fic: Tom Cruise Must Die (1/??)
Title: Tom Cruise Must Die (1/??)
Cast: Kristen Bell. Jason Dohring. Joshua Jackson. With sundry guest stars of the CW and Scientology variety!
Authors: buffyx & missdeviant
Rating: NC-17 (this section PG-13)
Notes/Warnings: Rule number one of VM RPS: Do not talk about VM RPS. Not to the actors, anyway. It's just not cool, and DEFINITELY NOT AT ALL FUNNY, OKAY? OKAY. Just so we're clear!
Previous Parts:
++ Prologue
It's snowing lightly when Kristen exits her building the night of the CW party. Fortunately, the car sent by the network is waiting right under the awning, so she barely gets any slush on her stilettos as she carefully steps into the glossy black vehicle.
Okay, she’ll admit that she briefly contemplated calling Roz and pleading a bad case of sushi, but with her luck Roz would remember that she was a vegetarian (even if other people rarely did, PETA awards or not) and call bullshit before she could croak out one fake dry heave. It’s not like she has another excuse - her AmEx got the brunt of the damage of a new brocade coat and high-waisted cranberry colored dress with contrasting sash, and, at the risk of sounding full of herself, she has to say that she looks fucking amazing.
Kristen's sure at least half of the boys club will show up in jeans, but the Hollywood rule of thumb is that overdressing is better than underdressing, and if she remembers correctly, Jason is a fan of the cleavage.
It's not like she's dressing for Jason. Or not for Jason. She doesn't know. But she can't help the fact that the thought is dancing in her head: Jason likes my breasts. If I recall correctly, he REALLY likes them.
These are the kind of thoughts that sneak into her head late at night, the kind of thoughts that made her move across the country. Of course, moving across the country means that she's having even MORE of those types of musings, probably because other than shopping, she's been doing next to nothing other than living in her own thought-filled bubble for the past week. She's learned that being a misanthrope is not good for the daydreaming.
By the time the sedan pulls up to the hotel, she thinks she’s got her nerves under control. However, when the driver opens her door and she climbs out as gracefully as her dress allows, they flutter back up in her stomach again-- well, it’s either nerves or the cucumber salad she’d had for lunch.
Kristen thanks the driver, clutches her purse and heads toward the hotel entrance. She’s at the base of the steps when she notices a familiar figure leaning against one of the pillars.
“Tina?” she questions curiously.
The girl turns, her cell phone pressed to her ear, and another look affirms what she’s already suspected: it is, in fact, Tina Majorino, who represents the mousy, timid geek girl population on Veronica Mars. In real life, Tina is maybe borderline geeky, but definitely neither mousy nor timid.
“Hey!” Tina beams and shuts her phone, sticks it into the pocket of her peacoat and rushes toward Kristen, grabbing her in a tight, quick hug.
She pulls back, surveys Kristen up and down. “Okay. I think I have been officially out-glammed.”
Kristen rolls her eyes. “Please. You look completely awesome.”
It’s true-Tina’s black dress with the pencil line skirt is simple but classic, and her hair is falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She looks adorable, in an understated way.
“And holy crap, am I glad to have someone to walk into this with,” Kristen confesses.
“I’m more than happy to be your partner in fashionable lateness,” Tina replies, linking arms with her and steering them up the steps. “In fact, I’m counting on the photogs to be distracted by you, thus allowing me to make a beeline toward the nearest source of alcohol, unscathed.”
“Hmm. Well, I suppose I’ll let you whore me out, if it is in the noble pursuit of getting tanked,” teases Kristen.
They push through the doors and into the lobby, up a staircase and work their way through the throng of people outside of the ballroom. Among them is Roz, looking cross and impatient. Which is basically the way she always looks.
“BELL!” she snaps, immediately storming up. “Where were you? I called you seven times.”
“Dress issues,” Kristen shrugs.
That shuts Roz up immediately. There are certain advantages to having a female publicist. Of course, even though she's spared public humiliation, Roz reaches out her talons, grabs Kristen's arm and hauls her in.
"Listen to me," she hisses, "I don't care if you've got as many issues as National Geographic. Next time, you blame the weather. Don't ever let them believe your clothes wear you."
With that final parting advice, she releases Kristen and nudges her towards the press. What follows is the obligatory meet-and-greet, shaking the hands of various producers and agents and the significant others of agents, spewing sound bites at the press, topped off with some photographers calling out her name and asking her for pictures.
Tina starts to edge into the ballroom, but Kristen snatches her arm, yanks her back and makes her pose for an adequate amount of shots.
"Stick with me kid. I'll make you somebody," Kristen drawls.
"I don't know what you're talking about. See this scar?" Tina tilts her head towards her shoulder, still smiling. "Six stitches from Costner's harpoon. See me in ten years, we'll compare fame wounds."
“Ah, Hollywood. Such a cruel mistress.”
Tina gives one last smile to the cameras and then snatches Kristen’s wrist. “Okay. Enough of this. Booze now, please!”
She drags her into the ballroom, and it doesn’t take long for Kristen to see that Roz wasn't lying. Congregated around the bar are all of the usual suspects: Rosenbaum, Ackles, Padalecki, Welling. They’re all sucking down what look to be red and green jello shots. Those new guys from that OC ripoff midseason replacement are off to one side, engaged in conversation, and Chad Michael Murray is sitting at a table, his arm wrapped around presumably his fiancée, who looks barely old enough to be attending prom. Even the kid from the Chris Rock show is hanging out. There are tables bordering a decent-sized dance floor and music pounding from the speakers.
No one ever said the CW didn't know how to throw a party for perpetual adolescents.
"Shall we mingle?" Tina suggests.
"I don't know. I prefer to check out Ackles' ass from afar."
Tina raises her eyebrows appreciatively. "If that's the plan for the evening, then I definitely need a drink. Or five. I think five is enough to create an excuse for inappropriate ass-grabbing."
The crowd is tight but easy to maneuver, if you don’t make eye contact. Kristen has learned the hard way that eye contact at these events is deadly - enough to get you trapped in a seventeen minute conversation with Kristen Veitch about so-and-so’s latest facelift and how ADORKABLE her costar is and my god have you SEEN what she did to her hair?
The mahogany bar is massive. It takes up the better portion of the far wall, but of course - of COURSE Tina squeezes right next to the boys from Supernatural. For a few minutes they sip cosmos and provide running commentary on everyone else’s outfits, but it doesn’t take long for Tina to ditch her and go stalk Allison Mack, leaving the mocking to Kristen alone, which isn’t nearly as entertaining.
She was right about the dress code: Jared Padalecki is sporting distressed jeans and a - god. Is that a sweater with REINDEER parading across the front? She thought he was from Texas, where owning sweaters was basically unnecessary.
The bad news is he catches her looking (what? It’s not her fault that the fruity pattern is at her eye level) and sidles over.
“Hey, Kristen. You look nice.”
“Thanks. So do…you,” she nods uncertainly.
She’s got more tact than to ask if Roz put him up to this, even if she’s willing to bet her dogs that it’s the case. Then it hits her. She’s getting fixed up with the guy in the reindeer sweater. This is a Bridget Jones moment. The world thinks she’s already an old maid. And she’s only twenty-six.
“Quite a bash they’ve got here,” she small talks without looking Jared in the eye. Turns out that’s a bad idea, as she spies Jensen behind his shoulder, running his tongue around the inside of a red jello shot. She’s temporarily transfixed.
Jared turns slightly to see what’s captured her attention. He keeps his back to her for a few seconds longer than would be considered appropriate in polite company, long enough for Jensen to finish the jello with a chaser of beer. Gross. When he's facing Kristen again, she can't help but note that his cheeks look a bit rosier than before.
Even if Roz had a plan, Kristen is pretty sure that with the way Jared is looking at Jensen, it wouldn’t quite work out.
