emily_waters

Slow News Day (Epilogue)

2009-06-03T01:27:47Z

Title: Slow News Day (Epilogue)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula/Simon)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

Simon is gone.

In today's world, no one is every truly gone, but he's far enough away that she feels the loss acutely. It doesn't matter how often they speak on the phone or if her phone buzzes fifteen times a day with text messages from him. He's still not with her. She hates England bitterly for taking him away.

To fill the time, she tries to stay busy. She has projects and is the spokesperson for more than one company. There's plenty of work to do for the album – video and photo shoots, time in the studio, press. When she gets home, she's tired and tries to fall immediately into bed.

She tries to outrun the loneliness, but it doesn't always work. She's lying awake in bed when Simon calls. He's always delicate about the time difference – she calls him no matter what time it is in London, but he waits until he knows she's in bed but not yet asleep.

"Hi," she answers.

"Hello," he greets. His voice is warm but he sounds resigned. Resigned to what, she isn't sure.

They talk about their days and the long weeks ahead. He really hasn't been gone very long, but time seems to stretch and wallow. Maybe it's the heat or the long, bright days, but everything seems to take extra long.

"How is filming going?" she asks, as she does every night.

"It's not Idol," he says. This could mean a lot of things – but she knows what he's intending to say. It's not the same without Paula beside him. He talks a little bit about filming, about the contestants and the ratings but they both get bored with it easily. They are more than the sum of their shows. They are real people with feelings and sometimes, she feels, their viewers forget that they are not television characters created by a bunch of writers sitting somewhere in a dark room. Their feelings are real and not everything they do is meant for public consumption.

What she really wants is for her boyfriend to be with her and it's just not that easy.

"I'm tired," she says. "I think I'm just going to crash."

"Okay," he says. "I'll call you tomorrow."

When they hang up she sighs. Sometimes it's worse speaking with him everyday. It just makes the longing worse.

In the morning, she takes two of her dogs for a walk. Bessie Moo and Tulip get along pretty well, so she puts them in the car with their leashes. Her days of taking them around the block or anywhere near her neighborhood are over. Sometimes she drives to Runyon Canyon and walks them there or takes them to her sister's neighborhood, so far out it never occurs the paparazzi to follow her that long.

Today she drives across town to a nursery. There's a large green house and half an acre of plants for sale. It's not exactly a park, but it's one of her favorite places and they don't mind if she brings a dog or two to wander around the crowded aisles. Paula isn't a gardener, couldn't keep a plant alive if her life depended on it, but standing in the middle of lush greenery is cheerful. It's like an oasis in the middle of the desert.

The nursery is family owned and the staff there are all used to her showing up every now and then and so no one makes a fuss as she and her dogs wind their way around the place. Today, she's standing next to some ferns when the sprinklers come on overhead and showers the plants and her with a light mist. Bessie Moo laps at a puddle on the ground and Tulip stays close. She's timid and likes to stand between Paula's feet.

In the roses, she runs into one of the daughters pruning the plants.

"Good afternoon," she greets. She can't be older than twenty-five.

"Hi," Paula says.

"Did you need help with anything?" she asks.

"No," Paula says, reaching out to touch the soft petals of a blooming, pink rose. "I just am looking."

"Well," the girl says, wiping her hands on her green apron. "You just let me know."

It is often she gets to have a conversation with a stranger where the stranger doesn't get excited or flustered or, Paula's least favorite, tell Paula that she's Paula Abdul.

"Thank you," Paula says. The girl rubs Bessie Moo's head for a moment, before picking up her clippers again and moving on to a different bush. Paula's phone starts to ring.

"Hey baby," she answers. "At the nursery."

She glances at the girl who doesn't seem to be listening or is pretending very well.

"Plants," Paula says. "Plants, Simon." She moves away from the employee into a grove of lemon trees.

"What do you know about plants?" Simon asks.

"Nothing," she says. "They're just pretty."

She ends up buying several potted plants that are doomed to death inside of a week. She'll set them on her patio and forget about them but she feels obligated to purchase something after spending 40 minutes wandering around. The same young girl carries the box of flowers to her car for her while Paula wrangles her dogs. She opens the back and shows the girl where she wants to the box to sit.

"Thank you," Paula says.

"Drive safe," the girls says, heading back to the store.

"Wait," Paula says, and the girl stops, and comes back. "What's your name?"

"Oh, gosh," the girls says. "I'm sorry, how rude." She extends her hand. "I'm Molly."

"Paula," Paula says, shaking her hand. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Do you watch American Idol?" Paula asks. She's almost embarrassed to be the one who brings it up, but she's still trying to decide whether or not to put her name on that contract. Auditions aren't really that far away. Molly smiles.

"Doesn't everyone?" she asks. "I was pretty disappointed Adam didn't win."

"Me too," Paula says, lowering her voice even though they're alone in the parking lot. "I was wondering... if Simon left or if I left, would you still watch?"

"Are you leaving?" Molly asks.

"I don't know," Paula says.

"I'd probably watch it," Molly says. "At first. Somehow I don't think it'd be the same."

"Yeah," Paula says, grinning. "That's what I think too."

"I have to get back," Molly says. "We'll see you again real soon."

On the drive home, Paula decides something. She's going to sign the contract. Simon has one more year so she has one more year. She fumbles for her Bluetooth, calling him back quickly. He'd called to tell her he was going to sleep but this is important enough to wake him for. She owes him one hell of an apology.

"What?" he asks, sounding tired and grumpy.

"I'm not leaving American Idol," she says.

"What?" he says. "You signed your contract?"

"Not yet," she says, "but I will."

"Thank God," he sighs.

"Babe, I'm so sorry I ever thought I could leave. I never want either one of us to do the show without the other."

"I already have to do two shows without you. It's rubbish," he says.

"We can do one more year," she tells him.

"One more year," he repeats.

Instead of driving home, she does something she promised herself she wasn't going to do while he was gone. She drives to his house and lets herself in with the key he'd given her. No one is there, not Terri, not the housekeeping staff. The place is, for the moment, for deserted except for her and the sound of Chihuahua toenails on the slate floor.

She thinks, maybe if I just stand in the front room, it will be enough to get me through the next weeks but it isn't and soon she's curled up in his bed, crying into his pillow. Tulip jumps up on the bed and pushes her cold nose against Paula's hot face. Paula feels her dog, her baby love, licking the hot tears away.

When she gets back into the car, the flowers in the back have already started to wilt and curl in the heat. She rolls down the windows for a moment, letting the hot air out while the air conditioning gets a chance to cool down.

On the radio, she hears I need you like heart needs a beat but it's nothin' new and her tears renew themselves. It's going to be a long, long summer.

