stage when the younger man was enveloped by his peers.
Simon sometimes wondered why he kept on with American Idol. It was so often a thankless job, hacking his way through talentless morons who thought they were God’s gift in order to discover the handful of people with actual ability, and so often, once those individuals were found, they quickly came to resent his advice, advice that was often well-meaning, despite its harsh delivery. However, seeing someone as talented and deserving as David win, seeing the man’s genuine surprise and joy at having won, Simon was reminded of how rewarding his job had the potential to be.
Dodging another hug from Paula, because really, one was enough and he wasn’t that far gone yet, Simon used the pretense of sliding over to talk to Randy to get a better view at the screen. David’s face dominated the large monitor, but on David’s left, Simon could see Michael beaming away, hand practically glued to the younger man’s shoulder.
Ultimately, what Simon knew about the relationship between the two men, despite his not infrequent interference in their lives, could fit into a thimble. He had no idea how they’d met, other than it must have been during the Hollywood weeks, no idea how they’d gotten involved or how they maintained their relationship, especially in light of Michael’s being married. None of this Simon knew, but what he did know was that when the two men were together, the happiness that radiated from them lit up the room. Whatever obstacles they had yet to encounter, and Simon could be sure that those would be myriad, he wished them both the best.
As Brooke and Kristy mounted the judges’ platform, they momentarily blocked Simon’s view of the large screen, and Simon used the opportunity to escape Paula’s wandering tentacles once again, giving Randy a shove in her direction as a distraction. Glancing back up, Simon placed a hand on the desk and leaned his weight on it, trying to shift so that he could once again see the screen. He succeeded, almost having to sit on the desk to do so, but when he once again had a view of the monitor, he almost immediately clapped a hand over his eyes, making the victory moot.
Letting his hand slide down from his eyes to cover his mouth as he groaned, Simon watched the screen as Michael leaned in to David, using the arm he had slung about the other man’s shoulders to pull David in, nose practically buried in his hair as Michael whispered something that looked a great deal like, “You did it, man. I love you.”
Honestly, they were never going to learn.
BTW: "Advocatus Diaboli" is Latin for "Devil's Advocate," just in case anyone was curious. I know, I could have just used "Devil's Advocate" as the title, but I felt like being pretentious. Also, it sounded cooler.
Author: dark_orion
Rating: G. Once again, Simon puts the damper on the boysmut. Sorry.
Pairing: Mavid. Do I really need to say at this point?
Summary: Less than four hours ago, Simon would have said that he was absolutely certain of what the outcome would be for this latest season of American Idol. Now, however, an hour and a half after the show had gone off the air for the night, Simon wasn’t as sure.
Warnings, Disclaimers, etc.: Not mine. Implied boy!kissing. Also, I'm super-tired right now. Does that count as a warning?
Author's Notes: And here it is, the final part of "Lest Ye Be Judged." I have to say, this one kicked my ass a little bit. I'm pretty sure I understand Simon's perspective on the final performance night (understand, not agree with :( Bad Simon for dissing Cookie.), but getting it into written word was a little hard. Anyway, I'm glad to have finally gotten it all out. Thank you all for your fantastic feedback so far, and I hope you like it! (P.S. I'm so tired I'm about to pass out on my keyboard, so if anything looks funky, please let me know so that I can fix it when I'm more conscious. Thankies!)
Part One: Lest Ye Be Judged
Part Two: Should Happen to Fall
Part Three: To Reach the Soul
Vignette, Part A: The Fire Itself
Vignette, Part B: The Fire Itself
Advocatus Diaboli
As Simon prowled the corridors of the oversized monstrosity that was the Nokia Theater, cursing that the producers had chosen the most damnably difficult to find room in the underbelly of the building to serve as his temporary dressing room-and that was the last time he called Nigel Lythgoe a “pompous ass,” at least to his face, because really, he should have known that the man would be this petty-the judge was distinctly unhappy, and not only because he’d been roaming back and forth through mostly empty corridors like a directionally challenged idiot for the past ten minutes.
Less than four hours ago, Simon would have said that he was absolutely certain of what the outcome would be for this latest season of American Idol. In fact, he had been telling anyone who asked that the obvious winner was David Cook and that tonight’s final performances were just a formality, as the ending was already assured.
Now, however, an hour and a half after the show had gone off the air for the night, Simon wasn’t as sure.