He swallows and says, “Yeah, gang’s all here.”
“Looks like you do this a lot,” Kristen comments. “Anyone I should be warned about?”
This must be familiar territory, because he relaxes into an easy smile.
“Well, Jensen can be rambunctious, but it’s Rosenbaum you have to watch out for,” he explains. “That guy’s just flat-out crazy. Welling-he’s mostly harmless, but if you get cornered and he starts talking about how his teacher once fell off of a barn onto solid concrete… ditch him as soon as possible, because he’ll never shut up.”
She grins. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”
“So,” he says, leaning in, “should someone have warned me about you? Some deep, dark secret you care to reveal?”
For a second, she nearly chokes on her drink and wonders if there is some way he could possibly know. Know about Jason, or the Resistance, or anything. But she blinks and looks back at him and he still has that slightly vacant, joking look in his eyes which tells her he doesn’t know squat.
“Aside from an embarrassing love for Air Supply, I got nothing,” she kids.
“DID SOMEONE SAY AIR SUPPLY?”
It’s Jensen, bounding over, juggling two jello shots and a beer.
“Dude. They do that song, right? That one I like-with the thing-right? Right?” He elbows Jared roughly. “You know?”
“That’s ‘All Out of Love,’ man,” Jared says, taking one of the jello shots Jensen offers him. He looks pointedly at Kristen. “Hey, Jensen, remember your manners.”
“What?” Jensen turns and looks at her. “Oh, of course. Would you like a jello shot, Miss? They’re gourmet.”
Kristen shakes her head. “No thanks.”
“Your loss.” He shrugs and lifts it halfway to his mouth.
“But not mine.”
She turns at the sound and sees Tina coming up behind her, swiping Jensen’s jello shot and sucking it down before he can even blink. He looks surprised before he breaks into a wide grin.
“Right on!” he laughs, giving her a high-five and letting out a whoop. “LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!”
**
Things pick up a little after that; Tina has apparently finished scoping out the room and sticks to Kristen’s side-the drinks keep coming and the music keeps any conversation from getting too in-depth, and it’s kind of nice to see Percy and Francis and even Muhney in an environment that didn’t require their interactions to include line readings or stage blocking.
Jason's there, of course, but he's keeping his distance. As usual. He gives a few half smiles, a few waves but other than that - nothing.
Well, almost nothing.
There's a point when they're at the bar and Jason starts to walk up to Kristen and Tina, eye contact and everything. Then he appears to change his mind halfway through, veers off towards a tray of hors d'oeuvres.
"That was weird," Tina remarks after a long pause.
"He's Jason. He's always weird," Kristen says. She hopes Tina won't call her on being a bad liar. Because Josh was right. She really is.
"Hmm. True," says Tina, and Kristen's safe. For about three seconds. "Is it true Lauren decided to become the Scientology version of a nun? And that's why they're split up?" Tina scrapes an olive off a toothpick with her teeth.
Kristen manages a weak laugh.
"I heard he finally moved out of his parents," Tina continues. "Shit. I can't believe he waited until he was in his fucking twenties."
"I know," Kristen agrees, but it's hollow, because her eyes are still on Jason and she's not really paying much attention.
Tina sets her drink down on a nearby table. She grasps Kristen by the shoulders, a timeless pose used to impart drunken wisdom since the dawn of man.
"It's not you," she suddenly says.
"Huh?" Oh fuck. Oh FUCK, is she making it that obvious? Kristen takes a long swallow from her drink to stall for time as her mind races.
"Him, being all weird-- it isn't about you, you realize that, right?"
If only you knew, Kristen thinks. It seems like most of her life over the past seven months has been filled with "if only you knew." It hurts more than she cares to admit-- the biggest event in her twenty six years and there are only two people in the world she can talk about it with. One of them's in the Resistance version of Witness Protection and the other person - the other person is Jason. Who isn't exactly making any kind of conversations easy, much less the meaningful, therapeutic ones.
“I know,” says Kristen, forcing a smile. “I mean. Duh. Obviously.”
Tina shoots her a searching look, like she’s looking for some reaction in particular, but Kristen just finishes her drink and holds up the empty glass.
“You know, I could use something a little stronger.”
**
The holiday spirits are clearly taking hold of everyone. The havoc crew has gathered near a stand of decorated evergreens on the far side of the room. They're too far away for Kristen to hear what they're saying, but by the way they're grabbing tinsel off the trees and throwing it on each other's heads, she's not sure she wants to.
Then Jensen takes his shirt off.
Tina turns to Kristen with pure unadulterated glee. "Well, this party has certainly taken a turn for the sexy."
That's when Rosenbaum tackles the Christmas tree. The music continues to blare, doesn't screech to a halt. But it should.
A few people are shaking their heads. More are smiling. Rosenbaum stands up, brushes tinsel off his shoulders, and takes a grandiose bow. Welling and Chad Michael Murray clap him heartily on the back until he grabs them in headlocks.
Ah, the boys of the CW: not unlike a drunken frat.
"God, can't they even come up with their OWN fratty shenanigans? They have to resort to stealing them from Kiefer Sutherland?" Kristen mutters.
"I thought it was cool," Tina offers.
Actually, it was pretty cool.
Ryan Hansen and his cornrows show up and take up residence at the bar next to Percy and Jason. At last year's wrap party, she'd hoped they were just for a role. But no, it seems they've transitioned to being worn in an everyday manner. Fan-fucking-tastic.
"Hey!" Tina says once she and Kristen reach the bar for what has to be the fourth time in the last half hour. "It's like a tiny little reunion. With people I haven't seen in two weeks. Which," she gestures, and her hand moves slower than normal, "by the way, is like a total lifetime, when we spend as much time together as we do. Am I right?"
Tina grabs some champagne off a passing tray and passes a glass to Kristen, who already has a decent buzz going but doesn’t object to another drink.
"Hey," she addresses Kristen, "I forgot to ask. Where's your daddy?"
"Enrico has bronchitis," Jason interjects. "He really wanted to be here."
“Oh.” Kristen swallows down some of the champagne and looks past him to Ryan. “So what happened to Francis? Wasn’t he just here?”
She had spied him earlier from across the room, but by the time she and Tina made their way over, he was MIA.
“He's in the bathroom,” Percy supplies. “Showing Bufanda his bling or somethin’.”
Ryan snorts loudly. "Bling? Yeah, right. I think the word is FREESTYLING. Freestyling…" He sways a little as he pauses, building up the dramatic crescendo before finishing his joke. "…with his PENIS."
“Drinking for Jesus again, Hansen?” Jason asks, amused. “I think maybe you’ve had enough for tonight.”
Raising his cup, Ryan declares, "To Africa!" and downs it all in one big gulp.
“To Africa!” everyone choruses, following suit.
Ryan slams the empty cup down on the counter with a refreshed sigh, just as a new song-a recognizable tune by the Arctic Monkeys-kicks into high gear.
“Shuck this jive! C’mon, ladies. I’m ready to get dooowwwnnnnn.” He stretches the word out into approximately ten syllables before slinging his arms around Tina and Kristen’s waists, hauling them onto the dance floor.
At first, Kristen’s instincts are to wriggle away, but Tina is laughing and spinning her around, and-- well. Fine. By this time she's had enough alcohol that anything seems like a worthy proposition. Besides, she's an actress. She's not allowed to feel self-conscious when people look at her; not even when those people are (possibly. potentially) Jason Dohring.
He’s still on the sidelines, a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth, watching them all in amusement.
Besides, except for Ryan showing off with some stupid backflips, the Veronica Mars crowd has been woefully underrepresented on the dance floor tonight. She's required-- nay, contractually obligated-- to show the world that UPN can shake its groove thing just as hard as stupid Lorelai Gilmore.
Besides, she didn't see anyone asking Lauren Graham to sing and dance at the Emmys, did she? NO.