In June, she breaks down and does what she says she wasn't going to do. She buys a plane ticket to London. She goes for business in New York, and does a few interview shows and flies out from there. She'd spent summers apart from Simon before, but she's never ached for him like this.

The plane ride is long and she spends the first twenty minutes after the level out in the lavatory, scrubbing off her stage make-up. She's wearing a long sleeved shirt and loose fitting, cotton pants. It is not glamorous and she is bringing no one with her on this trip. She has nothing planned other than seeing Simon.

She tries to sleep, but she's too excited and so she spends the majority of the flight reading magazines and books but not really absorbing the information. When the movie comes on, she watches it but as the flight begins to descend, she couldn't tell anyone what the movie was called or who was in it. She puts everything back into her carry on and sits with her spine straight, anxious to land.

When she gets off the plane, it takes a certain amount of self-control to not break out into a run toward the baggage claim. Simon said he would try to pick her up at the airport himself and there's no way he'd disappoint her by not showing up, right?

But in the lower terminal, she sees a man in a suit holding a cardboard sign that says "Julie Moo" and she knows it's for her. The driver lifts her bag from the carousel for her and she follows him out to the limo tiredly. She hides behind large sunglasses and hopes no one snaps her picture. She has no professional reason to be in London, so hopefully no one thinks she's left the United States at all. And if some on the ball photog does snap her picture, what does she care? She and Simon are the worst kept secret in Hollywood and sure, she looks far from glamorous but a picture of her in sweat pants is hardly the worst her career has ever endured.

She allows the driver to heft her suitcase into the trunk and then he opens the door for her.

How badly she wants Simon to be in the limo waiting for her, but the wide cab is empty and she sighs, tossing her bag on the seat across from her.

"Do you know where you're supposed to take me?" Paula asks, when the driver gets into his seat.

"Yes Ma'am," he says, in a clipped British tone. Of course Simon would have taken care of all the details. The closer the car gets to Simon's house, the more excited Paula gets. She's tired but her heart starts to beat, fluttering wildly beneath her breast.

When the driver stops the car and opens her door, she steps out. She has no idea what time it is. Glancing at her watch doesn't help as it's on L.A. time and she's on New York time but standing in London.

"Follow me, please," the driver says, carrying her bag up the steps toward the front door of Simon's home. He produces a key and opens the door for them. He sets the suitcase down and faces her. "Miss Abdul, Mr. Cowell regrets that he cannot be here to greet you."

"Simon isn't here?" she asks, her voice rising to a squeak as her heart sinks.

"Mr. Cowell was called away on business but expects to be here within the hour," the driver says. "In the mean time, you may go anywhere you please and help yourself to anything in the icebox."

"I... yes, thank you," Paula says. It's no use taking her frustrations out on this employee; it's not his fault. He nods and lets himself out. She leaves her suitcase by the door and wearily climbs the stairs. Her excitement has faded leaving only exhaustion. She barely makes it to his rumpled, unmade bed before she falls asleep.

She wakes up to someone's hand on her shoulder.

"Simon?" she mumbles.

"No honey, it's Jackie. Simon sent me over to check on you." The woman's voice is familiar and she opens her eyes to see Jackie St. Claire, Simon's friend and neighbor. And, of course, his ex. Paula sits up and brushes the hair out of her face.

"I'm beginning to think he's not even in this country," Paula says. "Where is he?"

"He got hung up at the office," Jackie says. "But you didn't answer your phone when he called and he got worried."

"I think it's downstairs," she admits. "I'll call him right now."

"Why don't you come next door and have dinner with me. We can wait for Simon together," Jackie says.

"Just let me freshen up," Paula says. In the bathroom, she avoids looking at herself directly in the mirror. She doesn't want to see how tired and disappointed she looks.
Jackie walks them through the back where a gate connects their yards.

"How was your flight?" Jackie asks.

"Long," Paula asks. "I thought Simon would be at the airport and here we are, still no Simon. Which, speaking of, I have to call him."

"Let him suffer," Jackie advises. "I texted him, he knows you're safe."

Paula really isn't that hungry and she mostly moves the food around her plate. Every noise makes her perk up her ears, hoping that it's Simon at the door. Jackie does all the work, keeping the conversation going. Paula knows her only as an acquaintance, as a friend of a friend.

She's mad at Simon, mad enough that she thinks when she sees him, it won't be with the excitement the moment deserves.

The back door opens and Simon walks in, looking exhausted. Paula immediately forgets about being upset and launches herself up and out of her chair and into his arms. She hits him so fast and hard that he falls back into the closed door with a grunt.

"I'm so sorry," he says, his voice muffled by her hair. "I tried to get out earlier, I swear."

Paula thinks if she talks, she'll start to cry so she just hangs on.

"Take her home, Simon," Jackie says. "I'll see you two tomorrow, hmm?"

"Thanks," Simon says, and navigates them both out the door. They stand in Jackie's garden for several minutes kissing. It's more like saying hello than anything else. Simon still tastes the same, something she hadn't realized she'd been worried about until now. It's still him. His stubble still rubs at her chin, and his fingers still flex around her waist. Eventually, he nudges them apart and walks her back to his house with his arm over her shoulder. She's still tired and disoriented, but her heart feels good – feels full of light.

Her father once told her that everything in life was an equation. That the good choices gave you the right answer and the bad choices made the equation unbalanced and incorrect. Paula has been trying to make her life work for sometime now but she realizes that any equation without Simon in it is just wrong. Without Simon, nothing comes out how it should.

"What are you thinking about so quietly?" Simon asks, opening the back door for her. It opens into his kitchen and he moves to put the kettle on.

"Math," she answers.

"Mathematics?" he asks. "I swear, just when I think I know you..."

"I'm deliriously tired," she admits. "Don't read too much into it."

"You'll adjust better to the change if you try to stay up a bit longer," he says but she knows she isn't going to last. Now that Simon is in her sights, the adrenaline keeping her awake has started to leave her bloodstream. As happy as she is to see him, she just wants to go to sleep knowing he is safely nearby.

Once her tea is in her hands, she excuses herself to take a shower. She lets Simon carry her bags up to their room first and then climbs wearily into his shower. When she walks out into the bedroom, Simon isn't there so she crawls onto the mattress still wrapped in her towel. She just needs to rest, overheated by the shower, but promptly falls asleep.

Simon finds her like this and shakes his head. If he'd picked her up like he'd wanted, this whole night could have gone differently. He has only himself to blame but it isn't so bad. He carefully pulls the towel away from her body and hangs it up in the bathroom before pulling back the blankets and lifting her just enough so slider her under the covers. She doesn't wake up; she barely even stirs.

He'll spend the morning with her and then as many days after as she allows. There will be no glitzy premiers, no hours spent in front of a camera, no red carpets or photographers. There will be only them, together, from morning until night and all the hours that come after. He has no desire to share her and so he won't.

