Fic: Mrs. Ari Intrudes (Entourage - Vince/Ari)
So, er, those 2 people who are interested in S3 era Entourage wackiness... take a blast to the past with me?
Title: Mrs. Ari Intrudes
Fandom: Entourage
Spoilers: General series spoilers. I wrote this back in Season 3
Pairing: Ari/Vince
Length: 1,650 words
Summary: In which Mrs. Ari knows best. Consider this an intervention.
Note: I wrote this years ago and forgot to post it. So obviously it doesn’t conform to recent canon. Think S3, S4 ish. Also, I had originally intended to write a sequel -- so it didn’t stop here. But I never did! And now I can assure you that will never happen. I don’t feel the characters for this fandom anymore at all. It’s been too long. Sorry, 2 people that care. ♥
Mrs. Ari Intrudes
"I don't think Vincent Chase should determine where you go or don't go in this town."
-Therapist #5
"Ari," she said (in that way that only she could say it, in that 'I-am-the-mother-of-your-children' way, which meant that he had to listen), "this is getting out of hand."
It was maybe, debatedly --
(and yes, they actually had that debate, which he totally fucking lost, because he is fucking terrified of his wife and this is because she is scary and clearly attended some crazy Future Jewish Mothers of America training camp [in between all the hours in which he was totally home and paying strict attention to his husbandly duties], where they've stepped it up a notch from indocrinating their masses in passive agressive guilt-induction to instilling a talent for intimidation and psychological warfare.
The debate went something like,
"This is business, baby."
"Really."
And then she did that thing where she crosses her arms.)
-- okay, possibly getting out of hand, but Ari didn't see what he or a $500/hour therapist were supposed to do about it.
But he went anyway, because: see above.
~8~
Therapist number six was a fucking cunt, and said things like, "Let's stop and touch on that for a moment," and "I can see how that can be frustrating," and, "Actually, whatever words you need to use to express yourself are fine," instead of just thinking he was an asshole and shooting comiserating glances to his right.
She'd let him take his calls, all of them, and waited patiently in her slim white leather chair, leafing through back issues of the New Yorker, and never invited the wife, not once, and didn't gave him the slightest reason to storm out of her office in righteous indignation. He fucking hated her so much.
He could tell she was trouble, from the very beginning, when he said something like, "Because, right, I'm just this fucking inconsiderate neanderthal asshole," and she went, "hmm" and "I don't think you mean even one percent of what you say to people," and it sounded nice, like she liked him, instead of like, 'you socially inept moron who would steal candy from a mentally retarded baby and assrape a newborn seal. with the stolen retard baby candy. jerk.'
And so he wasn't even surprised when, in the middle of telling her how Dana was trying to screw him out of backdoor sales that, yes, Dana had earned far and square, except he was smarter, she said,
"I'm not sure how entirely ethical it is me to initiate this discussion, but I think you should know that I find myself agreeing with your wife: I believe you've developed romantic feelings for this Vincent Chase, feelings you have found yourself unwilling or unable to appropriately process, and it's affecting your mental health."
Finally, Ari thought, as he vaulted up, stormed with furious determination towards the door, and then got to slam it.
~8~
He spent the rest of the day at The Lusty Lady, watching tired women with drooping pigtails swoop down their poles and mouth the words to songs about giving your baby ten thousand dollar purses with a no-limit credit card and then fucking the waitress, and then Ari even stayed for the evening buffet, because Drama was a whiner.
He didn't think about much of anything, except who might be able to get him a good script, because everything out there right now was crap, and how he could distinctly recall a fucking Yale degree on that tiny ass office wall, with the shitty deco paint job that looked like a diseased Chihuahua had jerked off all over it.
Fucking Yale, of course, well that explained everything.
~8~
"I'm not fucking going back."
She had crazy, slit cat eyes, and. and he was the man of this house. He didn't have to do anything she said.
"Goddamnit."
~8~
He wouldn't, didn't have to talk (he could eat away $500 in complete, absolute, silence any fucking day, every. single. hour. of his life if he wanted to, thank you very much, because he made just that much money, because he was just that fucking great at his fucking incredible job), and so he didn't say another word. He just sat there, and looked at old New Yorkers and once pristine copies of The Economist with her, creasing and dog earing the pages and sometimes gnawing on the spine when he could tell she was looking.
