the liberation of katie holmes. R. (1/8)
Fic: The Liberation of Katie Holmes (KB, JD, JJ, KH, others, 1/8)
Title: The Liberation of Katie Holmes (Or: How Kristen Bell and Jason Dohring Saved The World From Crazy Scientologists)
Authors: buffyx and missdeviant
Rating: R
Word Count: ~30,000
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!
The First Part The Second Part The Third Part The Fourth Part The Fifth Part The Sixth Part The Seventh Part The Eighth Part
Kristen is not so much of a party girl. Really. For the weekend, she had been planning on sleeping in, reading Arthur Miller’s biography, and spoiling Lola with a long walk in the morning to the deli on the corner that sells the yummiest spelt bread ever. She didn’t used to eat spelt bread, but Kevin had this wheat allergy thing, and like many Kevin things, it’d grown on her. Like the way he actually labeled his old taped VHS copies of Melrose Place and put them in chronological and alphabetical order (man, he was SUCH a girl sometimes-an anal retentive, OCD-ridden girl), leaving no room whatsoever for her own DVDs. And also, there was the Grant Hill jersey he actually had framed and hung in the front foyer. Or the way he had to button up every single button on his shirts, always.
Whatever! She’s allowed to be annoyed about those things now, because he left town last week and is visiting family in Toledo for the next month and a half, and technically, they are on A Break.
Again, whatever. Routine is good! Routine is healthy! Especially routine that involves good healthy walking to get healthy spelt bread! (And it still counted as healthy if maybe she was also going to be simultaneously listening to The Best of Sam Cooke on her iPod and pretending she was starring in a credit card commercial, and attempting to revel in her newly found, and possibly temporary, singledom.)
But then R.J., who does her makeup on Fridays, was all, “Oh my god, Kris, guess who asked me for your number last week. Just. GUESS. You will DIE until you are DEAD from it.”
And she was all, “Um… I don’t know,” and hoping this wasn’t a repeat of the nightmare she’d heard about Sophia Bush’s hair stylist writing her phone number on the bathroom wall of Troppo after being fired for botching a highlighting job.
When he told her who, exactly, it was, she didn’t die. But maybe she would’ve, if she’d known what was going to happen in the next forty-eight hours.
**
They meet up for drinks, and he’s prettier in person than she remembers him from television. Well, except for the facial hair.
It takes awhile before the bomb finally drops.
"I need a favor," Josh asks eventually.
Sure, Kristen is feeling a little buzzed from her third cosmopolitan in the last one and a half hours, and sure she and Kevin kind-of-sort-of-maybe broke up, but it is still way too soon and he is so not her type anyway. Besides, she’s seen enough episodes of Friends to know that A Break isn’t always A Break.
"As long as it isn't sexual," she says agreeably, poking her straw against the bottom of the glass.
"I heard that you know a guy."
Kristen blinks at him. "Um, I don't do coke or anything. But oh!" She snaps her fingers and starts digging through her purse. "I do have Mischa Barton's number, though, if you want it-“
"I'm serious!"
“So am I! You think that girl is that thin without a coke habit?” she asks with a snort. “Uh, okay. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
His voice drops to just above a whisper. “It’s Dohring.”
“As in… Jason? Who I work with?”
“I need you to pass a message on to him for me.”
“Uh. I can give you his number if you want it.” She licks the tip of the straw and studies him curiously. “Is this about, like, a project or something?”
“Or something.” Josh leans back, drumming his fingers across the tabletop. “I can’t contact him directly. It’s too dangerous.”
“Dangerous,” Kristen echoes dumbly. “Oookay.”
“Look, all you have to do is this-“ He whips a pen out from his jacket pocket and scribbles something on a wrinkled napkin. “Next time you see him, say these words to him. If he’s who I think he is… well, I’ll know. But you can’t tell him I told you to say it.”
She stares at the napkin, and then at him. “You’re… serious?”
“Completely,” he affirms. He kicks back the rest of his Samuel Adams in one swig and stands, extracting a fifty dollar bill from his wallet and placing it on the table. “Hope to be seeing you, Bell.”
**
It is stupid. It is so beyond stupid and reaching into borderline-retarded territory. That is how stupid this whole thing is.
Kristen can’t believe that she’s actually doing this, but whatever, she’s already scouted the entire set and there are no cameras anywhere, so she’s not getting Punk’d this time. Maybe Joshua Jackson is just pranking her himself, for kicks. Or maybe he’s just crazy. Or maybe she’s just crazy and Saturday night never happened. Maybe she is still dreaming and not even AWAKE.
