FIC: I Can't Think Straight (Ryan/Simon, PG)
Author: Clio
Title: I Can't Think Straight
Pairing: Ryan Seacrest/Simon Cowell (American Idol)
Rating: PG
Summary: Ryan Seacrest has a cold.
Length: 1700 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Thanks to lillijulianne and allysonsedai for the awesome betas and for the usual reassuring noises, even though in many ways nothing actually happens in this story. (Then again, I feel that way about most of my stories, so YMMV.)
This story was formerly titled "No Way of Turning."
On Saturday, Simon came home, and it was brilliant and fantastic and like everything falling into place, not even awkward because they'd seen each other so much over the hiatus but still, it wasn't here, it wasn't LA, it wasn't this house. Not that the London house wasn't also home in its way, but sometimes, despite what he knew to be true and the relentlessly cheerful face he showed to Simon, Ryan would get lonely, or nervous, or scared over the summer.He'd wonder if he hadn't just made the whole thing up in his head.
Usually this was cured by Simon sending him an x-rated email. But now Simon was here, warm and whispering x-rated things in his ear, and he hadn't come that hard or that many times since Paris.
On Sunday, Simon gave him a belated birthday present. On Monday, he recovered from said birthday present.
On Tuesday, Ryan went to work and Joel saw him in the hallway and leaned over to whisper, "You're glowing. Are you pregnant?"
"No."
"Oh-ohh," Joel replied, "someone's lover is back in town." He said "lover" like Carrie Bradshaw talking about Baryshnikov: "luvah."
Ryan blushed, and was annoyed. "Maybe."
"Ryan's got a luvah!" Joel sang, as if they were six. "First comes love, then comes marriage …" he continued gleefully as he walked away.
"I can always take those Super Bowl tickets back!" Ryan shouted after him.
The rest of the week was sort of a blur with the getting ready for the SAGs, which might be the only red carpet this year and Ryan didn't even want to think about how much money he was losing.
On Thursday night, he felt a little weary, but chalked it up to getting hardly any sleep, with four jobs going plus Simon.
On Friday afternoon, he was definitely stuffy-he could hear it in his voice.
On Saturday morning, he decided to stay in bed so he'd be in good shape for Sunday. He was on the phone much of the day with his line producers and G, and he ate a lot of miso soup for the electrolytes, and Simon gave him some bizarre and foul-tasting Canadian cough remedy but he had meetings all day himself so he was mostly scarce.
And then, Sunday morning, he could not get out of bed. He sat up and his head spun so much he had to lay back down. He tried again-he had to pee, damnit-and somehow ended up faceplanting in the carpet.
"What?" Simon said at the noise. "How did you end up down there?"
"Dunno," Ryan mumbled, and sniffled.
"I doubt inhaling rug fibers would be good for your lungs," Simon said, and Ryan felt hands under his arms, pulling him up up up until he was upright and leaning back against Simon's solid form.
"Good thing you started working out," Ryan said, though it sounded more like: "goob bingu tar-ed kin ow."
"I wish you had been," Simon said. "You're heavier than you look."
"Muscle is heavier than fat," Ryan tried to say.
"Right, I have no idea what that was, but here's the bathroom." Simon plopped him down. "As soon as you come out, you're calling in sick."
"Can't!" Ryan said to the closing door.
"Ryan, you can't even stand up to use the toilet. You're staying home today."
"Can't," Ryan said again, feebly. Stupid cold.
Simon got him back into bed, with tea of course, and some toast. Ryan called in, and thought they'd be shocked that he wouldn't be coming in-he couldn't even remember the last time he'd called in sick to anything-but he must have sounded pretty bad because they just told him to stay in bed, and could they send him a fruit basket? So he let Simon take his temperature and then give him aspirin and more cough syrup, and then he went back to sleep.
Simon called Terri to let her know why he wouldn't be stopping by, and lovely girl that she is, she offered to bring over a few things so Simon wouldn't have to leave as Ryan's assistant had gone ahead to the awards. Then he sat in the easy chair and read, listening to Ryan's steady breathing.
A few hours later, Ryan woke up, a little smile on his face, though his eyes were still glassy. "I had a nice dream," he said.
"Did you?" Simon asked, grabbing the thermometer from the bedside table. "Open up."
Ryan obeyed, and Simon went into the next room where some soup was staying warm in the coffee pot. Good old Terri and her good ideas. Returning, he saw that Ryan was still running a fever, so he gave him two aspirin and got him to sit up a little, pulling a sweater around Ryan's shoulders. "Right, have this soup and you can go back to sleep."
"Don't you want to know the dream?" Ryan asked, his voice so small and faint he sounded like a child.
