fic: A Proportional Response (1/1)

[emily_waters]

Title: A Proportional Response
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: PG
Summary: Simon tries to take one for the team.
Disclaimer: I do not own American Idol and you can't own real people, so there you go.


Paula is getting really tired of answering her phone. It rings all through the house, echoing off the tile and the hardwood, bleating at her insistently. It’s nearly 10:00am and she’s been on the phone for what feels like three days straight. She was so happy to wake up to a day without American Idol but, now, sitting in her fax machine are phone numbers. Fox affiliates all over the country who aren’t big enough to get day after coverage.

She usually spends Thursday morning on the phone with Johnjay and Rich in Phoenix but when Ryan realized she spoke to them the morning after before him, he chewed her out and she’d promised to lay off his competitors for a while. They’ve been calling all morning, though, and when she picks up the handset to look at the caller id, she expects to see the Phoenix area code again.

Instead, it’s her sister.

“Hey Wendy,” she says, tiredly.

“I’ve been calling you for three days,” Wendy says.

“I know,” she says. “I… screwed up and then it was crazy.”

“Is American Idol more important than your family?” Wendy asks.

“I seriously don’t need a lecture this morning,” Paula says. “I’m talking to you now, anyway.”

“How are you doing?” Wendy asks.

“Well, did you see it?”

“Yeah,” says Wendy. “It was… well. At least you didn’t cry.”

“Is this supposed to be cheering me up?” Paula asks. “Cause, I really got to say, if this is your idea of soothing my pain, you might want to just stop.”

“Okay,” Wendy says. “God. I’m just being honest.”

“It will all blow over by the weekend news cycle,” Paula says, sounding more hopeful than she feels.

“And Simon fell on the knife for you, didn’t he?” Wendy asks. Paula is standing in her kitchen, reaching for the coffee pot but her hand pauses.

“What?” she asks. “What do you even mean by that.”

“The whole first kiss thing yesterday,” Wendy says. “Do you really think Simon’s boyhood crush randomly picked last night to call and brag on-air?”

“What, you’re saying Simon arranged it?” Paula asks. “I don’t believe that.”

“He was positively kind to you last night,” Wendy says. “And when I turned on the computer this morning, Simon and this lady were on the screen and your flub was just a footnote at the bottom of the screen.”

“I don’t…” Paula says, leaning her hip against the cold counter. “He seemed genuinely surprised.”

“I just think it’s quite the coincidence,” Wendy says. “Look, I know you and Simon don’t always get along, but I just called to make sure you were okay and to say that he did a nice thing for you.”

“I’m fine,” Paula says, absently.

“Are you still coming for Sunday dinner?” Wendy asks.

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Paula says.

“What about J.T.?”

“Oh,” Paula says, finally pouring her self another cup of coffee. The burner on the coffeemaker keeps the liquid warm, but it has been warming for too long and it tastes stale and a little burnt. She adds some soy milk but it doesn’t really help. She’ll drink it anyway. “I don’t think so.”

“I haven’t seen him in a while,” Wendy prods. “You two okay?”

“Sure,” Paula says. “We’re just… the same. You know he’s busy and I have a crazy schedule and sometimes we just can’t…”

“I’ll just plan for you, then,” Wendy says. “Call me if you need anything, baby sister.”

“I will,” she says and hangs up the phone. She sets the handset down on the counter and sips her coffee. She hadn’t really given Simon’s caller a second thought. It had been cute at the time, seeing Simon blush and squirm but then it had been over. Still, he’d been awfully nice to her in the past 72 hours. Nice for Simon anyhow. He hadn’t mocked her; he hadn’t called her crazy or unstable either privately or publicly. He’d been just as upset about the changes as she had, actually.

She picks up the phone and hits the speed dial button and then the number three. It rings four times before Terri answers.

“Hello?” she says, sounding tired.

“Hi Terri,” she says. “It’s Paula.” She knows she probably woke both of them but she doesn’t care, particularly. It’s 10:00, after all. They should be up.

“Oh,” she says. “Do you want Simon?”

“Yeah,” she says. There is some rustling, the noise of the phone being passed.

“’Lo,” Simon says.

“It’s me,” she says softly. “I have a question.”

“You know that I’m sleeping, right?” he mutters.

“Now you’re talking to me,” she says. “And I have a question.”

“Fine,” he says. “Hold on, I’m gonna get up and go… you know, so someone in my house can still be sleeping.” She waits while he moves to another room. “Now, Miss Abdul, what was your question?”

“Simon,” she says. “I want you to be honest. Did you fall on the knife for me?”

There’s a pause.

“You want to knife me?” he asks.

“No! I’m asking you. About Idol, about the fuck up. Did you fall on the knife? Did you jump down in the hole with me on purpose?” she asks.