Between the stylistic boy band maneuvers of Ryan and Percy’s impressive worm, a good-sized crowd circles around to watch. More bodies fill the dance floor and eventually Tina drifts off to sidle up to Allison Mack, who looks cute in a short white strapless number.
After the sixth song, Kristen’s feeling a little lightheaded and decides some kind of nourishment is in order. She pushes her way back off the floor, past a China doll-faced Alexis Bledel chatting into a cell phone with one hand to her ear, and to the bar. All of the drink trays on the counter are empty, and there is no bartender in immediate sight.
“Dammit,” she mutters, leaning against the counter with a sigh.
“Looking for something?”
It’s Jason. Kristen whirls at his voice, a little startled.
“Um, kind of,” she answers uncertainly. “Something to drink. Preferably non-alcoholic.”
“Here,” he offers, handing her a cup. “It’s just ice.”
“Thanks.”
Kristen accepts, shakes a cube into her mouth and bites into it, chewing thoughtfully and watching him out of the corner of her eye. It still feels weird to be alone with him, or semi-alone, whatever, and not know what exactly to say. Or what not to say. Still, she figures she can at least attempt some casual conversation.
“So,” she starts, rattling the cup lightly, “how are you getting on with the boys from the rival school?”
Jason shrugs and smiles a little, picking at the label on his beer bottle. “Not bad. I've been told I have to challenge Welling to a pushup contest later, though. Not sure what that's about.”
She smiles back, lifts one shoulder and brushes her wispy bangs back behind her ear. “Been up to anything interesting lately?”
“Nah,” he says, then pauses and shoots her a long, meaningful glance. “A little muckraking, here and there.”
Well, she wasn’t expecting that for an answer. Jason’s mouth is still open, and he looks like he’s possibly about to say more, when all of a sudden Tina rushes up and clings to her arm.
“You don’t get to escape that easy!” Tina taunts. “Come on. You, me, the electric slide, stat. Right now, missy!” She tosses a grin over her shoulder to Jason. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back when I’m done.”
Tina gives her a playful shove back onto the dance floor. The crowd’s thinned out a little, as it is starting to get late, even by exclusive party standards. Still, the music’s pumping and a small amount of people are thugging around like it’s a goddamn mosh pit. Mostly it’s the super-tall, lameass model wannabes from Tyra Banks’ show, who are three times as tanked as she is and lack any sense of rhythm.
Three minutes back on the dance floor, and suddenly, one of the models slams into her shoulder. The surprising power of such an anorexic body crashing into hers sends her staggering to the side. There’s a loud snapping sound that for a split second she fears is her ankle bone, but no, it’s the heel of her stiletto. She almost goes sprawling face-first, but Tina catches her by the elbow.
“Whoa!” Tina shouts over the music. “You okay?”
“Yeah, people just SUCK.” She half-limps her way off of the dance floor, exhales loudly. “You know, I think this is my cue to bail for the night.”
Kristen can’t help but sneak a glance in Jason’s direction; if he saw her, she wouldn’t know, as he’s engaged in deep conversation with Jared.
Tina nods, and a second later her eyes light up. “Oh! Wait! I know I have extra shoes in my room.”
“I’m fine,” Kristen insists, but Tina rolls her eyes and scoffs.
“Please. You’ll end up slipping on ice and looking like an even bigger idiot. An idiot with a broken ankle. Now come on, let’s fix you up.”
**
Kristen sprawls across the king-sized bed in Tina's hotel room. She's been dragged up here with the promises of at least one pair of suitable replacement shoes, but they've been sitting on the bed for fifteen minutes dissecting the latest rumors raised by the evening's shenanigans before Tina grabs a suitcase out of the closet.
"Hey, you'd better not pass out in my love nest," Tina admonishes as Kristen's eyes droop.
"Oh yeah? Who exactly are you going to be nesting with? Last I could figure, it was a tossup between Mack and Ackles. And if our deductions are correct, the only pants Ackles is going to be getting into have a thirty-eight inch inseam."
Tina shoots her a look and flings a pillow at the bed.
"You're right!" Kristen gasps. "If we play up the pillow fight angle, I bet we can get at least half of those boys in here."
"Ha ha." Tina digs through her bag and frowns. "I thought I had something else. But I guess these will do?" She holds up a pair of hot pink converse high tops. "You could pretend you're in a John Hughes remake."
"At this point, I'm willing to accept anything, as long as I don't have to tramp barefoot through the snow."
Kristen takes the shoes from Tina's outstretched hands and laces them up, jamming her heels into her purse. They hang halfway out the open top.
“Jokes aside, though,” Tina says seriously, “if you wanted to, you could crash here. I don't think I'll be nesting tonight.”
Kristen stretches. "Thanks, but I've got a car waiting and an uncomfortable futon in a tiny Village apartment calling my name. How can I resist?"
She hugs Tina goodbye, promises to call over hiatus, and hurries down the hallway. Her buzz is wearing off and she is quite looking forward to passing out for the evening.
It isn’t until she’s stepped inside of the elevator that she looks down at her purse and realizes: Oh, shit. Her shoe. Her stupid shoe! One of them is missing. Where'd it frickin' go? She'd had it just a second ago-Jesus, can she be any more out of it tonight?
Kristen turns to make a beeline out of the still-open elevator doors, and then promptly drops her purse entirely in surprise.
"Hey." It's Jason, standing there in a wool winter coat, scarf hanging around his neck and palm pressed to the doorjamb to keep the doors from closing. He looks just as startled as she feels.
Apparently the answer to her question is yes, yes, she can. She's so caught off-guard by his sudden presence that it takes her a few seconds to stop gaping like an idiot and croak out a response.
"Hi," she musters, then hastily bends to scoop her purse off the floor. When she looks up again, she notices he's holding something out toward her. She stares at him dumbly for a couple of seconds before it registers what he has in his hand. It’s her shoe; she must’ve dropped it in the hallway.
"I-yeah- I’m guessing that this is yours," he says, extending it toward her in offering, and she plucks it from his grip, careful not to touch his fingers as she does.
"Uh. Yes. I mean. Thanks." She spends a longer time than necessary making room in her purse and tucking it in, attempting to buy time where she doesn't have to actually look at him. Or his arms. And maybe she can get a few seconds to formulate some harrowing escape plan- she could probably get away with ducking under his arm and bolting for the stairs.
Kristen is about sixty-eight percent committed to this idea when he interrupts her train of thought.
"See you found some replacements," he notes, staring at her sneakers.
She glances down at her feet and cringes inwardly. Neon pink hightops plus formal dress does equals… well, it equals something not good. That much she is sure of.
"They’re Tina's," she explains sheepishly.
He tilts his head to the side in consideration. "I like 'em."
While she tries to figure out whether or not he's being serious, he steps fully into the elevator, and the doors slide shut behind him. Crap. So much for the escape plan.
(Though, truth be told, ever since The Thing That She Can’t Talk About, aka that time where she nearly killed her lungs running up a zillion steps and almost got caught in an exploding building, she’s spent some time contemplating the fucked-up nature of stairs and has made it a point to avoid them when possible ever since.)
Apparently he really does think her footwear is a cool fashion statement or something, because he makes no further comment on the subject matter, just moves to stand next to her, fiddling with the collar of the button-down Oxford that pokes out over his jacket.
“You leaving, then?” he questions.
“Yeah. Long night.” She shoots him a sideways glance, curious despite herself. “I thought you were staying here?”
“Oh, I am. I’m, uh, just going to make some snowballs.”
Not sure she’s heard correctly, she echoes, “Snowballs?”
He smiles almost apologetically. “Jensen and Rosenbaum asked me if I would. Something about a surprise attack on Mayhem. I’m not sure. Their words were kind of slurring, but I figured it’d be better not to ask too many questions.”