God, she hopes so.
She knocks on Jason’s trailer door and he opens it quickly, dressed in a light blue hoodie zipped up over a tight black tee and faded blue jeans ripped at the knees. He hasn’t been to wardrobe yet; it’s the hoodie that gives it away, because blue is-or, was, whatever-Duncan’s color, not Logan’s.
Also, the wardrobe department isn’t perfect (memories of the abomination that was the guitar shirt she wore in the beginning of the year still haunt her nightmares), but they’re usually pretty decent, and they have to know that blue is totally not Jason’s color anyway, especially that kind of blue that washes out his complexion.
“Oh, hey Kristen,” he greets, leaning against the doorway, a few slightly crumpled script pages in one hand. “Come in, come in.”
He moves aside and she brushes through, wondering how in the hell she is going to pull this off without looking totally insane.
“Something up?” he asks, opening the mini-fridge and grabbing two water bottles, holding one out toward her.
“No thanks.” She waves it off and takes a deep breath. “Uh, yeah. So.”
“So.”
“So…” Kristen squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath. “I was-- I mean--”
“Yeah?” he prods, but not impatiently.
“Purplemonkeydishwasher.”
Jason freezes, stricken. “What?”
“Purple. Monkey. Dishwasher.” She bites down on her lip nervously. “Do those words have any, uh, special meaning to you?”
For a few moments, he’s just staring at her, sizing her up. Without a word, he rushes to the door and locks both locks securely, closes the blinds on the windows, then finally turns to face her.
“You know,” he says.
“Know?” she repeats, and begins to flail a little. “I know nothing! Tell me what I know!”
“Kristen.” He looks at her for a long time, jaw clenched, and then finally sighs and motions for her to sit down on his lumpy couch. “What I’m about to tell you- you’re implicated, already. There’s no turning back.”
Oh my god. Oh my god, it’s like a bad secret agent movie and she’s totally sucked into it except it’s REAL LIFE. What the hell?
“What the hell is going on?” she demands.
“It’s the Liberation,” he tells her gravely, and proceeds to explain, and thus begins the whole world-turning-upside-down thing.
~
to part two
Title: The Liberation of Katie Holmes (Or: How Kristen Bell and Jason Dohring Saved The World From Crazy Scientologists)
Authors: buffyx and missdeviant
Rating: R
Word Count: ~30,000
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!
The First Part The Second Part The Third Part The Fourth Part The Fifth Part The Sixth Part The Seventh Part The Eighth Part
Kristen is not so much of a party girl. Really. For the weekend, she had been planning on sleeping in, reading Arthur Miller’s biography, and spoiling Lola with a long walk in the morning to the deli on the corner that sells the yummiest spelt bread ever. She didn’t used to eat spelt bread, but Kevin had this wheat allergy thing, and like many Kevin things, it’d grown on her. Like the way he actually labeled his old taped VHS copies of Melrose Place and put them in chronological and alphabetical order (man, he was SUCH a girl sometimes-an anal retentive, OCD-ridden girl), leaving no room whatsoever for her own DVDs. And also, there was the Grant Hill jersey he actually had framed and hung in the front foyer. Or the way he had to button up every single button on his shirts, always.
Whatever! She’s allowed to be annoyed about those things now, because he left town last week and is visiting family in Toledo for the next month and a half, and technically, they are on A Break.
Again, whatever. Routine is good! Routine is healthy! Especially routine that involves good healthy walking to get healthy spelt bread! (And it still counted as healthy if maybe she was also going to be simultaneously listening to The Best of Sam Cooke on her iPod and pretending she was starring in a credit card commercial, and attempting to revel in her newly found, and possibly temporary, singledom.)
But then R.J., who does her makeup on Fridays, was all, “Oh my god, Kris, guess who asked me for your number last week. Just. GUESS. You will DIE until you are DEAD from it.”
And she was all, “Um… I don’t know,” and hoping this wasn’t a repeat of the nightmare she’d heard about Sophia Bush’s hair stylist writing her phone number on the bathroom wall of Troppo after being fired for botching a highlighting job.
When he told her who, exactly, it was, she didn’t die. But maybe she would’ve, if she’d known what was going to happen in the next forty-eight hours.