“I swear to god, darling, I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Tara Miller,” she says. “Was that on purpose?”

“Oh,” he says. “Yes.”

“Why?” she says. “How?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“I want to talk about this,” she says.

“Come over later,” he says. “We have tri-tip. I’m going to cook it over an open flame like a manly man.”

“I don’t eat meat,” she says.

“Well, there will be other things,” he says. “See you later?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Bye.”

She hangs up and drums her fingers on the cold ceramic of her counter top.

oooo

When she arrives at Simon’s, there are already a number of cars behind the security gate. It’s warm out and still sunny, even this early in May. She’s in jeans and a tank top. She has a little black jacket in the car, but she doesn’t bring it in with her. Her Mercedes doesn’t have a real key, but a black plastic square that fits into her ignition - she slides this and her phone into her pocket and leaves everything else in the car.

She doesn’t bother to knock. Simon is expecting her and she can hear voices floating over the tall fence that separates the front yard from back. Inside, the house is empty but she moves through, her heels clicking loudly on the polished floor, and lets herself into the backyard. Everyone is standing around the pool holding drinks. Simon is near the grill, which is smoking. She can smell the meat over the flame.

At first, no one notices her. The door is shaded by an awning and everyone else is out in the sunshine. There are about ten people, including Simon and Terri. A few people she recognizes as Terri’s friends and Simon is standing next to Nigel. From their expressions, Paula can see that they’re deep in business talk. There are two people that look vaguely familiar but Paula can’t place their faces or find their names. She knows a lot of people and, sometimes, new acquaintances slip through the cracks.

She steps out into the light and Simon notices her and waves her over.

“Hi,” she says, stepping up to him and Nigel. Simon leans down and kisses her cheek. Nigel does the same on the other side and then Paula slides her sunglasses down from her head onto her face.

“How are you?” Simon asks.

“Fine, fine,” she says. “You have a little party going here.”

“I made a garden burger for you,” Simon says and lifts the lid of the grill to show that half of the grill is covered in beef and on the other side, well separated, is her round disc of beige non-meat.

“Aww,” she says. “Thanks.”

“Don’t say he never does anything for you,” Nigel says.

“When do I say that?” Paula asks. “Never.”

“Never?” Simon repeats. “Ha.”

Terri comes over and smiles at her, gives her a little hug.

“There’s water and soda in the fridge,” she says, by way of offering. Most people have a beer. Simon has a little glass of something harder and ice but Terri knows Paula well enough to know that she doesn’t want alcohol.

“Thanks,” Paula says and excuses her self from the men. In the fridge is bottled water as well as a six-pack of Diet Coke. Paula knows this was probably bought with her in mind. Simon never has an actual Coke product in his coke cup on set - usually water. She wrangles a can out of the plastic rings and opens the drawer where Simon keeps a box of straws for her.

Paula doesn’t actually come over to his house all that often, but he’s ready for her when she does and it’s sweet of him. Terri comes in with one her friends, a woman Paula has met a few times at various functions hosted by Simon.

“Paula, you remember Isla?” Terri says, saving her from having to come up with the name.

“Nice to see you again,” Paula says.

“We were just going to start on the rest of the stuff,” Terri says. “Want to help?”

Paula finds herself making the salad, which is an easy enough job. She listens to Terri and Isla chatter with only half an ear. She has a clear view of Simon and Nigel through the window. Nigel is talking about something and Simon lifts the lid of the barbeque, smoke billowing, and prods at the meat.

He looks up, sees that she’s watching him, and winks.

She looks down too quickly, focused intently on the cucumber she is slicing into thin discs.

“What do you think, Paula?” Terri asks.

“Hmm?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at Terri. She’s holding up two dishes.

“Real plates or paper?” Terri asks.

“No clean up,” Isla says, taking the paper plate from Terri’s hand.

“The tri-tip is going to soak right through that,” Paula says. “You’d be safer with real dishes.”

“She makes a fair point,” Terri says. “I’ll ask Simon.”

She steps out of the door and calls out for Simon. Paula doesn’t watch; instead she puts everything into the big bowl Terri has provided and uses her hands to toss the salad. When she comes back in, Isla asks what the consensus is.

“Real,” she says, softly.

“What did he say?” Paula asks because Terri looks a little less high-spirited than she did fifteen seconds ago.

“He made clear his preference using the subtle art of sarcasm,” Terri says. “He’s in a mood today.”

But when Paula looks up again, Simon has his head thrown back in laughter, his teeth white in the sunshine. He’s been uncharacteristically kind to her and today he seems happy and relaxed. Paula carries out the salad to the long glass table outside, set up for the buffet. She knows she should go back to the kitchen and continue to help but she doesn’t want to. Instead, she allows Ryan to pull her into conversation.