"Simon?" Paula's voice is muffled and only half awake.

"Yes, pet?" he asks.

"Are you coming to bed?" she asks.

"Yep," he says. He isn't tired, it's really not that late, but he feels like indulging her and, honestly, indulging himself. He takes off his clothes and slides into the bed next to her, switching off the lamp. She sighs and sinks back down into a heavier sleep and he watches her face, studies it in the darkness.

"I swear to God, Paula, if you're not moved into my house by the time I get back to L.A. we're going to have a serious problem," he says softly, knowing she's won't hear him – or if she does, won't remember. He rolls over and fluffs his pillow, planning on willing himself to sleep.

And because his back is to her, he completely misses the small smile on her face.

Slow News Day (Part Eighteen)

2009-05-27T04:21:50Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Eighteen)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula/Simon)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

Paula doesn't see Simon until the day before her performance. Officially, she doesn't have time but the truth of the matter is, they both need the time apart. They communicate mostly through text messages. When they arrive on the set on Tuesday, Simon stays in his trailer until the show time. He doesn't even come to the dress rehearsal. Paula keeps an eye out for him, but as usual, he comes strolling in ten seconds before they go live.

She doesn't know how to act at first. Things feel tense, but then he looks at her and winks and she relaxes. His arm moves to the back of her chair and it's easy to slip into their roles. After the show, she has dinner plans that, as usual, don't include Simon. There's a five minutes window when they're in the same place at the same time. Instead of allowing Simon into her crowded dressing room, she pulls him into Tom Bergeron's empty one across the hall. Tom isn't using it, he's still filming, so they have a few moments to themselves.

"You look nice," Simon says.

"Thank you," she says. "I know that we haven't really... I mean, I have to go in a second and... what I mean to say..."

"You just want to make out for a few minutes and not talk?" he says.

"Exactly that," she says, relieved. She presses her body against his and kisses him. She doesn't waste time, either. She slips her tongue into his mouth and feels his fingers clench at her arms. Simon is usually the aggressor in situations like these, the one who kisses her first, the one who slides his hand beneath her clothes. It's rarely Paula who pounces.

He lifts her and sets her on the edge of the vanity counter, knocking a comb to the floor and making the bottles of cologne clatter. She holds her hands on his face, cupping his jaw as he kisses her. He tastes like nicotine – like something that may not be good for her but something she can't live without anymore.

He makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat and breaks the kiss off.

"We should stop," he says. Paula half agrees – if she were to come into her dressing room and find Tom making out with some girl, she'd be royally pissed. The other half of her doesn't care -- just wants to heal whatever wounds she has left with kisses. He pulls her off the counter and she smooths her dress. "Will I see you later?"

"Tomorrow," she says. "I... I'm..."

"Don't be nervous," he says, quickly. "Performing is what you're good at. Dancing... there's no way it won't be a sight to behold."

This is when she forgives him for whatever terrible things he may have said. This is the moment she realizes that Simon, against all odds, is a good boyfriend. That he is her boyfriend at all. She hugs him, just holds him close.

"Thank you," she says, without letting go. He hugs her back.

The door opens and Tom comes in, pulling at his necktie.

"Oh," he says, surprised.

"God, does no one knock anymore?" Simon says.

"Sorry," Paula says, stepping back. "We just were borrowing your room. We'll go."

"Everything all right?" Tom asks. He and Paula have struck up a unique friendship after so many years of sharing a narrow piece of hallway. They're not extremely close, but they are friendly and he is protective of her.

"Just fine," she says. "Sorry. Thank you, sorry." She pulls Simon out and Simon nods at the host.

"Bergeron," he says.

"Cowell," Tom says, still befuddled by the situation. Paula gives Simon a good shove down the hallway.

"See you tomorrow," she says.

"Can't wait!" he calls as he walks away. She can say she doesn't care about Simon's opinion of her performance, but the truth is, Simon's is the only opinion she cares about. If he doesn't like it then he doesn't like her.

She's so jittery the next day. She jumps at loud noises, flinches when someone rests a hand on her to get her attention. All she can do is go through the routine again and again in her head and show time has never come as fast as it does today. She thinks if she just gets through this performance, the rest of the season will be gravy. She'll treat the next few weeks like a party. She just has to get through it.

"Everyone get out," Paula says. She doesn't even have to raise her voice over the din of conversation happening in her dressing room. Her voice is low but the gravity of it carries across the room and everyone snaps their mouth shut and stands up. They give her a chorus of 'good luck's' and file out. She closes the door. So rarely is she in her dressing room alone. Candles are lit, and her dance outfit is laid out, ready for her quick change. She drinks some water and goes to the bathroom three times before running out to start the show.

Ryan speaks and starts the show, but she has no idea what's happening. Debbie has to tap her shoulder to get her attention.

"Abdul, get back stage!" she says. Paula jumps up and Debbie smiles at her, leaning heavily on her crutches. "Just like old times, eh?"

"Hopefully," Paula says, before rushing backstage to change her clothes.

Her nerves knock her knees and make her teeth click loudly inside her skull. As she takes her place, her doubts threaten to overwhelm her. She's rusty and out of practice. She used to do this all the time, used to prance out on stage with no nerves at all night after night. Where is that Paula? She wants her back.

But when the lights dim and the music starts Paula knows that girl never left. She's been inside Paula the whole time, crouched and waiting to return. Performing is what she loves and that love fills her to the brim and makes the rest easy.

It's over so fast, too fast, and she wants to chase the dragon. It's better than any drug, the sound of the applause and her heavy breathing as she walks off the stage. She doesn't really have time to bask in the glow, though. Kylie is there immediately, wrestling her out of the performance outfit and helping her back into her dress.

"It was good," Kylie keeps saying. "It was really good."

"They're still clapping," Paula says, amazed. She and Kylie are in the quick-change booth, which is just a curtain in front of a wall. Kylie zips her up and Paula uses Kylie's shoulder for balance to put her shoes on.

"It was so good," Kylie says again and pushes her out from behind the curtain. "Go!"

Paula has less than 30 seconds to get onto the stage where Ryan will speak with her. When she re-emerges, the crowd goes nuts again, and standing next to Ryan is Simon. Paula is nervous to hear what he has to say but he smiles at her.

"So?" she says, breathlessly. But Simon doesn't have any response. Instead, he takes her face in his hands and kisses her square on the lips. The pit of girls in front of the stage goes crazy, screaming and jumping so hard the whole stage trembles slightly.

Paula kisses him back and when he pulls away, she doesn't even wipe her lips as is their custom. They aren't on the air, anyway. Ryan watches Simon head back to his chair with a surprised expression.

"You two," Ryan says.

"What?" she asks.

"It's just never what I expect," he admits. "I think left, you go right."

"Well, that's what Paula Abdul is all about," she says, winking at him.