"Okay, but drink the soup," Simon said. "Can you hold the cup?"
Ryan nodded, putting both hands around it, and took a big drink. "We got married," he said.
"Oh?" Simon replied. "I hope you wore the dress."
"There was no dress," Ryan said, rolling his eyes. "We wore tuxes."
"Did Gary give you away?" Simon asked.
Ryan scowled. "We came out of the sides, like normal grooms." He started to cough, so Simon took back the mug until the spasm was over.
"Drink more than you talk," Simon said.
"We had traditional vows, and no obey," Ryan went on after a long sip of soup. "And a nice kiss."
"I should hope so. Did I slip you the tongue?"
"Of course," Ryan said, then drank again.
"Of course."
"And then there was a big party, and Ben was there, and Eva and Tony, and Ellen, and G because I'm nicer than she is, and Paula was there-"
"Yes, yes, and even Auntie Em," Simon said. "More soup, less story."
Ryan obeyed, then said, "You were smiling a lot, and laughing."
"Naturally," Simon said. "I was the center of attention."
"It was a really nice dream, Simon," Ryan protested.
"I'm sure it was," Simon said, gently, "and now it's time for you to do a bit more dreaming." He took back the nearly empty mug and, after another dose of cough syrup, let Ryan slip back under the covers.
That evening, Ryan woke up to see Simon sitting in bed next to him watching some things back on the widescreen. "What time is it?" Ryan asked.
Simon took off his cordless headphones. "About seven. How are you feeling? You sound a little better."
Ryan licked his lips. "Yeah, better. Thirsty, though."
Simon handed him a bottle of water and as Ryan sat up to drink it, felt his forehead with the back of his hand. "You feel cooler. Here," he said, putting the thermometer under Ryan's tongue. "Hungry?" he asked, and at Ryan's nod, "Thai or Mexican?"
"Thai," Ryan said around the thermometer, pleasantly surprised that Simon remembered that he craved spicy food when he had a cold.
After he called the restaurant, Simon checked Ryan's temperature. "Your fever has gone down. So," he said, "have any more dreams?"
"Dreams?" Ryan asked, blandly, sensing trouble.
"A few hours ago you told me all about a dream where we got married."
"I told you about that?" Ryan asked.
"You've had that dream before?"
"Well, yeah, off and on since G and Eva got married." Ryan rubbed the back of his neck.
Simon nodded. "Anything you want to tell me?"
"Can I have some tea?"
"That isn't what I meant."
"I know. Can I have some tea first?"
As Simon walked away, Ryan wondered how much about the dream, the details of which rarely changed, he'd revealed in his apparently feverish, half-awake state. Not for the first time, he cursed being sick. But it was done now.
"Here you go," Simon said. "Well?" he asked, crossing his arms.
"What was the question?" Ryan asked.
"I want to know why you're dreaming about weddings. Now stop stalling. Is this because you want us to be married?"
"Simon, we can't get married."
"Of course we can, in the UK."
"No, I mean, you're not the marrying kind."
"Not really, no."
"And I'm with you, so if I married anyone it would be you. Only you're not marrying anyone, least of all me, so I don't think about it."
"Least of all you? Really. Anyway apparently some part of your brain is thinking about it."
Ryan shrugged. "We cover a lot of weddings. Look, would I love to throw a big party for all of my friends and tell them all I'm in love with you and have them share our happiness and sell the pictures to Okay Magazine and be in one of those In Style wedding specials? Of course. But that isn't going to happen."
"You really want to be on the cover of one of those gossip mags with our arms around each other and smiling?"
"Kinda, yeah. Or to be in 'Couples News.' Everyone else gets to."
"Speculation about baby bumps?"
"Heh. I'd say you already had one but you don't anymore," Ryan said, rubbing Simon's stomach. "Anyway, the dream isn't about being married, or wanting to be married. It's about having a wedding."
"Oh," Simon said.
"Wait, Simon, do you want to?"
"Me? No. As you said, I'm not the marrying sort."
Ryan cocked his head. "But you wanted me to want to, didn't you?"
"Well … perhaps."
"I'm sick and you're taking care of me. We're monogamous, mostly. You've met my parents and I've met yours. We're sharing a damn house. We're in pretty deep here, if you hadn't noticed."
Simon nodded. "So it's really just about being the center of attention and having a big party?"
"Yep."
"Well, you don't need any more of that." The gate buzzer rang. "Ah, that will be dinner," Simon said. He patted Ryan on the arm, then went downstairs.
Ryan watched Simon's retreating form, with its newly fit ass, and sighed. He leaned back against the pillows, took a long drink of tea, and thought yeah, his definition of love absolutely included "is willing to fetch chicken curry."