"An attack on who?"
"Oh. Uh, that one guy on that show. Chad Michael Murray. Who keeps marrying his costars?"
“Yeah, office romance never ends well.” Oops. Did that sound bitter?
Kristen purses her lips and stares up at the elevator ceiling, mentally kicking herself.
“Are you certain this isn’t some kind of hazing ritual?” she continues, trying to cover.
“Huh.” His brow furrows. “That would explain why they made me wear the bra.”
Kristen stares for a long beat, not sure how to take that, because with Jason you never really know-but he breaks into a grin and coughs into his hand.
“Uh, I was trying to make a joke. You know, that thing people do to break up awkward silences.” A pregnant pause. “Much like this one.”
Before she can react, the elevator dings at a new floor and the doors split open.
“HOLD UP, MIS AMIGOS!” a booming and vaguely familiar voice bellows from down the hall, out of sight. “MAN WITH AN ICE BUCKET COMING THROUGH.”
Suddenly Muhney appears, red-faced and out of breath. He has an ice bucket in one hand and a bottle of liquor dangling from the other. When he sees the two of them, he beams, charging into the elevator car and squeezing himself between them.
“Hey you crazy cats!” he greets jovially, tossing his arms around both their shoulders. “Long time, no see!"
"Dude, we just saw you like an hour ago," Jason reminds him.
“Poe-tay-toes, poe-tah-toes.” Muhney shrugs. “So, Dohrbell-what’s hanging?”
“Please don’t call us that. Ever.” Kristen edges as far away from Muhney as possible, but he squeezes her shoulder cap, pulls her back toward him.
“Aw, c’mon! My top notch material, and you shoot it down.” He makes finger guns and pretends to shoot, complete with the appropriate sound effects. “It took me three years and four shots of Bacardi to come up with that one.”
Before she can ask if he’s been mainlining Red Bull, too, Jason interrupts.
“Why so much ice?” he questions.
“You heard, right? Killer after par-tay in Fort Padackles.” Muhney turns his head to smirk over at Kristen. “Now, that one? Only took seven minutes and Google.”
“Very impressive,” she comments dryly.
An after party for a party? These CW boys were really something else.
“You’re coming, right, Jase? There is going to be some FINE ASS TAIL to score! No offense,” he says to Kristen off of her withering look, then twists his head back to Jason. “But seriously. Hotties galore, man. You hearing me?”
Jason just stares, his gaze meeting Kristen’s, embarrassed, if only for a second. Her body temperature feels like it’s rocketed up a few degrees.
"Oops. Missed my floor." Muhney frowns for a moment at the elevator buttons, then shrugs it off just as quickly. "Eh. I'll catch it on the next go-around!"
He rambles on obliviously while Jason still looks over at Kristen; she feels her cheeks grow red. Muhney’s in the middle of discussing the merits of tequila versus vodka when the doors ping and open again.
Kristen clears her throat and all but bolts through, and she hears Michael shout, “I’ll call you!” from behind her as she goes. She lifts her hand in a wave without looking over her shoulder.
God. That whole experience had just taken “tension” to new, undocumented levels of discomfort. She needs to get out of here, go home and curl up in her bed with her puppies and try to salvage the rest of this evening by overdosing on Craisins and her Arrested Development DVDs.
The snow has accumulated during her time inside. It's still white-- the cabs haven't had time to toss slush on the sidewalks; no one has taken their dog for a midnight walk. She stands at the bottom of the steps and looks around for her ride, but sees nothing.
“Hey, Kristen. Hey. Wait a sec.”
Jason’s voice comes from behind her, and she half-turns to see him standing at the top of the steps. He has the collar of his wool coat popped up, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
“I thought I’d walk you,” he explains, looking at her as if to ask for permission.
She stares at him. Has this night not been awkward enough for the two of them? Why is Jason insisting on stretching it out even further? Maybe he is just enjoying watching her squirm. But that doesn’t seem like him-even though things have been different, he’s never been an outright dick to her, or even a little mean. Just… distant.
“Uh, I-” she stammers, then stops and breathes out a long sigh, shrugs under her jacket. “Um. Sure. Why not.”
He glances over his shoulder and then hurries down the steps to stand beside her.
Jason's been holding back for seven months, and even if she's technically supposed to be ignoring him or whatever, Kristen can't help but wonder why he’s taking such initiative. Or. You know. If it’s just because they’re going to the same place and he’s being polite.
A thought suddenly occurs to her.
“So. Uh. Before. You said something-” She stops without mentioning the name that Josh gave them, because she feels silly, stupid. And because even if the walls don't have ears, the doormen probably do, and while maybe no one has come after her or Jason yet, she's not willing to tempt fate.
Kristen watches as he evades her gaze, leans down and scoops a handful of snow in his hand. He begins to pack a snowball in silence. Enough time passes that she wonders if he even heard her, but then he speaks.
“We’re always stuck in it, you know?” he says solemnly, meeting her eyes.
She’s not sure what he means by that, since it could mean a lot of things, but she just nods. Stamps her feet to warm them up, shivers a little. There's a cold wind shooting down the corridor between the buildings, blowing snow and ice.
The weird thing is they've exchanged more words tonight than they had in the past month. For whatever reason, maybe because she’s sobering up, this makes her sad. Sadder than she should be-- because she should be happy that Jason's talking to her like she's an actual person again.
He reaches out without warning and encircles his hand around her wrist. His fingers are cold against her skin, and her feet feel numb, and he’s just standing there and looking at her like there’s a lot more he wants to say, when the familiar black sedan pulls up to the curb.
“And… that’s my signal,” she says shakily, breaking away from his touch. “I better hurry-it’s going to turn into a pumpkin in approximately…” She pauses to glance at her non-existent watch. “Fifty-two seconds.”
“Right.” He steps back with a half-smile.
Kristen jogs to the curb, looking over her shoulder to shout, “Thanks for the shoe!”
Jason nods, and as she climbs into the backseat, she can see that he’s started to juggle the snowballs he’s holding. Badly.
As the car speeds off, she lets out a long sigh, leans back against the seat and lets her eyes close. So much for moving on. So much for space to breathe.
**
The clock in the lobby of her building reads 2:45 when Kristen finally trudges through the doors. She'd almost fallen asleep in the back of the car twice as it made its way slowly through the ice and sludge.
She momentarily regrets not taking up Tina's offer when she thinks of the hard and lumpy futon that's waiting for her upstairs, but it's too late to do anything about that. The corners of her mouth tilt upwards in a smile and she hopes that by this time, Tina's managed to work her charm on a lucky victim.
Like maybe if she paid Jensen and Jared enough, they'd let her watch.
She presses the button for the elevator and lets the wall support her body as she waits. She's just not going to let any of this Jason stuff get her down. Or up. She's not going to let Jason have any effect on her vacation whatsoever. The next month will be devoted to nothing but holiday shopping and sleeping in and whatever else she decides to do.
She will live her life in the spur of the moment, and she will not think of Jason.
In fact, as the elevator arrives and she steps on for the short journey up, she starts believing that this is actually a most excellent pre-New Years' Resolution.
I, Kristen Bell, being sound of mind and body - she exits the elevator - do solemnly swear to not let anything one Jason Dohring, formerly known as Jason Fucking Dohring - she fumbles in her purse for her keys - affect me in any way, positive or adverse. She unlocks and opens the door. Especially not in ways pertaining to past events involving Scientologists, liberations, or planes. In fact, all of such thoughts will henceforth be stricken from the record, i.e., my brain.
Kristen has already concluded this is an excellent idea worth pursuing when she almost slips on an envelope lying on the floor in her entry hall that definitely wasn't there when she left for the event.
Leaning over, she picks it up and opens it.
By the time she's done reading the letter inside, she's pretty sure her resolution is going to be shot to hell.
Well. It was a good three seconds while it lasted.