She's still amped up when Simon comes over that night. She answers the door with a grin and pep in her step.

"Hey baby," she says.

"Hello, hot stuff," he greets. "Got any room at the inn?"

"I dunno," she says, coyly. "Space is pretty limited. We may have to share a bed."

"I think that'd be all right," he says. She steps aside to let him in. As soon as she closes the door, he picks her up. She wraps her legs around his waist and hangs on, laughing loudly as he carries her upstairs, huffing and puffing. He sets her down on the mattress gently and wastes no time crawling over her. He has been thinking about this for days, about kissing her, about how satisfying it will be to remove her clothing item by item.

She lifts her arms when he takes off her blouse and raises her hips when he pulls down her pants. She arches her back so he can unhook her bra and toss the garment over his shoulder.

She has a bruise on her hip and another on her shin and he starts by kissing these lightly. Dancing is hard on a body. Her feet are sore, too. No pain compares to that of being on pointe five days a week, however. She lifts her leg now, pointing her toes as she drapes the leg over his shoulder. She is now mostly nude and he's still completely clothed but she doesn't mind being on display for Simon anymore. He loves her body and she loves it too because of him. She's learning to see herself through his eyes.

There's a fan on in the room, oscillating the air around and when it blows on her skin coated in his saliva, she shivers and bumps rise on her skin. It's been warm lately, and as summer settles over Los Angeles, the temperature is only going to get higher.

Simon eases Paula's underwear over her hips and down her legs. He can hear the pace of her breathing increase in anticipation. He smiles slightly and pushes her knees apart. She's so flexible that he can push them both down to the mattress and it doesn't give her any discomfort. He makes her wait, kissing his way over her thighs and the flat plane of her stomach. He wants her to beg for it, but she's resolute. No matter how long he tortures her for, she won't beg Simon Cowell for anything.

He gives in first, pressing his hot mouth against her. He's sure to hold her hips securely to the bed so she doesn't buck up and hit him in the face. After a few moments, she's putty in his hands. Her hands clench at the comforter beneath her and he watches her breasts heave with each frantic lungful of air.

He could finish her off now, but instead he stops and she lets out a pitiful mewling noise. She lifts her head up in frustration and stares at him.

"Why?" she gasps. "Did you stop?"

He pulls off his t-shirt and gets rid of the rest of his clothes just as quickly. When he lies down, she crawls on top of him. She wants to take the reigns to make sure he doesn't stop abruptly again.

When she sinks down onto him, he makes a noise like a gurgle in the back of this throat.

"You shouldn't tease," she says, taking up a fast and hard rhythm. He holds onto her hips, trying to slow her down. He's not 18 anymore, he can't last forever especially with a beautiful woman riding him with such vigor. But she doesn't slow down and the concentration and pleasure on her face are in equal parts. She leans down on her elbows and presses her damp forehead against his chest. He can tell when she gets close because he feels her perfect white teeth sink into his collarbone.

He takes her firmly and flips them over. She squeals with surprise, but goes with it, wrapping her legs around him and encouraging him by cooing into his ear. He starts losing the rhythm, whimpering slightly and then he's there, roaring out his release and then falling down onto her, exhausted.

She rubs his back, feeling the sweat there. She doesn't mind him crushing her, doesn't mind the mixing of sweat and spit and lubricant between them. She's missed this closeness. It's not exactly make-up sex but it gives her the same feeling. She's glad they aren't fighting anymore and glad that he liked her performance.

He rolls off of her and pushed her sweaty bangs away from her forehead.

"I love you," he says. "You know that right?"

"It's starting to sink in," she promises. It takes a lot for him to make a statement like that, to be the first person to say it even if it's within the haze of pleasure and endorphins where everything comes a little bit easier.

"And me?" he prods. "Do you love me?"

She looks at him critically for a moment, cocking and eyebrow and bringing a finger to her chin.

"Against my better judgment," she says, and she's a woman with experience in judging. "I love you completely."

"Welcome to Hollywood?" he jokes.

"Hollywood?" she laughs. "How about I just crown you the winner right now and save us both some time?"

"Deal," he says. "Paula, I'm sorry I called you a bitch."

"It's okay," she says. "Sorry I called you an arrogant, pig-headed, dumb ass pasty Brit."

"You never called me that," he says, frowning.

"I did," she says. "Not to your face, but I said it. And I'm sorry."

He chuckles. She crawls over him to turn off the lamp and he gives her bare butt a hard slap. She yelps but it doesn't really hurt.

She waits for Simon to fall asleep before she creeps out of bed. She's tired, but she never falls asleep as easily as he does. She goes downstairs and fixes herself a cup of tea. She has plenty of work to do and the long hours of the night ahead of her to do it.

The week of the finale always comes to quickly and this year is no exception. Gone are days, even hours spent at home sitting by the pool or fixing dinner in the kitchen. Instead she goes from meeting to meeting, from dress-fittings to rehearsals and back again. She wakes up at 5am every morning to do the requisite radio press that an American Idol finale deserves.

There are also salon appointments, pedicures, and at least three sessions in the tanning booth. For Simon, it's easy. He has someone press his suit and when he puts it on, he's ready. When she doesn't answer her phone and doesn't have time to see him, he doesn't quite understand why.

"I'm getting ready for the finale," she tells him again and again but it exasperates him.

"What on Earth is left for you to do?" he asks, but when she starts to list off her itinerary, he stops her. "Rhetorical!"

"You asked," she says. "I'll call you later."

"Not likely," he mutters and hangs up.

Generally they are both busy, but this week, she seems to be leaps and bounds beyond him in terms of scheduling. He still manages to get home by midnight every night but what's the point when no one is there to greet him? He haunts the large house, drifting from room to room out of boredom. He tries to watch TV, but nothing holds his attention. He fixes some food but isn't really that hungry, so he leaves most of it in the sink. Finally, he decides to try to tire himself on and changes into a pair of trunks. He'll swim laps until his arms and legs feel rubbery.

The pools it he perfect temperature because everything in the house has been built to suit Simon. He puts his goggles on and starts swimming the length of the pool. The cool water slicing past his skin has the opposite effect of his intentions, though. It invigorates him and he feels as if he could go back and forth forever.

He's not sure how long he's been in the pool when he notices a pair of brown legs at the end under the water. He'd know those shapely calves and perfectly polished toes anywhere. He stops swimming and surfaces, pulling the goggles away from his eyes. Paula sits at the edge of the pool, propping her head in her hand.

"A siren come to lure me away," Simon says, grabbing her feet.

"I thought you'd be asleep," she says. "It's late."

He pulls on her legs quickly, like he's going to yank her and her expensive outfit into the pool but she slaps him and he doesn't really want to spend the rest of the night with her angry. She stands up, her legs dripping a puddle onto the stone beneath her and he swims to the stairs and climbs out, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the way to his towel. He offers it to her first, and she rubs it briskly over her legs before handing it back.