He had tried not to become invested in the outcome of this season’s competition, but he supposed he should have realized that that was already a lost cause the moment his professional interest in David’s wellbeing as a contestant turned into personal concern for David as an individual, when the idea of the elder David winning the title became less disinterested analysis of who should win and more vested interest in who Simon wanted to win.
That was certainly not to say that Simon didn’t still want David Cook to be named the victor when the finale aired the following night. Out of all the contestants that had been on the show this year, from Hollywood and onward, David had worked the hardest to be where he was, had taken more risks than the rest of the Top 12 combined, and by and large, those risks had always paid off. Simon hated the idea that after all that, David could be robbed of a much-deserved victory just because of the missteps he had made during the final performance night.
Only because there was no one around at the moment to see-the only people not still gathered in the pressroom being the cleaning staff, and they were all mostly going about their business attempting to right the mess in the main theater-Simon allowed himself to lean back against a wall, halfway behind one of countless rolling costume racks, this one filled to capacity with the most hideous array of clothing and accessories Simon had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. He bowed his head as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, sighing deeply.
Truth be told, he should have still been in the pressroom himself instead of wandering the labyrinthine corridors of the Nokia, stalking his own personal Minotaur of a dressing room, but when the opportunity to escape early had presented itself, Simon had jumped at the chance, glaring viciously enough at the handful of reporters who tried to intercept him as he made his way out that they all backed off without his having to say a word.
His reasons for leaving had been twofold. One, there was only so long a person could stand in front of what amounted to a glorified shower curtain, despite the American Idol and FOX logos stamped on every bit of free space, and still maintain a pretense of dignity. Two, he had been disappointed enough in the show during the actual broadcast, and he had no desire to rehash it over and over again, as it seemed that was all the reporters wanted him to do.
The press had been unaccountably fixated on his comments about the elder David’s performances, and for the life of him, Simon couldn’t discern why. As far as Simon was concerned, he had been making the same kind of commentary he had all season.
David’s first performance, Simon believed, had been his best of the night. David had sung the song beautifully, had managed to make the song his own while still remaining faithful to the original version. Although Simon agreed with Randy that David could have done more with the song, Simon also felt that that bit of above and beyond shouldn’t be expected of David for every performance, certainly not with the time constraints under which the contestants were currently working.
Unfortunately, David’s two other performances had been something of a letdown. He would not argue that both had been quite good from a technical standpoint-David had sung both songs well, and the physicality of his performance had been engaging. It was the song choice with which Simon took issue.
Certainly Simon had not been expecting Grammy-worthy material-not from the Idol songwriting competition, no-from the ten songs from which the contestants had been allowed to choose, but he felt that David had made the wrong choice selecting “Dream Big.” These were songs that had initially been written and had competed to be the song sung by the winner of American Idol, and as such, there were expectations that came part and parcel with them. Simon prided himself on knowing the Idol audience, what they wanted to see and hear, what they responded to, and he was afraid that David’s song choice had fallen short in those areas. For better or worse, Idol’s audience, both at home and in the theater, responded to slow, melodramatic ballads which showcased the vocal prowess of the contestant, money note after money note. “Dream Big” was none of these things, despite the big ending note, and although David was their resident rock ‘n’ roll singer, Simon was afraid that by singing this particular song at this particular moment, David hadn’t done himself any favors.
The problems presented by the third performance had been similar in nature. For the contestants’ choice segment, it had become the custom for each contestant to choose a song that they had already performed, one that had been an audience favorite-again this was something that the audience had come to expect, and while David had successfully gone against expectation before, Simon feared that choosing to sing a completely new song, instead of one of the many that the members of the core voting audience would sell their souls to hear again, would backfire horribly. As beautiful as “The World I Know” was, and as much as Simon understood the David’s professed desire for the competition to be a progression, the judge wished that David had played it safe, singing “Hello” or “Billie Jean.”
Simon slumped back farther against the wall. His head tilted back to rest against cool plaster, Simon briefly considered simply sliding down to sit on the floor, though remembering the last time he’d tried that, he quickly discarded the idea. It was just that he was so tired and disappointed, and all he wanted to do was find his dressing room, dammit, so that he could sit down on something from which he had the hope of rising again.