Continue to chapter two.
TBC
Cast: Kristen Bell. Jason Dohring. Joshua Jackson. With sundry guest stars of the CW and Scientology variety!
Authors: buffyx & missdeviant
Rating: NC-17 (this section PG-13)
Notes/Warnings: Rule number one of VM RPS: Do not talk about VM RPS. Not to the actors, anyway. It's just not cool, and DEFINITELY NOT AT ALL FUNNY, OKAY? OKAY. Just so we're clear!
Previous Parts:
++ Prologue
It's snowing lightly when Kristen exits her building the night of the CW party. Fortunately, the car sent by the network is waiting right under the awning, so she barely gets any slush on her stilettos as she carefully steps into the glossy black vehicle.
Okay, she’ll admit that she briefly contemplated calling Roz and pleading a bad case of sushi, but with her luck Roz would remember that she was a vegetarian (even if other people rarely did, PETA awards or not) and call bullshit before she could croak out one fake dry heave. It’s not like she has another excuse - her AmEx got the brunt of the damage of a new brocade coat and high-waisted cranberry colored dress with contrasting sash, and, at the risk of sounding full of herself, she has to say that she looks fucking amazing.
Kristen's sure at least half of the boys club will show up in jeans, but the Hollywood rule of thumb is that overdressing is better than underdressing, and if she remembers correctly, Jason is a fan of the cleavage.
It's not like she's dressing for Jason. Or not for Jason. She doesn't know. But she can't help the fact that the thought is dancing in her head: Jason likes my breasts. If I recall correctly, he REALLY likes them.
These are the kind of thoughts that sneak into her head late at night, the kind of thoughts that made her move across the country. Of course, moving across the country means that she's having even MORE of those types of musings, probably because other than shopping, she's been doing next to nothing other than living in her own thought-filled bubble for the past week. She's learned that being a misanthrope is not good for the daydreaming.
By the time the sedan pulls up to the hotel, she thinks she’s got her nerves under control. However, when the driver opens her door and she climbs out as gracefully as her dress allows, they flutter back up in her stomach again-- well, it’s either nerves or the cucumber salad she’d had for lunch.
Kristen thanks the driver, clutches her purse and heads toward the hotel entrance. She’s at the base of the steps when she notices a familiar figure leaning against one of the pillars.
“Tina?” she questions curiously.
The girl turns, her cell phone pressed to her ear, and another look affirms what she’s already suspected: it is, in fact, Tina Majorino, who represents the mousy, timid geek girl population on Veronica Mars. In real life, Tina is maybe borderline geeky, but definitely neither mousy nor timid.
“Hey!” Tina beams and shuts her phone, sticks it into the pocket of her peacoat and rushes toward Kristen, grabbing her in a tight, quick hug.
She pulls back, surveys Kristen up and down. “Okay. I think I have been officially out-glammed.”
Kristen rolls her eyes. “Please. You look completely awesome.”
It’s true-Tina’s black dress with the pencil line skirt is simple but classic, and her hair is falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She looks adorable, in an understated way.
“And holy crap, am I glad to have someone to walk into this with,” Kristen confesses.
“I’m more than happy to be your partner in fashionable lateness,” Tina replies, linking arms with her and steering them up the steps. “In fact, I’m counting on the photogs to be distracted by you, thus allowing me to make a beeline toward the nearest source of alcohol, unscathed.”
“Hmm. Well, I suppose I’ll let you whore me out, if it is in the noble pursuit of getting tanked,” teases Kristen.
They push through the doors and into the lobby, up a staircase and work their way through the throng of people outside of the ballroom. Among them is Roz, looking cross and impatient. Which is basically the way she always looks.
“BELL!” she snaps, immediately storming up. “Where were you? I called you seven times.”
“Dress issues,” Kristen shrugs.
That shuts Roz up immediately. There are certain advantages to having a female publicist. Of course, even though she's spared public humiliation, Roz reaches out her talons, grabs Kristen's arm and hauls her in.
"Listen to me," she hisses, "I don't care if you've got as many issues as National Geographic. Next time, you blame the weather. Don't ever let them believe your clothes wear you."
With that final parting advice, she releases Kristen and nudges her towards the press. What follows is the obligatory meet-and-greet, shaking the hands of various producers and agents and the significant others of agents, spewing sound bites at the press, topped off with some photographers calling out her name and asking her for pictures.
Tina starts to edge into the ballroom, but Kristen snatches her arm, yanks her back and makes her pose for an adequate amount of shots.
"Stick with me kid. I'll make you somebody," Kristen drawls.
"I don't know what you're talking about. See this scar?" Tina tilts her head towards her shoulder, still smiling. "Six stitches from Costner's harpoon. See me in ten years, we'll compare fame wounds."
“Ah, Hollywood. Such a cruel mistress.”
Tina gives one last smile to the cameras and then snatches Kristen’s wrist. “Okay. Enough of this. Booze now, please!”
She drags her into the ballroom, and it doesn’t take long for Kristen to see that Roz wasn't lying. Congregated around the bar are all of the usual suspects: Rosenbaum, Ackles, Padalecki, Welling. They’re all sucking down what look to be red and green jello shots. Those new guys from that OC ripoff midseason replacement are off to one side, engaged in conversation, and Chad Michael Murray is sitting at a table, his arm wrapped around presumably his fiancée, who looks barely old enough to be attending prom. Even the kid from the Chris Rock show is hanging out. There are tables bordering a decent-sized dance floor and music pounding from the speakers.
No one ever said the CW didn't know how to throw a party for perpetual adolescents.
"Shall we mingle?" Tina suggests.
"I don't know. I prefer to check out Ackles' ass from afar."
Tina raises her eyebrows appreciatively. "If that's the plan for the evening, then I definitely need a drink. Or five. I think five is enough to create an excuse for inappropriate ass-grabbing."
The crowd is tight but easy to maneuver, if you don’t make eye contact. Kristen has learned the hard way that eye contact at these events is deadly - enough to get you trapped in a seventeen minute conversation with Kristen Veitch about so-and-so’s latest facelift and how ADORKABLE her costar is and my god have you SEEN what she did to her hair?
The mahogany bar is massive. It takes up the better portion of the far wall, but of course - of COURSE Tina squeezes right next to the boys from Supernatural. For a few minutes they sip cosmos and provide running commentary on everyone else’s outfits, but it doesn’t take long for Tina to ditch her and go stalk Allison Mack, leaving the mocking to Kristen alone, which isn’t nearly as entertaining.
She was right about the dress code: Jared Padalecki is sporting distressed jeans and a - god. Is that a sweater with REINDEER parading across the front? She thought he was from Texas, where owning sweaters was basically unnecessary.
The bad news is he catches her looking (what? It’s not her fault that the fruity pattern is at her eye level) and sidles over.
“Hey, Kristen. You look nice.”
“Thanks. So do…you,” she nods uncertainly.
She’s got more tact than to ask if Roz put him up to this, even if she’s willing to bet her dogs that it’s the case. Then it hits her. She’s getting fixed up with the guy in the reindeer sweater. This is a Bridget Jones moment. The world thinks she’s already an old maid. And she’s only twenty-six.
“Quite a bash they’ve got here,” she small talks without looking Jared in the eye. Turns out that’s a bad idea, as she spies Jensen behind his shoulder, running his tongue around the inside of a red jello shot. She’s temporarily transfixed.
Jared turns slightly to see what’s captured her attention. He keeps his back to her for a few seconds longer than would be considered appropriate in polite company, long enough for Jensen to finish the jello with a chaser of beer. Gross. When he's facing Kristen again, she can't help but note that his cheeks look a bit rosier than before.
Even if Roz had a plan, Kristen is pretty sure that with the way Jared is looking at Jensen, it wouldn’t quite work out.
He swallows and says, “Yeah, gang’s all here.”