"Thanks," she murmurs. He wraps the huge towel around himself and just stands there, dripping. He's cold and tired now that he's out of the pool. She inches closer to him, like she wants to lean against him even though he's wet and smells of chlorine.

"Do you feel ready for the finale?" he asks.

"It's exciting and old news at the same time," she says. "Does that make sense? Like, I can't wait to watch the big show and party all night but the idea of doing it all again is exhausting."

"I understand," he says. "It doesn't feel like a year since the last one."

"No," she says, shaking her head. "Simon, I'm tired."

"Let's go to bed," he says, giving her permission to go inside. He dries off the best he can and then sprints through the house, up the stairs with her and into the bathroom where he peels off his trunks and jumps into the shower to wash the chemicals from his skin and his hair. When he gets out of the shower, she's in his bed, wearing one of his t-shirts and is half asleep. She moves a bit when he gets into bed and sighs when he turns out the light. "Did you set an alarm?" he asks.

She murmurs something he doesn't quite understand but he takes it as a yes. In the morning, it will be Tuesday, the first night of the finale, and the first of many long days. Paula has already cleaned out her dressing room at the CBS studios. She's yet to renew her contract and though she takes personal items out of her dressing room every year because other people use it in the off-season, it felt a little final this time around. Simon almost has her convinced to return but she can be unpredictable. He's trying not to push her too hard.

She rolls over in the bed and puts her back to him. She really is tired, he can tell. He gives her space, doesn't drag her body against his. In the night, she'll get cold and find him. They always wake up touching, even if it's just a finger against a finger.

In the morning, her phone chirps again and again. He opens his eyes and sees the phone but not his girlfriend. Paula's side of the bed is rumpled but empty. He can hear the shower and listens to the sound of the water falling for the moment and then the squeak of the taps as she turns them off. She's humming to herself softly and after a few minutes the door opens, letting a rush of warm, moist air into the room.

She's wrapped in a blue towel and has brushed out her hair. It's getting long again, and he's always had a thing for women with wet hair.

"Good morning," she says, silencing the alarm.

"Morning," he says, yawning and stretching. "I've been thinking."

"How long have you been awake?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"About three minutes," he says. "But I think you should move in here."

She laughs and shakes her head, pulling open the closet door. There are plenty of her clothes to choose from, but she pulls out jeans and a t-shirt. She's just going to her hotel room to get ready for the finale.

"I'm serious," he says.

"I know you are," she says. "Only you could make a serious, life-altering choice in three minutes."

"I've been thinking about it longer than today," he concedes.

"Have you?" she asks, dropping the towel to pull on her underwear. She slides her arms into the loop of her bra straps and fastens the back without looking. "I've been thinking about it too."

"So it's settled, then," he says.

"No," she says. "It's a little soon for that."

"No?" he says. "People don't say no to me, you know."

"People," she murmurs. "I'm not 'people,' Simon."

"I know, but..."

"Let's see how the summer goes. You'll be off in London and I'll be busy with the album. If we can get through the summer without breaking up, you can ask me again and I'll reconsider."

"Your confidence in us is stunning," he says.

"It's realistic," she says. "I've learned the hard way that moving in together doesn't make problems magically disappear."

"What problems do we have?" he asks.

"I'm not saying we have problems, but I'm just..." She stops as she pulls the shirt over her head. "Baby, I love you, but I just think it's too soon, okay?"

"Okay," he says. Paula is turning out to be not quite the romantic he thought she was.

"When are you coming to the theater?" she asks.

"Around 2:00 or 3:00," he says. "Want me to swing by the hotel? You can come in my limo."

"Nah," she says. "I'll have too many people with me I think."

"Let me guess," he drawls. "Thing one and thing two?"

"Did you just reference a children's book?" she asks, surprised.

"I have nieces and nephews," he says. "I know things."

"You're cute," she says, leaning over the bed to kiss him. "I have to go."

"I just want to state for the record that I feel this morning's conversation has not gone in my favor," he says.

"The court recognizes your statement and motions to move ahead anyway," she says, picking up her purse and stepping into her shoes. "Bye."

"Bye," he says. "Sassy pants."

He realizes only after she's gone that he probably won't be alone in a room with her until well after the new Idol has been crowned. He'll sit next to her for two nights and see her in passing at parties and during interviews, but it won't be them alone. She won't spend the night with him because they probably won't go to bed at all. Paula isn't much for parties unless finales are involved.

Simon actually prefers the Idol off-season. He likes summering in both London and L.A. and likes when he sees Paula because he wants to not because he has to. This year will be different, he reckons. He isn't sure how it will play out. Will he be able to convince her to come abroad with him? Will being away from her for long periods of time destroy the fragile and precious thing they have built in these last months?

His phone starts to ring.

"Hello?"

"Are you still laying in bed, brooding about me?" Paula's voice is tinny through the connection. She's still in the car, he can tell.

"Get out of my head, woman," he says, but he's laughing.

"Simon, you know and I know that things are going to change in the next few months," she says. "But we're going to be okay."

"And just how do you know this?" he asks.

"Because I'm usually right and you're usually wrong," she says.

He snorts.

"And," she says. "Because if we've made it this far, who is to say we can't go all the way?"

"Blind faith is the evidence you have?" he asks. "That's all you've got?"

"Simon," she says. "You're the longest relationship I've ever been in. I'm not the kind of woman to invest 8 years in someone only to throw in the towel."

"We haven't been together 8 years," he points out.

"In all the important ways we have," she says. "So just get out of bed, put on a suit, and go to work, okay?"

"Okay," he says. He actually does feel a little better.

He doesn't even try to get into Paula's trailer once he gets to the Nokia. It's swarming with people and she always gets antsy before a big show like this. She doesn't like him to see her only half made up, either. It doesn't matter that he's seen her fresh out of the shower. She's peculiar like that.

He doesn't see her until they get called to set. The theater is already filled and roaring with excited conversation. The judges are to line up backstage and then walk out together just before airtime. Simon and Paula arrive at the same time – they can see Randy and Kara already waiting up ahead.

"Wait," Simon says, reaching out and touching her arm to stop her.

"What?" she asks, worried. She doesn't want to be late. She's holding her dress off the floor in her hands and she's wearing so much make-up he can hardly see the real Paula beneath it all.

"I'm just..." he runs his hands through his hair. "Do you get the feeling this is sort of the last time?"

"Simon, baby, hold it together," she says.

"I'm serious," he whispers.

"I get the feeling that it's going to be a good night," she says, letting go of her dress. It pools back down, swinging around her ankles. She holds out her hand. "You and me? We don't have anymore last times."