He went home to his large, extravagantly carpeted house and fucked Mrs. Ari until she came (she wasn't faking; he could tell those times), and went to work to make a fuckload of money, and then went back home, and then read more New Yorkers, and went to work and went home (where he still worked), and then they started branching out into The New Republic.
He didn't utter a single, solitary vowel until the bitch said,
"How would you feel about an open marriage?"
"You mean, how would I feel about my wife - the mother of my children - feeling free to SLEEP WITH OTHER MEN? How would I fucking feel about it? How do you fucking think a guy would feel when--"
"I meant how would you feel about being able to sleep with other men." She leaned forward, elbows digging into her clean, white linen slacks. She always dressed like she spoke: simple and direct. She looked at him like there was some sort of response to make to that. She was watching him, hands clasped.
He wanted to punch her in her stupid uterus. Luckily, he was a gentlemen.
She smiled. "Tell me, Ari, do you often fall back on your perception about how other people would feel, before you react to a situation?"
He punched the sofa twelve times instead.
~8~
"My therapist says I'm in love with you, and I hope if I tell you that they'll stop making me go." It was his personal experience that the most effective manner of communicating things your client absolutely does not want to hear is speaking very very fast, and with startling self-confidence -- so that they know you've communicated something enormously important and incredibly obvious. So obvious that they're unsure if they should ask you to repeat yourself.
It also helps to get up right in their face and point insistently at them. Nobody likes that.
"okay," Vince said, and blinked. Then he smiled, sweetly. A little taken aback, clearly, but understanding of the mysterious ways of womenfolk. "Wait -- they?"
"Mrs. Ari and Ms. Still Single at Fifty Marriage Counselor. They're conspiring together to bring me down. It's diabolical. And, frankly, fucking weird. She's never really gotten along with other women. Kind of a loner, Mrs. Ari."
Vince was wearing sandals, because it was one of those warm Los Angeles winter days, and they had rubbed raised strips of pink into his skin. He kept curling a leg up to rub absentmindedly at them with his fingers. "That's," Vince began to say, and then stopped. He was wearing a thin black t-shirt, because he was always wearing a thin black t-shirt. It always looked good on him. Damn it. "That's nice. That she's made a friend."
"I guess." That's not exactly any of the adjectives that had come to Ari's mind, but then Vince was a gentle soul with no hate in his heart. Except for E's girlfriends.
"So," Vince gestured vaguely into the air. "Do you want me to--"
"What, let me down easy and explain about how you still care very much even though we'll never have sex?"
"Read the script." Vince was flat out grinning at him now, in bright amusement.
"Well, you could do that too."
"Glad to have your permission."
"It's not like I want to take long walks on the beach, or anything."
"Yeah, 'cause you hate the beach."
"It's the sand crabs. And the sand. And the water. Also: fuck palm trees, anyway. What kind of scraggly, giraffe fucking kind of plant is that?"
"Wow, you do, you totally like me." Vince had slipped his ankles up over an arm rest, and spread himself lazily over the entirety of Ari's couch. When he did shit like that, there was this lingering warmth to the cushions that seemed to last all afternoon. People mentioned it, other people. He wasn't crazy. "Wait 'till I tell the boys."
Ari's life flashed before his eyes. It was depressingly long, and a lot of it was spent screaming into increasingly smaller mouth pieces. Not much of it sleeping, though.
"I will kill you with this monitor and bury you out back in the dumpster, swear to god. I keep meaning to replace it anyway. Lloyd! Come 'ere and bring a large trashbag." Actually, Vince was kind of a tall fucker. "Bring two! Run, goddamnit!"
"I was kidding, Ari."
"Run, you bitch, RUN!"
"So, I'll read and catch up with you later." Vince's slacker-soft hands clunked against his back as usual, staining his suit with Starbucks knows what, but his mouth was still smiling against Ari's neck, which was new, as was the brush over his cheek, and Vince was just so obnoxiously scrawny and huge.
Luckily, Ari had no dignity left to prevent him from shrieking over shoulders. "Run like someone's defiling the spirits of your ancestors!"
It didn't actually sink in until approximately fifteen minutes afterward (once Lloyd had arrived, arms overflowing with black plastic, and left disappointed) that, (a) Vince had actually left his office with a script for a tried and true shoot 'em up blockbuster and (b) he'd promised to read it.
Oh, and the kissing thing. But the first two were way more unsettling.