Title: I Can't Think Straight
Pairing: Ryan Seacrest/Simon Cowell (American Idol)
Rating: PG
Summary: Ryan Seacrest has a cold.
Length: 1700 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Thanks to lillijulianne and allysonsedai for the awesome betas and for the usual reassuring noises, even though in many ways nothing actually happens in this story. (Then again, I feel that way about most of my stories, so YMMV.)
This story was formerly titled "No Way of Turning."
On Saturday, Simon came home, and it was brilliant and fantastic and like everything falling into place, not even awkward because they'd seen each other so much over the hiatus but still, it wasn't here, it wasn't LA, it wasn't this house. Not that the London house wasn't also home in its way, but sometimes, despite what he knew to be true and the relentlessly cheerful face he showed to Simon, Ryan would get lonely, or nervous, or scared over the summer.He'd wonder if he hadn't just made the whole thing up in his head.
Usually this was cured by Simon sending him an x-rated email. But now Simon was here, warm and whispering x-rated things in his ear, and he hadn't come that hard or that many times since Paris.
On Sunday, Simon gave him a belated birthday present. On Monday, he recovered from said birthday present.
On Tuesday, Ryan went to work and Joel saw him in the hallway and leaned over to whisper, "You're glowing. Are you pregnant?"
"No."
"Oh-ohh," Joel replied, "someone's lover is back in town." He said "lover" like Carrie Bradshaw talking about Baryshnikov: "luvah."
Ryan blushed, and was annoyed. "Maybe."
"Ryan's got a luvah!" Joel sang, as if they were six. "First comes love, then comes marriage …" he continued gleefully as he walked away.
"I can always take those Super Bowl tickets back!" Ryan shouted after him.
The rest of the week was sort of a blur with the getting ready for the SAGs, which might be the only red carpet this year and Ryan didn't even want to think about how much money he was losing.
On Thursday night, he felt a little weary, but chalked it up to getting hardly any sleep, with four jobs going plus Simon.
On Friday afternoon, he was definitely stuffy-he could hear it in his voice.
On Saturday morning, he decided to stay in bed so he'd be in good shape for Sunday. He was on the phone much of the day with his line producers and G, and he ate a lot of miso soup for the electrolytes, and Simon gave him some bizarre and foul-tasting Canadian cough remedy but he had meetings all day himself so he was mostly scarce.
And then, Sunday morning, he could not get out of bed. He sat up and his head spun so much he had to lay back down. He tried again-he had to pee, damnit-and somehow ended up faceplanting in the carpet.
"What?" Simon said at the noise. "How did you end up down there?"
"Dunno," Ryan mumbled, and sniffled.
"I doubt inhaling rug fibers would be good for your lungs," Simon said, and Ryan felt hands under his arms, pulling him up up up until he was upright and leaning back against Simon's solid form.
"Good thing you started working out," Ryan said, though it sounded more like: "goob bingu tar-ed kin ow."
"I wish you had been," Simon said. "You're heavier than you look."
"Muscle is heavier than fat," Ryan tried to say.
"Right, I have no idea what that was, but here's the bathroom." Simon plopped him down. "As soon as you come out, you're calling in sick."
"Can't!" Ryan said to the closing door.
"Ryan, you can't even stand up to use the toilet. You're staying home today."
"Can't," Ryan said again, feebly. Stupid cold.
Simon got him back into bed, with tea of course, and some toast. Ryan called in, and thought they'd be shocked that he wouldn't be coming in-he couldn't even remember the last time he'd called in sick to anything-but he must have sounded pretty bad because they just told him to stay in bed, and could they send him a fruit basket? So he let Simon take his temperature and then give him aspirin and more cough syrup, and then he went back to sleep.
Simon called Terri to let her know why he wouldn't be stopping by, and lovely girl that she is, she offered to bring over a few things so Simon wouldn't have to leave as Ryan's assistant had gone ahead to the awards. Then he sat in the easy chair and read, listening to Ryan's steady breathing.
A few hours later, Ryan woke up, a little smile on his face, though his eyes were still glassy. "I had a nice dream," he said.
"Did you?" Simon asked, grabbing the thermometer from the bedside table. "Open up."
Ryan obeyed, and Simon went into the next room where some soup was staying warm in the coffee pot. Good old Terri and her good ideas. Returning, he saw that Ryan was still running a fever, so he gave him two aspirin and got him to sit up a little, pulling a sweater around Ryan's shoulders. "Right, have this soup and you can go back to sleep."
"Don't you want to know the dream?" Ryan asked, his voice so small and faint he sounded like a child.