**
They meet up for drinks, and he’s prettier in person than she remembers him from television. Well, except for the facial hair.
It takes awhile before the bomb finally drops.
"I need a favor," Josh asks eventually.
Sure, Kristen is feeling a little buzzed from her third cosmopolitan in the last one and a half hours, and sure she and Kevin kind-of-sort-of-maybe broke up, but it is still way too soon and he is so not her type anyway. Besides, she’s seen enough episodes of Friends to know that A Break isn’t always A Break.
"As long as it isn't sexual," she says agreeably, poking her straw against the bottom of the glass.
"I heard that you know a guy."
Kristen blinks at him. "Um, I don't do coke or anything. But oh!" She snaps her fingers and starts digging through her purse. "I do have Mischa Barton's number, though, if you want it-“
"I'm serious!"
“So am I! You think that girl is that thin without a coke habit?” she asks with a snort. “Uh, okay. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
His voice drops to just above a whisper. “It’s Dohring.”
“As in… Jason? Who I work with?”
“I need you to pass a message on to him for me.”
“Uh. I can give you his number if you want it.” She licks the tip of the straw and studies him curiously. “Is this about, like, a project or something?”
“Or something.” Josh leans back, drumming his fingers across the tabletop. “I can’t contact him directly. It’s too dangerous.”
“Dangerous,” Kristen echoes dumbly. “Oookay.”
“Look, all you have to do is this-“ He whips a pen out from his jacket pocket and scribbles something on a wrinkled napkin. “Next time you see him, say these words to him. If he’s who I think he is… well, I’ll know. But you can’t tell him I told you to say it.”
She stares at the napkin, and then at him. “You’re… serious?”
“Completely,” he affirms. He kicks back the rest of his Samuel Adams in one swig and stands, extracting a fifty dollar bill from his wallet and placing it on the table. “Hope to be seeing you, Bell.”
**
It is stupid. It is so beyond stupid and reaching into borderline-retarded territory. That is how stupid this whole thing is.
Kristen can’t believe that she’s actually doing this, but whatever, she’s already scouted the entire set and there are no cameras anywhere, so she’s not getting Punk’d this time. Maybe Joshua Jackson is just pranking her himself, for kicks. Or maybe he’s just crazy. Or maybe she’s just crazy and Saturday night never happened. Maybe she is still dreaming and not even AWAKE.
God, she hopes so.
She knocks on Jason’s trailer door and he opens it quickly, dressed in a light blue hoodie zipped up over a tight black tee and faded blue jeans ripped at the knees. He hasn’t been to wardrobe yet; it’s the hoodie that gives it away, because blue is-or, was, whatever-Duncan’s color, not Logan’s.
Also, the wardrobe department isn’t perfect (memories of the abomination that was the guitar shirt she wore in the beginning of the year still haunt her nightmares), but they’re usually pretty decent, and they have to know that blue is totally not Jason’s color anyway, especially that kind of blue that washes out his complexion.
“Oh, hey Kristen,” he greets, leaning against the doorway, a few slightly crumpled script pages in one hand. “Come in, come in.”
He moves aside and she brushes through, wondering how in the hell she is going to pull this off without looking totally insane.
“Something up?” he asks, opening the mini-fridge and grabbing two water bottles, holding one out toward her.
“No thanks.” She waves it off and takes a deep breath. “Uh, yeah. So.”
“So.”
“So…” Kristen squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath. “I was-- I mean--”
“Yeah?” he prods, but not impatiently.
“Purplemonkeydishwasher.”
Jason freezes, stricken. “What?”
“Purple. Monkey. Dishwasher.” She bites down on her lip nervously. “Do those words have any, uh, special meaning to you?”
For a few moments, he’s just staring at her, sizing her up. Without a word, he rushes to the door and locks both locks securely, closes the blinds on the windows, then finally turns to face her.
“You know,” he says.
“Know?” she repeats, and begins to flail a little. “I know nothing! Tell me what I know!”
“Kristen.” He looks at her for a long time, jaw clenched, and then finally sighs and motions for her to sit down on his lumpy couch. “What I’m about to tell you- you’re implicated, already. There’s no turning back.”
Oh my god. Oh my god, it’s like a bad secret agent movie and she’s totally sucked into it except it’s REAL LIFE. What the hell?
“What the hell is going on?” she demands.
“It’s the Liberation,” he tells her gravely, and proceeds to explain, and thus begins the whole world-turning-upside-down thing.
~
to part two