“Looks like you do this a lot,” Kristen comments. “Anyone I should be warned about?”
This must be familiar territory, because he relaxes into an easy smile.
“Well, Jensen can be rambunctious, but it’s Rosenbaum you have to watch out for,” he explains. “That guy’s just flat-out crazy. Welling-he’s mostly harmless, but if you get cornered and he starts talking about how his teacher once fell off of a barn onto solid concrete… ditch him as soon as possible, because he’ll never shut up.”
She grins. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”
“So,” he says, leaning in, “should someone have warned me about you? Some deep, dark secret you care to reveal?”
For a second, she nearly chokes on her drink and wonders if there is some way he could possibly know. Know about Jason, or the Resistance, or anything. But she blinks and looks back at him and he still has that slightly vacant, joking look in his eyes which tells her he doesn’t know squat.
“Aside from an embarrassing love for Air Supply, I got nothing,” she kids.
“DID SOMEONE SAY AIR SUPPLY?”
It’s Jensen, bounding over, juggling two jello shots and a beer.
“Dude. They do that song, right? That one I like-with the thing-right? Right?” He elbows Jared roughly. “You know?”
“That’s ‘All Out of Love,’ man,” Jared says, taking one of the jello shots Jensen offers him. He looks pointedly at Kristen. “Hey, Jensen, remember your manners.”
“What?” Jensen turns and looks at her. “Oh, of course. Would you like a jello shot, Miss? They’re gourmet.”
Kristen shakes her head. “No thanks.”
“Your loss.” He shrugs and lifts it halfway to his mouth.
“But not mine.”
She turns at the sound and sees Tina coming up behind her, swiping Jensen’s jello shot and sucking it down before he can even blink. He looks surprised before he breaks into a wide grin.
“Right on!” he laughs, giving her a high-five and letting out a whoop. “LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!”
**
Things pick up a little after that; Tina has apparently finished scoping out the room and sticks to Kristen’s side-the drinks keep coming and the music keeps any conversation from getting too in-depth, and it’s kind of nice to see Percy and Francis and even Muhney in an environment that didn’t require their interactions to include line readings or stage blocking.
Jason's there, of course, but he's keeping his distance. As usual. He gives a few half smiles, a few waves but other than that - nothing.
Well, almost nothing.
There's a point when they're at the bar and Jason starts to walk up to Kristen and Tina, eye contact and everything. Then he appears to change his mind halfway through, veers off towards a tray of hors d'oeuvres.
"That was weird," Tina remarks after a long pause.
"He's Jason. He's always weird," Kristen says. She hopes Tina won't call her on being a bad liar. Because Josh was right. She really is.
"Hmm. True," says Tina, and Kristen's safe. For about three seconds. "Is it true Lauren decided to become the Scientology version of a nun? And that's why they're split up?" Tina scrapes an olive off a toothpick with her teeth.
Kristen manages a weak laugh.
"I heard he finally moved out of his parents," Tina continues. "Shit. I can't believe he waited until he was in his fucking twenties."
"I know," Kristen agrees, but it's hollow, because her eyes are still on Jason and she's not really paying much attention.
Tina sets her drink down on a nearby table. She grasps Kristen by the shoulders, a timeless pose used to impart drunken wisdom since the dawn of man.
"It's not you," she suddenly says.
"Huh?" Oh fuck. Oh FUCK, is she making it that obvious? Kristen takes a long swallow from her drink to stall for time as her mind races.
"Him, being all weird-- it isn't about you, you realize that, right?"
If only you knew, Kristen thinks. It seems like most of her life over the past seven months has been filled with "if only you knew." It hurts more than she cares to admit-- the biggest event in her twenty six years and there are only two people in the world she can talk about it with. One of them's in the Resistance version of Witness Protection and the other person - the other person is Jason. Who isn't exactly making any kind of conversations easy, much less the meaningful, therapeutic ones.
“I know,” says Kristen, forcing a smile. “I mean. Duh. Obviously.”
Tina shoots her a searching look, like she’s looking for some reaction in particular, but Kristen just finishes her drink and holds up the empty glass.
“You know, I could use something a little stronger.”
**
The holiday spirits are clearly taking hold of everyone. The havoc crew has gathered near a stand of decorated evergreens on the far side of the room. They're too far away for Kristen to hear what they're saying, but by the way they're grabbing tinsel off the trees and throwing it on each other's heads, she's not sure she wants to.
Then Jensen takes his shirt off.
Tina turns to Kristen with pure unadulterated glee. "Well, this party has certainly taken a turn for the sexy."
That's when Rosenbaum tackles the Christmas tree. The music continues to blare, doesn't screech to a halt. But it should.
A few people are shaking their heads. More are smiling. Rosenbaum stands up, brushes tinsel off his shoulders, and takes a grandiose bow. Welling and Chad Michael Murray clap him heartily on the back until he grabs them in headlocks.
Ah, the boys of the CW: not unlike a drunken frat.
"God, can't they even come up with their OWN fratty shenanigans? They have to resort to stealing them from Kiefer Sutherland?" Kristen mutters.
"I thought it was cool," Tina offers.
Actually, it was pretty cool.
Ryan Hansen and his cornrows show up and take up residence at the bar next to Percy and Jason. At last year's wrap party, she'd hoped they were just for a role. But no, it seems they've transitioned to being worn in an everyday manner. Fan-fucking-tastic.
"Hey!" Tina says once she and Kristen reach the bar for what has to be the fourth time in the last half hour. "It's like a tiny little reunion. With people I haven't seen in two weeks. Which," she gestures, and her hand moves slower than normal, "by the way, is like a total lifetime, when we spend as much time together as we do. Am I right?"
Tina grabs some champagne off a passing tray and passes a glass to Kristen, who already has a decent buzz going but doesn’t object to another drink.
"Hey," she addresses Kristen, "I forgot to ask. Where's your daddy?"
"Enrico has bronchitis," Jason interjects. "He really wanted to be here."
“Oh.” Kristen swallows down some of the champagne and looks past him to Ryan. “So what happened to Francis? Wasn’t he just here?”
She had spied him earlier from across the room, but by the time she and Tina made their way over, he was MIA.
“He's in the bathroom,” Percy supplies. “Showing Bufanda his bling or somethin’.”
Ryan snorts loudly. "Bling? Yeah, right. I think the word is FREESTYLING. Freestyling…" He sways a little as he pauses, building up the dramatic crescendo before finishing his joke. "…with his PENIS."
“Drinking for Jesus again, Hansen?” Jason asks, amused. “I think maybe you’ve had enough for tonight.”
Raising his cup, Ryan declares, "To Africa!" and downs it all in one big gulp.
“To Africa!” everyone choruses, following suit.
Ryan slams the empty cup down on the counter with a refreshed sigh, just as a new song-a recognizable tune by the Arctic Monkeys-kicks into high gear.
“Shuck this jive! C’mon, ladies. I’m ready to get dooowwwnnnnn.” He stretches the word out into approximately ten syllables before slinging his arms around Tina and Kristen’s waists, hauling them onto the dance floor.
At first, Kristen’s instincts are to wriggle away, but Tina is laughing and spinning her around, and-- well. Fine. By this time she's had enough alcohol that anything seems like a worthy proposition. Besides, she's an actress. She's not allowed to feel self-conscious when people look at her; not even when those people are (possibly. potentially) Jason Dohring.
He’s still on the sidelines, a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth, watching them all in amusement.
Besides, except for Ryan showing off with some stupid backflips, the Veronica Mars crowd has been woefully underrepresented on the dance floor tonight. She's required-- nay, contractually obligated-- to show the world that UPN can shake its groove thing just as hard as stupid Lorelai Gilmore.
Besides, she didn't see anyone asking Lauren Graham to sing and dance at the Emmys, did she? NO.