~8~
"Okay, let's get this shit done," he said, swept every magazine in the bitch's office into a wastebin, and folded his hands into his lap as he sat his ass down.
end.
Title: Mrs. Ari Intrudes
Fandom: Entourage
Spoilers: General series spoilers. I wrote this back in Season 3
Pairing: Ari/Vince
Length: 1,650 words
Summary: In which Mrs. Ari knows best. Consider this an intervention.
Note: I wrote this years ago and forgot to post it. So obviously it doesn’t conform to recent canon. Think S3, S4 ish. Also, I had originally intended to write a sequel -- so it didn’t stop here. But I never did! And now I can assure you that will never happen. I don’t feel the characters for this fandom anymore at all. It’s been too long. Sorry, 2 people that care. ♥
Mrs. Ari Intrudes
"I don't think Vincent Chase should determine where you go or don't go in this town."
-Therapist #5
"Ari," she said (in that way that only she could say it, in that 'I-am-the-mother-of-your-children' way, which meant that he had to listen), "this is getting out of hand."
It was maybe, debatedly --
(and yes, they actually had that debate, which he totally fucking lost, because he is fucking terrified of his wife and this is because she is scary and clearly attended some crazy Future Jewish Mothers of America training camp [in between all the hours in which he was totally home and paying strict attention to his husbandly duties], where they've stepped it up a notch from indocrinating their masses in passive agressive guilt-induction to instilling a talent for intimidation and psychological warfare.
The debate went something like,
"This is business, baby."
"Really."
And then she did that thing where she crosses her arms.)
-- okay, possibly getting out of hand, but Ari didn't see what he or a $500/hour therapist were supposed to do about it.
But he went anyway, because: see above.
~8~
Therapist number six was a fucking cunt, and said things like, "Let's stop and touch on that for a moment," and "I can see how that can be frustrating," and, "Actually, whatever words you need to use to express yourself are fine," instead of just thinking he was an asshole and shooting comiserating glances to his right.
She'd let him take his calls, all of them, and waited patiently in her slim white leather chair, leafing through back issues of the New Yorker, and never invited the wife, not once, and didn't gave him the slightest reason to storm out of her office in righteous indignation. He fucking hated her so much.
He could tell she was trouble, from the very beginning, when he said something like, "Because, right, I'm just this fucking inconsiderate neanderthal asshole," and she went, "hmm" and "I don't think you mean even one percent of what you say to people," and it sounded nice, like she liked him, instead of like, 'you socially inept moron who would steal candy from a mentally retarded baby and assrape a newborn seal. with the stolen retard baby candy. jerk.'
And so he wasn't even surprised when, in the middle of telling her how Dana was trying to screw him out of backdoor sales that, yes, Dana had earned far and square, except he was smarter, she said,
"I'm not sure how entirely ethical it is me to initiate this discussion, but I think you should know that I find myself agreeing with your wife: I believe you've developed romantic feelings for this Vincent Chase, feelings you have found yourself unwilling or unable to appropriately process, and it's affecting your mental health."
Finally, Ari thought, as he vaulted up, stormed with furious determination towards the door, and then got to slam it.
~8~
He spent the rest of the day at The Lusty Lady, watching tired women with drooping pigtails swoop down their poles and mouth the words to songs about giving your baby ten thousand dollar purses with a no-limit credit card and then fucking the waitress, and then Ari even stayed for the evening buffet, because Drama was a whiner.
He didn't think about much of anything, except who might be able to get him a good script, because everything out there right now was crap, and how he could distinctly recall a fucking Yale degree on that tiny ass office wall, with the shitty deco paint job that looked like a diseased Chihuahua had jerked off all over it.
Fucking Yale, of course, well that explained everything.
~8~
"I'm not fucking going back."
She had crazy, slit cat eyes, and. and he was the man of this house. He didn't have to do anything she said.
"Goddamnit."
~8~
He wouldn't, didn't have to talk (he could eat away $500 in complete, absolute, silence any fucking day, every. single. hour. of his life if he wanted to, thank you very much, because he made just that much money, because he was just that fucking great at his fucking incredible job), and so he didn't say another word. He just sat there, and looked at old New Yorkers and once pristine copies of The Economist with her, creasing and dog earing the pages and sometimes gnawing on the spine when he could tell she was looking.
He went home to his large, extravagantly carpeted house and fucked Mrs. Ari until she came (she wasn't faking; he could tell those times), and went to work to make a fuckload of money, and then went back home, and then read more New Yorkers, and went to work and went home (where he still worked), and then they started branching out into The New Republic.