Just as Simon was contemplating renewing his search for his elusive dressing room, he heard someone approaching from around the corner about twenty feet to his left. It was probably just another of the cleaning staff, but Simon wasn’t in the mood to put up with anyone, especially since those custodians he’d run into already-some multiple times in his fruitless wanderings-were starting to look at him like he’d lost his mind. The footsteps were too close for escape to be an option, so Simon reached out for the overstocked costume rack that had already been partially in front of him and angled it so that, if he ducked a bit, he would be hidden completely from the left. He was aware that his behavior was rather juvenile, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not if it kept him from having to deal with whoever was approaching.
The sound of the footsteps stopped once whoever it was reached the bend in the corridor, as if pausing to decide whether to continue on down the corridor or travel back the way they’d come and try a different route. However, before the person could decide on a course of action, Simon heard another set of footsteps, these running, coming from the same direction as the first had.
“Mike, what the hell are you doing?” came a voice-out of breath, so presumably from the same source as the running footsteps-and Simon was surprised to realize that it was David’s. The man should have still been in the pressroom being mobbed by reporters; Simon had managed to get away without too much trouble, but he couldn’t figure out how David had escaped, being that he was one of the two remaining stars of the show and the producers were notorious for all but sitting on contestants to keep them answering questions for as long as the reporters asked them. Presuming that “Mike” was Michael Johns-hardly an extreme stretch of the imagination-he should have faced a similar set of complications extracting himself from the media, and Simon could well imagine that there were several panicked contestant handlers currently searching for the two men.
Which raised the question: why were they there?
“I know he came down here. I saw him leave.” Yes, indeed Michael Johns, but Simon had never heard him so angry before.
“Who?” David asked, sounding like his breathing was mostly back under control.
“Cowell.” Simon was taken slightly aback by the growl he heard in Michael’s voice. “I swear, once I get my hands on him…”
Although Simon had not been considering stepping out of hiding, because he really had no desire to reveal that he’d been hiding in the first place, that decision was reinforced by Michael’s statement. While Simon was not afraid of the younger man by any means and certainly he never shied away from conflict, his curiosity was peaked; he couldn’t think of anything he’d done to provoke that kind of reaction from Michael, and his current predicament gave him the perfect excuse to eavesdrop. After all, in his time, Simon had made quite a few people angry with him for reasons that he could never determine, so it would be novel, at least, to know what provoked such anger on this occasion.
“C’mon, Mike. You’re not going to do anything to Simon.”
“You wanna bet? After the things he said to you tonight, he’ll be lucky if I only hit him.”
First the reporters and now Michael-for the second time that night, Simon was left wondering why his commentary during show that evening seemed to be so noteworthy. He was positive he’d recall something that provoked this kind of reaction from someone as normally good-humored as Michael Johns.
Simon heard David sigh. “It’s okay, really.”
“No, it’s not,” Michael retorted, almost before the last word was out of David’s mouth. “He insulted you for no reason. You were absolutely fantastic tonight.” When David made a sound as if to contradict that statement, Michael interrupted, “Shut up. You were. And every time he opened his mouth, he sounded like your performance was something he’d found on the bottom of his shoe.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” David broke in quickly. “Hey, he said that my first song was phenomenal.” Even from a distance, Simon could tell that David was making his tone intentionally light, trying to defuse Michael’s anger.
“Yeah, after qualifying it by saying that you looked stiff and tense! And that was the closest he got to saying anything positive about your performances all night.”
“He said I was a good person-that was nice,” David tried again.
“Right before he slammed you yet again. Honestly, not the right song? You sounded amazing, you had the crowd going, and all he can say is that your song choice sucks? What the hell is that? I mean, I thought he was supposed to be…”
“On my side?” David finished. His voice sounding determinedly patient, David continued, “He’s a judge, Mike. He’s supposed to be impartial.”
“Oh, really?” Michael’s voice sounded strained. Simon suspected it was due to an effort to keep from shouting. “Then how do you explain how much he was fawning over Archuleta? Did that look like impartiality to you?”
David’s voice turned hard for the first time. “Now you’re not being fair. Archie did a great job.”
Simon heard Michael sigh, and when the man spoke again, it sounded as if that sigh had taken all Michael’s anger with it. “I know, Dave. I’m sorry. It’s just… I want this for you so bad.”
Simon heard a rustling sound and imagined that David had put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. If it had been put anywhere else, Simon thought he was better off not knowing about it.