Between the stylistic boy band maneuvers of Ryan and Percy’s impressive worm, a good-sized crowd circles around to watch. More bodies fill the dance floor and eventually Tina drifts off to sidle up to Allison Mack, who looks cute in a short white strapless number.
After the sixth song, Kristen’s feeling a little lightheaded and decides some kind of nourishment is in order. She pushes her way back off the floor, past a China doll-faced Alexis Bledel chatting into a cell phone with one hand to her ear, and to the bar. All of the drink trays on the counter are empty, and there is no bartender in immediate sight.
“Dammit,” she mutters, leaning against the counter with a sigh.
“Looking for something?”
It’s Jason. Kristen whirls at his voice, a little startled.
“Um, kind of,” she answers uncertainly. “Something to drink. Preferably non-alcoholic.”
“Here,” he offers, handing her a cup. “It’s just ice.”
“Thanks.”
Kristen accepts, shakes a cube into her mouth and bites into it, chewing thoughtfully and watching him out of the corner of her eye. It still feels weird to be alone with him, or semi-alone, whatever, and not know what exactly to say. Or what not to say. Still, she figures she can at least attempt some casual conversation.
“So,” she starts, rattling the cup lightly, “how are you getting on with the boys from the rival school?”
Jason shrugs and smiles a little, picking at the label on his beer bottle. “Not bad. I've been told I have to challenge Welling to a pushup contest later, though. Not sure what that's about.”
She smiles back, lifts one shoulder and brushes her wispy bangs back behind her ear. “Been up to anything interesting lately?”
“Nah,” he says, then pauses and shoots her a long, meaningful glance. “A little muckraking, here and there.”
Well, she wasn’t expecting that for an answer. Jason’s mouth is still open, and he looks like he’s possibly about to say more, when all of a sudden Tina rushes up and clings to her arm.
“You don’t get to escape that easy!” Tina taunts. “Come on. You, me, the electric slide, stat. Right now, missy!” She tosses a grin over her shoulder to Jason. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back when I’m done.”
Tina gives her a playful shove back onto the dance floor. The crowd’s thinned out a little, as it is starting to get late, even by exclusive party standards. Still, the music’s pumping and a small amount of people are thugging around like it’s a goddamn mosh pit. Mostly it’s the super-tall, lameass model wannabes from Tyra Banks’ show, who are three times as tanked as she is and lack any sense of rhythm.
Three minutes back on the dance floor, and suddenly, one of the models slams into her shoulder. The surprising power of such an anorexic body crashing into hers sends her staggering to the side. There’s a loud snapping sound that for a split second she fears is her ankle bone, but no, it’s the heel of her stiletto. She almost goes sprawling face-first, but Tina catches her by the elbow.
“Whoa!” Tina shouts over the music. “You okay?”
“Yeah, people just SUCK.” She half-limps her way off of the dance floor, exhales loudly. “You know, I think this is my cue to bail for the night.”
Kristen can’t help but sneak a glance in Jason’s direction; if he saw her, she wouldn’t know, as he’s engaged in deep conversation with Jared.
Tina nods, and a second later her eyes light up. “Oh! Wait! I know I have extra shoes in my room.”
“I’m fine,” Kristen insists, but Tina rolls her eyes and scoffs.
“Please. You’ll end up slipping on ice and looking like an even bigger idiot. An idiot with a broken ankle. Now come on, let’s fix you up.”
**
Kristen sprawls across the king-sized bed in Tina's hotel room. She's been dragged up here with the promises of at least one pair of suitable replacement shoes, but they've been sitting on the bed for fifteen minutes dissecting the latest rumors raised by the evening's shenanigans before Tina grabs a suitcase out of the closet.
"Hey, you'd better not pass out in my love nest," Tina admonishes as Kristen's eyes droop.
"Oh yeah? Who exactly are you going to be nesting with? Last I could figure, it was a tossup between Mack and Ackles. And if our deductions are correct, the only pants Ackles is going to be getting into have a thirty-eight inch inseam."
Tina shoots her a look and flings a pillow at the bed.
"You're right!" Kristen gasps. "If we play up the pillow fight angle, I bet we can get at least half of those boys in here."
"Ha ha." Tina digs through her bag and frowns. "I thought I had something else. But I guess these will do?" She holds up a pair of hot pink converse high tops. "You could pretend you're in a John Hughes remake."
"At this point, I'm willing to accept anything, as long as I don't have to tramp barefoot through the snow."
Kristen takes the shoes from Tina's outstretched hands and laces them up, jamming her heels into her purse. They hang halfway out the open top.
“Jokes aside, though,” Tina says seriously, “if you wanted to, you could crash here. I don't think I'll be nesting tonight.”
Kristen stretches. "Thanks, but I've got a car waiting and an uncomfortable futon in a tiny Village apartment calling my name. How can I resist?"
She hugs Tina goodbye, promises to call over hiatus, and hurries down the hallway. Her buzz is wearing off and she is quite looking forward to passing out for the evening.
It isn’t until she’s stepped inside of the elevator that she looks down at her purse and realizes: Oh, shit. Her shoe. Her stupid shoe! One of them is missing. Where'd it frickin' go? She'd had it just a second ago-Jesus, can she be any more out of it tonight?
Kristen turns to make a beeline out of the still-open elevator doors, and then promptly drops her purse entirely in surprise.
"Hey." It's Jason, standing there in a wool winter coat, scarf hanging around his neck and palm pressed to the doorjamb to keep the doors from closing. He looks just as startled as she feels.
Apparently the answer to her question is yes, yes, she can. She's so caught off-guard by his sudden presence that it takes her a few seconds to stop gaping like an idiot and croak out a response.
"Hi," she musters, then hastily bends to scoop her purse off the floor. When she looks up again, she notices he's holding something out toward her. She stares at him dumbly for a couple of seconds before it registers what he has in his hand. It’s her shoe; she must’ve dropped it in the hallway.
"I-yeah- I’m guessing that this is yours," he says, extending it toward her in offering, and she plucks it from his grip, careful not to touch his fingers as she does.
"Uh. Yes. I mean. Thanks." She spends a longer time than necessary making room in her purse and tucking it in, attempting to buy time where she doesn't have to actually look at him. Or his arms. And maybe she can get a few seconds to formulate some harrowing escape plan- she could probably get away with ducking under his arm and bolting for the stairs.
Kristen is about sixty-eight percent committed to this idea when he interrupts her train of thought.
"See you found some replacements," he notes, staring at her sneakers.
She glances down at her feet and cringes inwardly. Neon pink hightops plus formal dress does equals… well, it equals something not good. That much she is sure of.
"They’re Tina's," she explains sheepishly.
He tilts his head to the side in consideration. "I like 'em."
While she tries to figure out whether or not he's being serious, he steps fully into the elevator, and the doors slide shut behind him. Crap. So much for the escape plan.
(Though, truth be told, ever since The Thing That She Can’t Talk About, aka that time where she nearly killed her lungs running up a zillion steps and almost got caught in an exploding building, she’s spent some time contemplating the fucked-up nature of stairs and has made it a point to avoid them when possible ever since.)
Apparently he really does think her footwear is a cool fashion statement or something, because he makes no further comment on the subject matter, just moves to stand next to her, fiddling with the collar of the button-down Oxford that pokes out over his jacket.
“You leaving, then?” he questions.
“Yeah. Long night.” She shoots him a sideways glance, curious despite herself. “I thought you were staying here?”
“Oh, I am. I’m, uh, just going to make some snowballs.”
Not sure she’s heard correctly, she echoes, “Snowballs?”
He smiles almost apologetically. “Jensen and Rosenbaum asked me if I would. Something about a surprise attack on Mayhem. I’m not sure. Their words were kind of slurring, but I figured it’d be better not to ask too many questions.”
"An attack on who?"