He didn't utter a single, solitary vowel until the bitch said,
"How would you feel about an open marriage?"
"You mean, how would I feel about my wife - the mother of my children - feeling free to SLEEP WITH OTHER MEN? How would I fucking feel about it? How do you fucking think a guy would feel when--"
"I meant how would you feel about being able to sleep with other men." She leaned forward, elbows digging into her clean, white linen slacks. She always dressed like she spoke: simple and direct. She looked at him like there was some sort of response to make to that. She was watching him, hands clasped.
He wanted to punch her in her stupid uterus. Luckily, he was a gentlemen.
She smiled. "Tell me, Ari, do you often fall back on your perception about how other people would feel, before you react to a situation?"
He punched the sofa twelve times instead.
~8~
"My therapist says I'm in love with you, and I hope if I tell you that they'll stop making me go." It was his personal experience that the most effective manner of communicating things your client absolutely does not want to hear is speaking very very fast, and with startling self-confidence -- so that they know you've communicated something enormously important and incredibly obvious. So obvious that they're unsure if they should ask you to repeat yourself.
It also helps to get up right in their face and point insistently at them. Nobody likes that.
"okay," Vince said, and blinked. Then he smiled, sweetly. A little taken aback, clearly, but understanding of the mysterious ways of womenfolk. "Wait -- they?"
"Mrs. Ari and Ms. Still Single at Fifty Marriage Counselor. They're conspiring together to bring me down. It's diabolical. And, frankly, fucking weird. She's never really gotten along with other women. Kind of a loner, Mrs. Ari."
Vince was wearing sandals, because it was one of those warm Los Angeles winter days, and they had rubbed raised strips of pink into his skin. He kept curling a leg up to rub absentmindedly at them with his fingers. "That's," Vince began to say, and then stopped. He was wearing a thin black t-shirt, because he was always wearing a thin black t-shirt. It always looked good on him. Damn it. "That's nice. That she's made a friend."
"I guess." That's not exactly any of the adjectives that had come to Ari's mind, but then Vince was a gentle soul with no hate in his heart. Except for E's girlfriends.
"So," Vince gestured vaguely into the air. "Do you want me to--"
"What, let me down easy and explain about how you still care very much even though we'll never have sex?"
"Read the script." Vince was flat out grinning at him now, in bright amusement.
"Well, you could do that too."
"Glad to have your permission."
"It's not like I want to take long walks on the beach, or anything."
"Yeah, 'cause you hate the beach."
"It's the sand crabs. And the sand. And the water. Also: fuck palm trees, anyway. What kind of scraggly, giraffe fucking kind of plant is that?"
"Wow, you do, you totally like me." Vince had slipped his ankles up over an arm rest, and spread himself lazily over the entirety of Ari's couch. When he did shit like that, there was this lingering warmth to the cushions that seemed to last all afternoon. People mentioned it, other people. He wasn't crazy. "Wait 'till I tell the boys."
Ari's life flashed before his eyes. It was depressingly long, and a lot of it was spent screaming into increasingly smaller mouth pieces. Not much of it sleeping, though.
"I will kill you with this monitor and bury you out back in the dumpster, swear to god. I keep meaning to replace it anyway. Lloyd! Come 'ere and bring a large trashbag." Actually, Vince was kind of a tall fucker. "Bring two! Run, goddamnit!"
"I was kidding, Ari."
"Run, you bitch, RUN!"
"So, I'll read and catch up with you later." Vince's slacker-soft hands clunked against his back as usual, staining his suit with Starbucks knows what, but his mouth was still smiling against Ari's neck, which was new, as was the brush over his cheek, and Vince was just so obnoxiously scrawny and huge.
Luckily, Ari had no dignity left to prevent him from shrieking over shoulders. "Run like someone's defiling the spirits of your ancestors!"
It didn't actually sink in until approximately fifteen minutes afterward (once Lloyd had arrived, arms overflowing with black plastic, and left disappointed) that, (a) Vince had actually left his office with a script for a tried and true shoot 'em up blockbuster and (b) he'd promised to read it.
Oh, and the kissing thing. But the first two were way more unsettling.
~8~
"Okay, let's get this shit done," he said, swept every magazine in the bitch's office into a wastebin, and folded his hands into his lap as he sat his ass down.
end.