Simon appears next to her after a while and hands her a plate. On it is her garden burger along with some salad and fruit.

“Thanks,” she says, surprised. “I could have gotten this.”

“I know,” he says, and walks away. She looks at Ryan, the surprise still evident on her face. “What’s with that?” she asks.

“He’s been,” Ryan stops and reconsiders what he’s going to say. “He’s glad you came.”

“What, are you Simon’s spokesperson now?” she asks.

“I,” Ryan shrugs. “I think he thought you might leave.”

“Leave?” Paula asks. At first she thought he meant the party but then she realizes what Ryan really means. “Why?”

“We all know Nigel let you take the fall,” Ryan says.

“Yeah,” she says. “But it wasn’t Simon’s fault.”

“I know,” Ryan says.

“I’m not going to leave Idol,” she says. “That’s career suicide.”

“You should tell Simon that,” Ryan says. “Now, since I don’t have a personal man servant, I’m going to go get some food.”

As soon as Ryan leaves, Simon takes his seat and smiles at her.

“How’s the burger?” he asks.

“Great,” she says. “Thanks.”

“Good,” he says.

“Simon, you know that I’d never… I’m not going to leave Idol. And I’m not going to do anything crazy without talking to you and Randy first.”

“Okay,” he says.

“You don’t have to jump in the news cycle for me,” she continues.

“I wanted to,” he says.

“But you don’t have to,” she argues.

“Paula,” he says, smiling. “When you screw up for no reason, it’s entertaining and sort of adorable. When you screw up because Nigel and the network get their fingers in everything, it’s bullshit.”

“Well,” she says.

“Well,” he agrees.

“You think I’m adorable?” she asks, teasingly.

“Like a tiny puppy,” he says. “Just the cutest thing in the world until I turn my back and you destroy the furniture.” Paula stares at him a moment, but then shrugs.

“I’ll take it,” she says.

oooo

After sunset, the guests trickle out the door. As soon as Paula sees the first star, Terri begs off the rest of the evening with a headache and disappears upstairs not to be seen again. Paula is getting ready to leave, saying goodbye to one of the other guests. She is about to leave when she sees Simon in the kitchen, surveying the mess. Dishes and food are piles on every counter top.

She sighs and crosses her arms.

“Want some help?” she says.

“My housekeeper will clean it in the morning,” he says.

“You can’t let this sit over night!” she scolds. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

When he opens the dishwasher, he finds clean dishes so he empties while she scrapes the plates into the garbage. They don’t chatter or talk. Simon’s face is red from the sun, like he forgot to dab sunscreen across the bridge of his nose or on the top curve of his ears. She brushes against him deliberately - their arms touch and his skin feels warm.

He doesn’t say anything until he’s loading the dishwasher with the dishes she’s rinsed for him and she’s washing the things that must be washed by hand. Her hands are submerged in the hot, soapy water and when she pulls them out, the pads of her fingers are slightly wrinkled. At home, when she does her own dishes, she wears yellow gloves to save her manicure. But she’s sure the red polish can stand one night of labor.

“Thanks for staying,” he says, his voice cutting through the silence.

“It’s no trouble,” she says. It isn’t true - it is a little bit of trouble but she doesn’t mind. She’s sleepy and the thought of the drive home seems daunting. She’ll open the sunroof and let the cool night air keep her awake. “You know, you never answered her question.”

“Whose?” he asks.

“Your little girlfriend,” Paula says, teasingly. “Was she better or was I?”

“Was a nine-year-old girl better than Paula Abdul?” he says. “What do you think?”

“I’m pretty bias,” she says. “I want to hear what you think.”

“Of course you were better,” he says. “Though it was so long ago I have to struggle to remember.” She lets out a scoffing laugh.

“Don’t let Fuller hear you say that,” she says, warningly. “He’s so desperate to bring the ratings back up that he’ll make us do it.”

“Another skit?” he asks. “Maybe we should.”

“Yeah right,” she says.

“I’m serious. It would probably give him the ratings boost he wants, at any rate,” Simon reasons.

“I hate those skits,” she says. “They’re so cheesy.”

“You hated kissing me?” he asks.

“That isn’t at all what I said,” she argues. “It’s a moot point. You know that J.T. gets upset when we flirt on camera.”

“Ah, yes,” Simon says, his good mood dissipating. “I notice he is conspicuously absent tonight.”

“I didn’t know he was invited,” she says, primly. The dishes are done and she yanks the stopper from the sink. He hands her a towel for her to dry her hands on.

“A lack on invitation has never stopped you before,” he points out. “He wasn’t at the filming, either.”

“That’s because I don’t need my significant other constantly hanging off me to prove my worth,” she snaps. But as soon as the words are out, she wishes she could take them back. She hates when Simon talks about J.T. - it always comes off as snide, as if J.T. were beneath her somehow, beneath them both, and it’s a ridiculous notion, that some are better than others.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he says, evenly.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” she says. “It’s getting late. I should go.”