“I know you do, and I appreciate it. But whatever happens, I’m good with it. Archie’s a great kid; I have no problem taking silver to him. I already got you out of this-anything else is just icing.”
Simon was fairly certain the huff of laughter that followed came from Michael. He then heard more rustling, but he decided not to think about that.
“You big sap,” Michael said, smile in his voice.
“This from the man who’s holding one of my favorite t-shirts hostage.”
“Only because it looks better on me.”
“Asshole.” David’s voice was fond, despite the insult.
“Love you, too.”
The noises that Simon heard next were unmistakable, and it was almost enough to make Simon come out of hiding because he had warned them about doing that kind of thing where they could be caught. As it was, he could only could only clap a hand frustratedly over his eyes, hoping that no one else approached or was, God, in earshot.
Fortunately, less than a minute later, both men seemed to come to their senses, and the noises ceased.
David cleared his throat, as if taking a beat to regain his composure. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “We should, ah, get back to the pressroom. I didn’t exactly let the handlers know where I was going, so they’re probably freaking out right now.”
“Yeah,” Michael agreed, voice just as affected.
Simon heard the men take a couple of steps in the direction from which they’d come before they stopped again.
“Wait, your tie-it’s kinda…” Michael said.
“You and your grabby hands.”
“You like my grabby hands-”
That was something that Simon could have lived his whole life without knowing, thanks.
Michael continued, “-especially since they’re going to fix your tie for you.”
David’s grin was audible. “Well, it’s only fair, considering they’re the reason it’s screwed up in the first place.”
“I live to serve,” Michael shot back sarcastically, and Simon could hear the sound of silk sliding along a shirt collar. “There, all better.”
“Good,” David replied. “Now let’s get going before you destroy any more of my clothing.”
“One time…” Michael groaned as two started walking again.
“And you’re never going to live it down either.”
The sound of their footsteps trailed away, intermingled with the sound of laughter.
As the coast cleared, Simon straightened out of his slight crouch, and his hands came up absentmindedly to slide along the top bar of the clothing rack, hangers biting into the flesh of his palms as he braced himself against it, staring across the top of it at the spot the two younger men had occupied a moment ago.
To say that Michael and David’s conversation had given him pause would have been something of an understatement. It had never occurred to Simon that his comments during the broadcast could have been taken in that fashion, but now that he thought about it, though, it seemed that the reporters in the pressroom might have shared Michael’s interpretation of Simon’s commentary, if their repeated questioning was anything to go by-although, to be honest, Simon had been too busy contemplating escape from the madhouse actually to bother listening to what the vultures had to say.
One of the things for which Simon always strived as an American Idol judge was to maintain his self-possession on air. No matter what insults were thrown his direction, no matter what the surprises, good or ill, contestant performances presented, Simon kept his wits about him and crafted his responses in such a way that he knew precisely what their effect on the audience would be. As such, it was more than a little disconcerting for Simon to be confronted with the idea that he might have so misinterpreted his own actions, his own responses.
Simon shoved away from the clothing rack-not terribly violently, although the bang it made as it struck the wall nevertheless was admittedly satisfying-and turned on his heel to head down the hallway in the direction from which he’d originally come. To hell with his dressing room-as much as he’d wanted to change into street clothes before heading home, the need to review the night’s show, a need which seemed to become more pressing with every second, was such that it would not allow more time spent vainly wandering hallways.
Simon followed the brightly lit signs to the closest exit and stepped out the door into the cool night air, striding briskly towards the parking deck.
~~~~
Simon pressed a button on the overly extravagant remote control that allowed him to turn of the television and DVR simultaneously, then carelessly tossed the rather expensive piece of equipment onto the coffee table, uncaring of where it fell. He fell back against the sofa cushions, rubbing viciously at his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, aware that he was probably doing irreparable damage to his tuxedo jacket, which had been hastily thrown over the back of the sofa and was now being crushed under the weight of his body, but that kind of trivial concern paled in the face of the damage that Simon’s miscalculated and frighteningly uncontrolled comments might have done to David.
It wasn’t often that Simon had occasion to feel like a jerk-sure, he’d been dubbed one more times that he could count; however, that was usually by people who reacted poorly to Simon’s particular brand of truth, and since Simon well knew that in the long run the hard truth could be less cruel than a gentle lie, Simon felt no remorse at being the one who delivered such blunt honesty, certainly never felt like a jerk for it.