"Come on," he says.

"Really," she says, firmly. "From here on out, it's us together. Whatever happens. Even if I don't do Idol again, or if you go to London, or I go on tour, it's just you and me and the world, okay?"

"Okay," he says. She kisses him lightly, and he wipes the gloss from his lips.

"Hey!" Debbie calls from down the hall. "Get in gear!"

Paula rushes ahead, pulling him with her.

"Sorry," Paula says to Debbie. "He got cold feet but we're okay now, right baby?"

"Yeah, baby?" Kara parrots, mockingly.

"Be nice," Paula pleads. "Change is hard for everyone."

"I'm fine," Simon says. "Just walk already."

He doesn't ever grow tired of listening to the sound of thousands of people cheering for him. Paula's hand relaxes in his – she's letting him know if he wants to let go, he can but he holds on tightly. He helps her up the steps and pulls out her chair for her.

When they are seated, he leans into her.

"Here we go," he says, with a small grin.

"Yeehaw," she responds with a smile.

Slow News Day (Part Seventeen)

2009-05-11T02:38:13Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Seventeen)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

Simon's housewarming party is the talk of the town. The place is big enough to hold the crowd, but even so, anyone who is anyone is there. Paula arrives an hour after it starts and can barely see through the crowd of people – a hazard of being short. She shakes a lot of hands and kisses a lot of cheeks. It takes her half an hour to find Ryan and Randy and another fifteen minutes to even spot Simon. He is the heart of the party, standing in the center laughing and drinking. It takes him a moment to spot her, but when he does he winks and tilts his head, a request for her to come over.

And because it's something that Simon wants, it's easy to do. The people seem to fall aside and create a narrow path for her to get to him. His hand settles on the small of her back. Her dress has a high neck but the back dips down low, so she gets to feel his skin on her skin. She doesn't know what they're all talking about and doesn't feel like deciphering the conversation. She's happy just to stand by him, to watch the people laugh and drink. Soon, someone puts on some music and people begin to dance in the big open space of the back patio.

Ryan takes her hand and pulls her away from Simon to the makeshift dance floor. It's crowded and warm, so Ryan pulls her close. They aren't really dancing, just moving to the beat of the music. Many of the people at the party are Terri's guests; young people who still can stay up until 4am partying every night and still make it to work in the morning. Paula use to be that way. Now she can do it, but the recovery time has doubled.

It happens really fast. One moment they are dancing and then the next, she has a glass of red wine down the front of her dress. Some young woman had stepped wrong on her heel and had stumbled. Paula gasps from the surprise more than anything and then stands there for a moment, her arms away from her body, watching the liquid soak into the expensive fabric and drip down her legs onto the concrete below.

"Oh my God!" says the girl. "You're Paula Abdul."

"Yeah," she says, unsure of how to proceed.

"I just spilled my drink on Paula Abdul!" she says. "Holy shit!"

"Dude," Ryan says. "Apologize."

"It was an accident," Paula says.

"I am really sorry though," the girl says. "I mean... it was a total accident."

"Come on," Ryan says, steering her toward the door. "Let's get you cleaned up." But Paula hesitates at the door.

"I don't want to drip on the floor," she says. "Can you get me a towel?"

"Sure," he says.

Simon comes back with the towel, though, not Ryan. He grins at the sight of her and laughs when she takes the towel and tries to soak up some of the mess from the hem of the dress.

"Let's go get you changed into something not booze soaked, hmm?" he says.

She follows him up the stairs, walking quickly across the carpeted areas. She can feel the wine dripping down her thighs, her knees, and into her shoes. A dress is one thing, but if that drunk girl ruined her shoes, Paula is going to pitch a fit when she gets back downstairs.

As soon as the bedroom door closes behind them, she rushes into the bathroom, stepping out of her shoes as she goes, and peels the dress off. It can't be salvaged, she knows it, but still she drops it in the bathtub and turns on the cold tap, rinsing it out. When she looks down, her white panties are damp and purple too.

"Does no one drink white wine?" she mutters, stepping out of those as well. She turns around to see Simon standing in the door watching her.

"I know," she says, taking a washcloth from the counter and getting it damp from the tap. "I'm a mess." She takes the cloth and wipes the last residue away from her skin.

"You're beautiful," he says. "And you're naked."

"It's going to very conspicuous when I come down in a completely different outfit," she says.

"Or when you don't come down at all," he says. He puts his hands on her waist and lifts her up onto the counter. She yelps because it's cold, but then he positions himself between her legs and moves his hands to her bare breasts.

"Now?" she asks.

"Oh yeah," he says, leaning into kiss her. "Right now."

By the time they make it back downstairs, the crowd has thinned and it's just as well. There's no sign of the girl who spilled her drink on Paula or the gaggle of girls who were with her. Paula has on a pair of dark pants and a maroon blouse – just in case. But there's only so much she can do about her make-up – smudged from sweat – or her hair, which is tousled from Simon's fingers.

Ryan takes one look at her and grins a big, dopey, know-it-all grin.

"I see you found something to change into," Ryan says. "Or something to change into you, rather."

"Ryan, why are you so bad an innuendo?" she asks.

"I dunno, not one of my strong suits," he says. "But you totally just had sex."

"Try not to be so jealous," she says, patting his shoulder. "I know sex with Simon is a life long dream for you."

"Ouch!" Ryan says. "Words hurt, Abdul."

The party is better now. Everyone left are close friends of Simon and there are few people these days that Simon is close to and Paula is not. They sit around the living room laughing for another hour. Telling stories about Simon, telling stories about new houses and the horrors of remodeling.

Randy is telling a story about how the first house he ever bought had a leaky roof and it stormed the whole month after they moved in.

"I can top that," Terri says. "My first flat in London I shared with three girlfriends, and at least ten rats! Who can top that?"

"A girl killed herself in front of my house," Paula says, suddenly. The room gets really quiet then and everyone looks at her or at the floor uncomfortably. "Do I win?"

"Yeah," Simon says after a beat. "You win, Paula."

"I mean, come on you guys," Paula says, trying to lighten the mood. "That would only happen to me. You have to find the humor in it somehow."

"You do have rotten luck," Terri agrees.

"At least I can laugh about it now," Paula says, though she isn't laughing. "Sort of."

But the party can't really recover after that and people start to filter out until it's just Ryan, Randy, Simon and Paula. Terri goes to bed in her wing of the house so it's almost as if she leaves.

"I guess it's time to head out," Randy says. "You ready, Seacrest?"

"Yeah," Ryan says, shaking Simon's hand. "Thanks for having us, man."

"You want us to walk you out, P?" Randy asks.

"Not necessary," Simon says. "I'll make sure Paula gets where she needs to be."

"That's code for 'she's not leaving'," Ryan says in a loud stage whisper. Paula blushes slightly and Randy rolls his eyes.