“Don’t go,” he says. “You’re the one who wanted to talk about things.”

“I’m done talking,” she says.

“I’m not,” he says. She sighs and remains quiet so he’ll continue. “I don’t, repeat: don’t need anyone to prove my worth.”

“That was… I’m sorry I said that,” she says. Getting Simon to open up to her is always like breaking ice on a frozen river. Every time she gets a chunk to float away from her, the temperature drops and the water freezes over again.

“He never talks to me,” Simon points out. “He’s been with you for over a year and I think I can count the words we’ve exchanged on one hand.”

“Maybe you intimidate him,” she says.

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s that he hates my guts.”

“That’s preposterous,” Paula says. “What reason does he have to hate you?”

“You!” Simon says. She puts her fingers against her temples, against the soft and delicate skin beneath her eyes. Smears of foundation come away on the pads of her fingers and her make-up failing is a sure sign that it’s time to call it a night.

“You should even care what he thinks,” Paula points out, picking up her phone from the counter and sliding it into her pocket.

“I care what you think,” Simon says.

“Like hell,” she accuses.

“I do,” he insists. “And you care what J.T. thinks which means I have to care and honestly, it’s all very tiring.”

“What do you want me to do?” she asks.

“I want you to laugh at my jokes like you used to,” he says. “I want you to jump when I tickle you instead of pushing my hand away. I want you to lean against my arm. I want you to kiss me back when you know a camera is pointed at us.”

She stares at him, at this tidal wave of honesty. Perhaps she has cracked the ice after all.

“You want me to kiss you back?” she asks. “J.T. may not say a thing to you, Simon, but I always get an earful from Terri.”

“She knows the difference between on camera and off,” he dismisses.

“But do you?” Paula asks, pointedly.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean…” she falters, catching herself before she gets a little too honest. “Never mind.”

“Paula,” he says.

“I’m going to go.”

“Paula!” he whines.

“Simon!”

“What do you mean?” he asks, stepping closer to her. Close enough that he has to look down at her, close enough that she can touch him while her elbow remains bent.

“It’s just, when you kiss me, I mean really kiss me, even I don’t know the difference between on and off camera, so why should J.T. and Terri?” she admits, her voice soft.

“I haven’t really kissed you in a long time,” he says, his voice matching her breathy tone.

“No,” she agrees. She can still remember him leaning in, kissing her for the camera, his tongue hot and insistent against her own. She hadn’t made him do the take 37 times, but they’d done it more than once. He used to steal kisses all the time - on the show, at the upfronts, on the red carpet he would drag her lips to his.

And when the filming was done, he’d pull her into a dark corner and kiss her again, this time purposefully, insistently, and deeply.

It was all they’d ever done, kiss. She always felt like crap afterwards, guilty and dirty. She didn’t mean to kiss another woman’s man, or to cheat on her own boyfriends; it’s just that kissing Simon was so good. When Simon kissed her, it felt like time slowed down to a trickle. When she kissed Simon, she felt like she was on drugs and the feeling stayed with her for hours afterwards. She knew she could never actually bed him because she’d never be able to give him up. If she let Simon into her system like that, she’d need him everyday or she’d die.

“I’ll walk you out,” he says, moving his hand to her lower back. She lets the small pressure there guide her out the front door and they stop at her car. He reaches to her hip and she inhales sharply as his fingers dig into her pocket for the car key. He pushes the button and the car flashes as it unlocks. Neither moves to open the door.

“Goodnight,” she says.

“Goodnight, Paula,” he says, and steps closer. She knows he’s going to kiss her now. His head bends down and he brings his lips to her cheek.

“Don’t tease me,” she whispers. Her arms wrap around his neck and she turns her face so their lips meet. She doesn’t waste time with soft, feathery kisses. Instead, she pushes her tongue into his mouth and his hands settle on her hips, holding her still so he can kiss her back.

And there it is, like a shot in her heart. Her body feels on fire, her head feels airy and far away. Her knees want to give and she pushes against him for support.

He pulls away first. He usually does.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re better.”

She glances up at the window and starts because she thinks she sees a figure there, but when she blinks, it’s gone.

He opens the car door and helps her inside.

“Night,” she says, her eyes still glassy.

“See you Tuesday,” he promises and closes the door.

She nearly takes out a planter on the way out of his driveway. She has to turn on the air conditioning full blast to help cool her heated skin. She drives home too fast and when she gets into her own house, it seems empty. On her counter is a note from J.T.

Came over, but you were out. Working late tomorrow. Dinner this weekend?

She crumples up the note, tosses it in the trash, and heads up to bed.