"Okay, but drink the soup," Simon said. "Can you hold the cup?"
Ryan nodded, putting both hands around it, and took a big drink. "We got married," he said.
"Oh?" Simon replied. "I hope you wore the dress."
"There was no dress," Ryan said, rolling his eyes. "We wore tuxes."
"Did Gary give you away?" Simon asked.
Ryan scowled. "We came out of the sides, like normal grooms." He started to cough, so Simon took back the mug until the spasm was over.
"Drink more than you talk," Simon said.
"We had traditional vows, and no obey," Ryan went on after a long sip of soup. "And a nice kiss."
"I should hope so. Did I slip you the tongue?"
"Of course," Ryan said, then drank again.
"Of course."
"And then there was a big party, and Ben was there, and Eva and Tony, and Ellen, and G because I'm nicer than she is, and Paula was there-"
"Yes, yes, and even Auntie Em," Simon said. "More soup, less story."
Ryan obeyed, then said, "You were smiling a lot, and laughing."
"Naturally," Simon said. "I was the center of attention."
"It was a really nice dream, Simon," Ryan protested.
"I'm sure it was," Simon said, gently, "and now it's time for you to do a bit more dreaming." He took back the nearly empty mug and, after another dose of cough syrup, let Ryan slip back under the covers.
That evening, Ryan woke up to see Simon sitting in bed next to him watching some things back on the widescreen. "What time is it?" Ryan asked.
Simon took off his cordless headphones. "About seven. How are you feeling? You sound a little better."
Ryan licked his lips. "Yeah, better. Thirsty, though."
Simon handed him a bottle of water and as Ryan sat up to drink it, felt his forehead with the back of his hand. "You feel cooler. Here," he said, putting the thermometer under Ryan's tongue. "Hungry?" he asked, and at Ryan's nod, "Thai or Mexican?"
"Thai," Ryan said around the thermometer, pleasantly surprised that Simon remembered that he craved spicy food when he had a cold.
After he called the restaurant, Simon checked Ryan's temperature. "Your fever has gone down. So," he said, "have any more dreams?"
"Dreams?" Ryan asked, blandly, sensing trouble.
"A few hours ago you told me all about a dream where we got married."
"I told you about that?" Ryan asked.
"You've had that dream before?"
"Well, yeah, off and on since G and Eva got married." Ryan rubbed the back of his neck.
Simon nodded. "Anything you want to tell me?"
"Can I have some tea?"
"That isn't what I meant."
"I know. Can I have some tea first?"
As Simon walked away, Ryan wondered how much about the dream, the details of which rarely changed, he'd revealed in his apparently feverish, half-awake state. Not for the first time, he cursed being sick. But it was done now.
"Here you go," Simon said. "Well?" he asked, crossing his arms.
"What was the question?" Ryan asked.
"I want to know why you're dreaming about weddings. Now stop stalling. Is this because you want us to be married?"
"Simon, we can't get married."
"Of course we can, in the UK."
"No, I mean, you're not the marrying kind."
"Not really, no."
"And I'm with you, so if I married anyone it would be you. Only you're not marrying anyone, least of all me, so I don't think about it."
"Least of all you? Really. Anyway apparently some part of your brain is thinking about it."
Ryan shrugged. "We cover a lot of weddings. Look, would I love to throw a big party for all of my friends and tell them all I'm in love with you and have them share our happiness and sell the pictures to Okay Magazine and be in one of those In Style wedding specials? Of course. But that isn't going to happen."
"You really want to be on the cover of one of those gossip mags with our arms around each other and smiling?"
"Kinda, yeah. Or to be in 'Couples News.' Everyone else gets to."
"Speculation about baby bumps?"
"Heh. I'd say you already had one but you don't anymore," Ryan said, rubbing Simon's stomach. "Anyway, the dream isn't about being married, or wanting to be married. It's about having a wedding."
"Oh," Simon said.
"Wait, Simon, do you want to?"
"Me? No. As you said, I'm not the marrying sort."
Ryan cocked his head. "But you wanted me to want to, didn't you?"
"Well … perhaps."
"I'm sick and you're taking care of me. We're monogamous, mostly. You've met my parents and I've met yours. We're sharing a damn house. We're in pretty deep here, if you hadn't noticed."
Simon nodded. "So it's really just about being the center of attention and having a big party?"
"Yep."
"Well, you don't need any more of that." The gate buzzer rang. "Ah, that will be dinner," Simon said. He patted Ryan on the arm, then went downstairs.
Ryan watched Simon's retreating form, with its newly fit ass, and sighed. He leaned back against the pillows, took a long drink of tea, and thought yeah, his definition of love absolutely included "is willing to fetch chicken curry."