"Whatever, dudes," Randy says. "Goodnight."

When they are alone, Paula looks around at the empty bottles and glasses littering the flat surfaces around them.

"Shall we tidy up?" Paula asks.

"No, Mary Poppins, that's why I have a housekeeping staff," Simon says. "Let's just go to bed."

"Get your fill of me tonight because my schedule is insane for the next few weeks," Paula warns. "My single drops next week, you know."

"I know," Simon says. "When are you going to let me hear it?"

"You can hear it when it premiers like everyone else," she says.

"We'll see," he says.

Upstairs, when the lights are off and they are between the sheets together, she snuggles up to him and he lets her, lifting his arm so she can rest her head on his bare chest.

"You know," he says. "I could never get my fill of you."

"That's sweet," she says drowsily. "I love you too, Simon."

"Will you remember me when you're off touring the world being a popstar again?" he asks.

"Probably not."

"Hey!"

She giggles and kisses his bare chest.

"You can come with me, like a groupie."

"I am not a groupie," he protests. "If anything, I'd be the only one more famous than you on your tour."

"You are NOT more famous than I am," she says.

He snorts.

"You're not!" she reiterates. "Your ego might beg to differ, but come on, Simon. Be realistic."

"You honestly think you're more famous than I am?" Simon asks.

"You honestly think I'm not?"

They have come to an impasse. This has the stirrings of a fight, a big one. Simon and Paula are good at a lot of things and knock down, drag out fights are one of them. She sits up and pulls the sheet around her.

"I think twenty years ago you were," Simon says, switching on a lamp. The room fills with soft light and he looks at her – tan skin, tousled chestnut hair. He almost doesn't want to fight with her. She's so lovely like this. The slope of her bare shoulder and the contrast of the white sheet against her skin. But he can't seem to help himself, can't seem to stem the flow of hurtful words. "But longevity is not the mark of fame necessarily."

"How would you know?" she asks. "You don't have it. You're a reality star."

"And you're a bitch," Simon snaps.

She looks at him incredulously.

"Did you just call me...?" she says. "I put up with a lot from you but I do not have to put up with this."

She throws the blankets off and gets out of bed, angrily reaching for her clothes.

"Please," he says. "Like I don't put up with my fair share of your insanity. You can act like you're the princess of television and music but you are a spoiled-rotten diva brat and you know it."

"I bend over backwards for people!" she says.

"And you're the first one to let the world know that," he snaps.

She pulls on her shirt and reaches for her pants.

"Fuck you," she says, pulling them on. "Burn in hell, Simon."

"And now you're leaving? Just great. Isn't that what you always do when a relationship gets tough? Give up?" he asks.

Perhaps he has crossed a line because the anger drains from her face like blood and is instead replaced with hurt. Tears well up in her eyes and she turns from him, fleeing the room without another word.

He tries not to care. He's right; she is spoiled and does pull diva behavior from time to time. This whole mess with contract negotiations is a good example. She says it's about Idol showing her the proper respect but everyone knows it's about money. She wants more per episode, wants a bigger dress budget, wants the producers of the show to stand behind her when the media tries to throw her under a bus. It's why they're going to ask her to dance on the show – the producers are starting to scramble and panic at the thought of her leaving and she's allowing it even know she and Simon both know she'll be back for at least another season.

He beats his pillow and shuts the lamp off. She can run off if she wants too, that's just fine. He doesn't care and he isn't going to lose any sleep over it.

An hour later, Simon is in his car, trying to decide if he wants to go after her or give her the rest of the night to cool off. Maybe he needs some time to cool off too. Or maybe he's really dug himself a grave and the only way to climb out of it is to haul ass to Paula's house and grovel until his knees give out.

The driveway is long and winds a bit before he reaches the gate to the street. As he comes around the bend, he sees Paula's car parked in front of the gate, with the engine off. He can see the vague outline of her in the driver's seat, but it's hard to make out any details in the darkness. He gets out of the car and knocks on her window. She looks up at him and his heart breaks a little. Her face is wet and swollen and she turns away from him. He pulls open the door.

"Hey," he says.

"Go away."

"Paula, I'm... sorry," he says. "Come back to the house with me."

"I don't want to be with you right now," she says.

"You can't drive like this," he says. "Come on, if you don't want to sleep with me you can stay in one of the guest rooms."

"Just get away from me," she says.

"Baby, I'm sorry," he says. "I'm an ass, I know, but it's the middle of the night. Let's go back to the house."

She bites her lips and glances at the clock on her dashboard. The radio plays softly, and with the door open and they key in the ignition, there is a constant dinging. But behind the annoying sound he can hear the song. I'll go my way alone, grow my own, my own seeds shall be sown in New York City.

She steps out of the car, bringing the keys with her. The song and the noise stops and she locks it behind her, deciding to leave it blocking the entrance. If Terri wants to leave early in the morning, she's going to have a problem but Paula doesn't care about that. She sits in the passenger's seat of Simon's car with her arms crossed while he drives them back to the front door.

Once inside, she speaks to him.

"Which room should I use?" she asks. Simon is surprised. She's come all the way in the house but she must really be hurt to demand a separate room. But he can't order her around now. He leads her down a long hallway and opens a door. It's the room meant for his mother and the only other room with a bed at the moment. She doesn't look him in the eye or tell him goodnight. She just closes the door behind her.

He doesn't go back to bed. He sits down in the hall outside her door and waits, rubbing his tired face with his hands. He needs a shave – he needs a smoke. He hears the door open, but when he looks up, it's Terri's door, not Paula's.

"You okay?" she says. "I can hear you brooding out here."

"I fucked up," he says, pointing at the closed guest door.

"Ah," Terri says and comes to sit next to him on the floor. "Tell me what happened."

Simon relays the story and he does it honestly instead of spinning it so he comes out the victim.

"Did you ever think of just supporting her?" Terri asks.

"I do support her!"

"You live your life like it's a contest, Simon; like you always have to win," Terri says. "It's not about winning!"

"I don't apologize for wanting success," he says.

"There's a difference between being successful and doing so at the expense of those around you," Terri says. "The truth is she doesn't need you." Terri points at the door. "There is a woman who has millions of fans, makes plenty of money, and has a talent most people only ever dream of. She doesn't need you."

"I know."

"So instead of acting like the king all the time, maybe just start acting like a good boyfriend. You remember how to do that? Be a good boyfriend?"

"I was a good boyfriend to you," Simon says.

"You had your moments," Terri concedes. "Look, I know you couldn't give me what I wanted and I think we're better for it. But you can give her what she wants and I think you should do it."

"What does she want?" Simon asks.

"She just wants to be happy!" Terri says, like Simon is slow-witted. "That's all she's ever wanted."