"Oh. Uh, that one guy on that show. Chad Michael Murray. Who keeps marrying his costars?"
“Yeah, office romance never ends well.” Oops. Did that sound bitter?
Kristen purses her lips and stares up at the elevator ceiling, mentally kicking herself.
“Are you certain this isn’t some kind of hazing ritual?” she continues, trying to cover.
“Huh.” His brow furrows. “That would explain why they made me wear the bra.”
Kristen stares for a long beat, not sure how to take that, because with Jason you never really know-but he breaks into a grin and coughs into his hand.
“Uh, I was trying to make a joke. You know, that thing people do to break up awkward silences.” A pregnant pause. “Much like this one.”
Before she can react, the elevator dings at a new floor and the doors split open.
“HOLD UP, MIS AMIGOS!” a booming and vaguely familiar voice bellows from down the hall, out of sight. “MAN WITH AN ICE BUCKET COMING THROUGH.”
Suddenly Muhney appears, red-faced and out of breath. He has an ice bucket in one hand and a bottle of liquor dangling from the other. When he sees the two of them, he beams, charging into the elevator car and squeezing himself between them.
“Hey you crazy cats!” he greets jovially, tossing his arms around both their shoulders. “Long time, no see!"
"Dude, we just saw you like an hour ago," Jason reminds him.
“Poe-tay-toes, poe-tah-toes.” Muhney shrugs. “So, Dohrbell-what’s hanging?”
“Please don’t call us that. Ever.” Kristen edges as far away from Muhney as possible, but he squeezes her shoulder cap, pulls her back toward him.
“Aw, c’mon! My top notch material, and you shoot it down.” He makes finger guns and pretends to shoot, complete with the appropriate sound effects. “It took me three years and four shots of Bacardi to come up with that one.”
Before she can ask if he’s been mainlining Red Bull, too, Jason interrupts.
“Why so much ice?” he questions.
“You heard, right? Killer after par-tay in Fort Padackles.” Muhney turns his head to smirk over at Kristen. “Now, that one? Only took seven minutes and Google.”
“Very impressive,” she comments dryly.
An after party for a party? These CW boys were really something else.
“You’re coming, right, Jase? There is going to be some FINE ASS TAIL to score! No offense,” he says to Kristen off of her withering look, then twists his head back to Jason. “But seriously. Hotties galore, man. You hearing me?”
Jason just stares, his gaze meeting Kristen’s, embarrassed, if only for a second. Her body temperature feels like it’s rocketed up a few degrees.
"Oops. Missed my floor." Muhney frowns for a moment at the elevator buttons, then shrugs it off just as quickly. "Eh. I'll catch it on the next go-around!"
He rambles on obliviously while Jason still looks over at Kristen; she feels her cheeks grow red. Muhney’s in the middle of discussing the merits of tequila versus vodka when the doors ping and open again.
Kristen clears her throat and all but bolts through, and she hears Michael shout, “I’ll call you!” from behind her as she goes. She lifts her hand in a wave without looking over her shoulder.
God. That whole experience had just taken “tension” to new, undocumented levels of discomfort. She needs to get out of here, go home and curl up in her bed with her puppies and try to salvage the rest of this evening by overdosing on Craisins and her Arrested Development DVDs.
The snow has accumulated during her time inside. It's still white-- the cabs haven't had time to toss slush on the sidewalks; no one has taken their dog for a midnight walk. She stands at the bottom of the steps and looks around for her ride, but sees nothing.
“Hey, Kristen. Hey. Wait a sec.”
Jason’s voice comes from behind her, and she half-turns to see him standing at the top of the steps. He has the collar of his wool coat popped up, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
“I thought I’d walk you,” he explains, looking at her as if to ask for permission.
She stares at him. Has this night not been awkward enough for the two of them? Why is Jason insisting on stretching it out even further? Maybe he is just enjoying watching her squirm. But that doesn’t seem like him-even though things have been different, he’s never been an outright dick to her, or even a little mean. Just… distant.
“Uh, I-” she stammers, then stops and breathes out a long sigh, shrugs under her jacket. “Um. Sure. Why not.”
He glances over his shoulder and then hurries down the steps to stand beside her.
Jason's been holding back for seven months, and even if she's technically supposed to be ignoring him or whatever, Kristen can't help but wonder why he’s taking such initiative. Or. You know. If it’s just because they’re going to the same place and he’s being polite.
A thought suddenly occurs to her.
“So. Uh. Before. You said something-” She stops without mentioning the name that Josh gave them, because she feels silly, stupid. And because even if the walls don't have ears, the doormen probably do, and while maybe no one has come after her or Jason yet, she's not willing to tempt fate.
Kristen watches as he evades her gaze, leans down and scoops a handful of snow in his hand. He begins to pack a snowball in silence. Enough time passes that she wonders if he even heard her, but then he speaks.
“We’re always stuck in it, you know?” he says solemnly, meeting her eyes.
She’s not sure what he means by that, since it could mean a lot of things, but she just nods. Stamps her feet to warm them up, shivers a little. There's a cold wind shooting down the corridor between the buildings, blowing snow and ice.
The weird thing is they've exchanged more words tonight than they had in the past month. For whatever reason, maybe because she’s sobering up, this makes her sad. Sadder than she should be-- because she should be happy that Jason's talking to her like she's an actual person again.
He reaches out without warning and encircles his hand around her wrist. His fingers are cold against her skin, and her feet feel numb, and he’s just standing there and looking at her like there’s a lot more he wants to say, when the familiar black sedan pulls up to the curb.
“And… that’s my signal,” she says shakily, breaking away from his touch. “I better hurry-it’s going to turn into a pumpkin in approximately…” She pauses to glance at her non-existent watch. “Fifty-two seconds.”
“Right.” He steps back with a half-smile.
Kristen jogs to the curb, looking over her shoulder to shout, “Thanks for the shoe!”
Jason nods, and as she climbs into the backseat, she can see that he’s started to juggle the snowballs he’s holding. Badly.
As the car speeds off, she lets out a long sigh, leans back against the seat and lets her eyes close. So much for moving on. So much for space to breathe.
**
The clock in the lobby of her building reads 2:45 when Kristen finally trudges through the doors. She'd almost fallen asleep in the back of the car twice as it made its way slowly through the ice and sludge.
She momentarily regrets not taking up Tina's offer when she thinks of the hard and lumpy futon that's waiting for her upstairs, but it's too late to do anything about that. The corners of her mouth tilt upwards in a smile and she hopes that by this time, Tina's managed to work her charm on a lucky victim.
Like maybe if she paid Jensen and Jared enough, they'd let her watch.
She presses the button for the elevator and lets the wall support her body as she waits. She's just not going to let any of this Jason stuff get her down. Or up. She's not going to let Jason have any effect on her vacation whatsoever. The next month will be devoted to nothing but holiday shopping and sleeping in and whatever else she decides to do.
She will live her life in the spur of the moment, and she will not think of Jason.
In fact, as the elevator arrives and she steps on for the short journey up, she starts believing that this is actually a most excellent pre-New Years' Resolution.
I, Kristen Bell, being sound of mind and body - she exits the elevator - do solemnly swear to not let anything one Jason Dohring, formerly known as Jason Fucking Dohring - she fumbles in her purse for her keys - affect me in any way, positive or adverse. She unlocks and opens the door. Especially not in ways pertaining to past events involving Scientologists, liberations, or planes. In fact, all of such thoughts will henceforth be stricken from the record, i.e., my brain.
Kristen has already concluded this is an excellent idea worth pursuing when she almost slips on an envelope lying on the floor in her entry hall that definitely wasn't there when she left for the event.
Leaning over, she picks it up and opens it.
By the time she's done reading the letter inside, she's pretty sure her resolution is going to be shot to hell.
Well. It was a good three seconds while it lasted.
Continue to chapter two.
TBC