And it wasn’t the fact that he had been honest with David that Simon regretted now-because after rewatching the night’s show, he still believed that he’d spoken truthfully regarding David’s performances, that although the delivery had been quite good, the content itself was lacking, but now Simon couldn’t help acknowledging that the precise opposite could have been said about his own ‘performances’ during the show earlier that night: while he felt the content of his comments to be spot on, the delivery of said comments was admittedly quite poor.
Simon had never particularly enjoyed watching himself on television-which he was sure would surprise some people unto no end-but this time had been especially unpleasant. He thought he’d started out the night fine, but by the time his on-screen self was criticizing David’s final performance, Simon almost couldn’t bring himself to watch. At the time, in his head, as he’d told David he should have sung “Hello” or “Billie Jean,” it had sounded like sage, reasonable advice, but seeing it now, via the merciless eyes of the television camera, Simon couldn’t believe how much he’d sounded like a petulant child whining that the treat he’d received was not the one he’d wanted.
Pulling his hand from his eyes, he dragged it down over his face, finally allowing it to drop into his lap as he opened his eyes again. The blank television screen stared accusingly back at him, and Simon stood, wincing as his knees popped, and turned his back on it, pacing without a real destination in mind and finding himself in the kitchen.
Simon opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water from its mostly empty interior, twisting off the cap and tossing it into the trashcan, but he didn’t drink. He sat down on one of the stools at the kitchen island, bottle of water on the countertop before him, both hands wrapped around the glass that was beginning to fog with condensation.
As he watched droplets form on the sides of the water bottle, swelling until their weight carried them down the glass to fall chillingly against his hands, Simon reconsidered the night’s show in light of the new perspective into which he’d been forced.
Watching the show back, what had been most clear, aside from his own petty childishness, had been that the final outcome had not been as clear-cut as he’d originally believed it to be. As the show went off the air that night, Simon had believed the younger David’s triumph to be overwhelming, but later, watching the televised version had given him a certain distance from the events of the night, lending him an objectivity that Simon hadn’t realized he’d been lacking.
Simon realized he had become so invested in how the elder David acquitted himself on the show that when the younger man had not performed in precisely the manner Simon had expected of him, Simon had overreacted. He felt that what he’d said still held true, but Simon now wished that he’d kept some of those thoughts to himself, saved them for a time more appropriate to their expression, or at least had found a way of conveying them that didn’t make him sound quite so disrespectful of David.
On the other hand, Simon considered, finally taking a sip of water that was quickly on its way to becoming lukewarm, it might have been better if he’d really intended to be mean. Simon knew that viewers often voted vociferously in reaction to any particularly harsh criticism he gave a contestant, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t used that to his advantage a time or two, when a favorite contestant of his had an off week. If he’d been more cutting in his criticism of David, been more intentionally insulting, Simon could have provoked a similar reaction in the viewing audience; however, as it was, Simon was concerned that the things that he’d said would only be enough to prompt swing voters into calling in for Archuleta.
Taking another swig of water, Simon considered his options. There was nothing he could do now to remedy the damage his comments had potentially done-perspective had come a little too late for that…
But maybe he could, at least in some small way, try to make it up to David.
~~~~
“I want to congratulate both of you last night, because I thought on the night it was a terrific show. I went back home to watch it… It wasn’t quite so clear-cut as we’d called it, and in fact, David, I will take this opportunity to apologize because I think I was verging on disrespectful with you, and I don’t think you deserve that.”
Simon had never been a big believer in apologies. In his experience, they were rarely ever needed when they were said, and when they were said, they were rarely ever meant. Simon’s apologies to both Carly and Brooke earlier in that season had followed that same pattern. He’d said he was sorry for the various perceived insults, but he hadn’t truly meant it-he did not regret a single thing that he’d told either girl, because he truly believed that those were things that each needed to hear, and expressing those things in the manner he’d had ensured that he was listened to.
Ever since he’d set foot on the red carpet that afternoon before the finale, Simon had been mobbed by reporters, each wanting to know his thoughts on the previous night’s performances, his opinion of how the voting last night had gone. Simon had stepped onto the red carpet with a mission, and from the first reporter until the last before he’d finally been able to leave them all behind and enter the Nokia Theater, Simon had made a point of telling each that he’d been wrong the night before, that in his opinion, David Cook was the clear winner.
Simon admitted to being wrong only slightly more frequently than he apologized, and so Simon felt he could safely say that he left quite a few reporters in shock that afternoon, if the frozen expressions on their faces were anything to go by. It had all actually been quite entertaining…
But it wasn’t enough.
It was all well and good to let everyone else know that he had been wrong, but it was David to whom Simon had been unaccountably rude.
So when the moment came, when Seacrest turned to him after Paula had finished her ramblings, Simon knew precisely what he wanted to say-something that both needed to be heard and was meant wholeheartedly.
~~~~
For once in his life, Simon had absolutely nothing to complain about.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The confetti falling from the ceiling had an annoying tendency to try to fall into his mouth, and he could feel multiple bits of paper stuck all over his person. Paula kept jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow as she bounced around, trying to hug everyone within arm’s reach. He also couldn’t exactly see anything that was going on, as David was converged upon by the eleven other contestants, save for occasional snatched glimpses at the large screens to either side of the main stage, and he was pretty sure that somewhere in there, he’d heard David singing not only about magic rainbows, but also about tasting moments, for pity’s sake.
Perhaps more accurately, and more surprisingly, even with all this taken into consideration, Simon couldn’t find anything he wanted to complain about.
Simon had said earlier that he didn’t care who won tonight, but now that the results had been read, Simon could admit that that was a lie. As Seacrest had paused before reading the last name of the winner, obviously milking the moment for every bit of suspense that he could, Simon, breath caught in his chest, had felt his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands as he clenched fists kept carefully hidden under the judges’ desk. When the first indication of the ‘C’ in ‘Cook’ escaped Seacrest’s lips, Simon had thrown those fist into the air, barely keeping from accidentally clipping Paula in the jaw as she shot to her feet in her own excitement, grateful beyond measure that the cheers of the audience masked the whoop of victory that he couldn’t keep from escaping his mouth.
Simon couldn’t remember ever being this elated about a contestant’s victory, and as he’d shaken Randy’s hand and hugged Paula-and if he needed any more evidence how far gone he was, he’d been the one to offer the hug-he hadn’t been able to take his eyes from David, gaze only transferring from the man himself to the large screen to the right of the stage when the younger man was enveloped by his peers.
Simon sometimes wondered why he kept on with American Idol. It was so often a thankless job, hacking his way through talentless morons who thought they were God’s gift in order to discover the handful of people with actual ability, and so often, once those individuals were found, they quickly came to resent his advice, advice that was often well-meaning, despite its harsh delivery. However, seeing someone as talented and deserving as David win, seeing the man’s genuine surprise and joy at having won, Simon was reminded of how rewarding his job had the potential to be.
Dodging another hug from Paula, because really, one was enough and he wasn’t that far gone yet, Simon used the pretense of sliding over to talk to Randy to get a better view at the screen. David’s face dominated the large monitor, but on David’s left, Simon could see Michael beaming away, hand practically glued to the younger man’s shoulder.
Ultimately, what Simon knew about the relationship between the two men, despite his not infrequent interference in their lives, could fit into a thimble. He had no idea how they’d met, other than it must have been during the Hollywood weeks, no idea how they’d gotten involved or how they maintained their relationship, especially in light of Michael’s being married. None of this Simon knew, but what he did know was that when the two men were together, the happiness that radiated from them lit up the room. Whatever obstacles they had yet to encounter, and Simon could be sure that those would be myriad, he wished them both the best.
As Brooke and Kristy mounted the judges’ platform, they momentarily blocked Simon’s view of the large screen, and Simon used the opportunity to escape Paula’s wandering tentacles once again, giving Randy a shove in her direction as a distraction. Glancing back up, Simon placed a hand on the desk and leaned his weight on it, trying to shift so that he could once again see the screen. He succeeded, almost having to sit on the desk to do so, but when he once again had a view of the monitor, he almost immediately clapped a hand over his eyes, making the victory moot.
Letting his hand slide down from his eyes to cover his mouth as he groaned, Simon watched the screen as Michael leaned in to David, using the arm he had slung about the other man’s shoulders to pull David in, nose practically buried in his hair as Michael whispered something that looked a great deal like, “You did it, man. I love you.”
Honestly, they were never going to learn.
BTW: "Advocatus Diaboli" is Latin for "Devil's Advocate," just in case anyone was curious. I know, I could have just used "Devil's Advocate" as the title, but I felt like being pretentious. Also, it sounded cooler.