"Don't you think that's asking a lot of someone?" Simon asks. "To have your happiness tied up into a single person?"

"I'm not saying she can't be happy without you, you egomaniac," Terri says, slapping him on the arm. "I'm just saying being with you, for some insane reason, makes her happy and it makes you happy too so stop cocking it up already."

Simon chuckles.

"Thanks," he says. "I guess I should go in there and talk to her."

"No," Terri says. "I mean, I'd give her the night, you know?"

"Were you always this insightful?" he asks.

"Yep," she says, standing up. "Night Simon."

"G'night, love," he says. He stands too and, though he is hesitant, goes back to his room.

In the morning, Paula is dressed early, just as the sun finishes rising. She wants to sneak out before anyone else is awake and it's a bit of a trek to her car. She opens the door and carries her shoes while she walks down the stairs. She doesn't want the click of her heels to draw any attention. But downstairs, she finds Simon waiting for her. He doesn't look upset, just calm.

"I made coffee," he says. "Will you have some before you go?" He looks earnest, even and Simon putting forth any effort is a sight to behold.

"Sure," she says, setting her purse and her shoes by the door. In the dining room there is coffee but the table has been reset for breakfast. There's a sterling silver bowl brimming with fresh fruit salad, a plate of toast, a carafe of orange juice, and a platter of muffins and scones. "Wow."

"Have a seat," he says, handing her a cloth napkin. He pours her coffee and she takes a sip. It's a good brew, rich and not bitter. "I'd like to call a truce."

"That's not how it works," she says, still stinging from the night before. "You can't just call off a fight because you regret starting it."

"I know," he says. "I'm sorry for what I said. I love you, all of you. Even the parts I don't particularly care for I love."

"Don't you worry that it isn't enough?" she asks. "Just because you love me doesn't mean you can live with me."

"I do worry about that," he says, sitting down.

"So where does that leave us?" she asks quietly.

"Oh, don't be dramatic," he says. "Just because it might fail doesn't mean it will fail!" She looks surprised at his optimism. "Let's just try to stick it out a little longer, hmm?"

"Okay," she says.

"Now, someone somewhere worked very hard to make us this breakfast. The least we can do is eat it," he says. They fill their plates and a little while later, Terri joins them. She has wet hair and looks sleepy.

"You still fighting?" she asks, her raspy voice even fainter in the morning.

"No," Simon says.

"We have a fragile peace at the moment," Paula qualifies. Simon scoffs and opens the paper, hiding his face behind it. Terri sits down and picks at the bowl of fruit without actually putting any onto her plate. In some ways it's odd, the three of them together now, but the three of them have spent plenty of time together in the past, so in that way, it's normal.

Wordlessly, Simon hands Terri the crossword puzzle and Paula again feels slightly left out.

When Paula was a little girl, one of the houses in her neighborhood burned to the ground in the night. She remembers it well – one morning she woke up and the house was just gone. All that remained was the charred foundation and a set of concrete steps. After a while, the kids around the neighborhood started to use the abandoned property as a playground. Paula remembers running up the steps and jumping off the top one – landing hard on the black ground below.

Sometimes, that's what being with Simon feels like. Climbing steps that lead to nothing in the air. Working hard only to find there's nothing at the top except to jump off blindly or turn around and go back the way she came.

Paula has a meeting with the Idol producers at 10:00, so she asks Simon to take her to her car and he obliges. She lets him kiss her goodbye. Things will be slightly strained between them for a few days, she fears, even though the fight has ended. This isn't unusual though – she fights with Simon all the time. He needles her and she ignores him until he grows tired of being without her. Then he calls her until she answers or leaves small gifts for her. Fresh flowers, a tiny wooden figure of a ballerina, or once, a sapphire pendant from Tiffany's. She'd been pretty irate at him to receive that particular gift.

At home, she showers and puts on jeans. She doesn't feel glamorous – she feels tired. She slept poorly and now has to face a long table of her bosses for reasons unknown. She stops to get coffee and then makes her way to the 19 offices. Her publicist will meet her there and with any luck, she'll be out by lunch.

Simon Fuller kisses her cheek and they all settle down. It is, she thinks, going to be another meeting about her contract. Where they say we'll give you this and this – a trailer, a room just for shoes, a producer credit. What they won't give her is what she thinks she deserves – a salary comparable to Simon's.

"We want you to perform," says Ken.

"Huh?" she says. This is not what she was expecting at all.

"You have a new single coming out?" he asks.

"Yes," she says.

"We want you to do it on the show," he says. "Perform it live, on American Idol."

There are a million reasons to say no. A week to prepare is not enough time. She's not even sure the single she picked is the one she wants to release. She'll have to find dancers; hell, she'll have to choreograph a dance. What if it doesn't work? What if no one likes it? What if the media tears her apart, as they are so practiced in doing, and she can't recover another time?

Has she recovered this time? And yet...

"I'll do it," she says.

Slow News Day (Part Sixteen)

2009-05-11T02:35:32Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Sixteen)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

Jimmy lets himself into Paula's house to find Simon laying face down on the living room floor. Paula is standing over him, rubbing her hands together.

"Finally killed him, eh?" Jimmy says.

"Oh ha, ha," Simon says, his voice muffled by the pillow under his head.

"He hurt his back, I'm giving him a massage," Paula explains. Simon is shirtless and Paula is rubbing lotion into her hands.

Jimmy plops down on the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table. He looks like he needs a bowl of popcorn in his lap. Paula doesn't ask him to leave – they're doing it in the living room after all. She steps over Simon and kneels down so she's crouching over him. Her hands are slippery with lotion.

"Do you want me to go easy on you?" she asks. She knows his back has been tender and sore.

"Please," he says. "Like you could really hurt me."

"Well now," Jimmy says. "That sure sounds like a challenge."

"Jimmy, stop instigating," Paula says.

Simon's back is broad and pale. He could use a day in the sun. She starts by pressing the heel of her hand beneath his shoulder blades. All his muscles are tense and knotted and she's afraid she'll be worn out before she even makes any real progress.

"You need to relax," she instructs softly. "Deep breaths."

When she finds a particularly sore knot along his spine, he breathes in quick but catches himself before making any audible noise of pain.

"I'm going to set you up with my regular massage therapist," Paula says. "You need more than I can give you."

On the sofa, Jimmy picks up a magazine and starts leafing through the pages.

Paula is more knowledgeable about the human body than Simon would have thought. She knows the names of the muscles, can narrate them out loud to him, should he want that.

This is your trapezius, she would say, pressing into the place where his neck becomes his shoulder. And this, your teres major. It's her dancing that has given her this depth of knowledge, as well as her own medical traumas over the years. She's better now than she has been possibly ever. The first year, when he could hardly look at her, she was in so much pain all the time. Enough pain that someone like Simon could notice the careful steps she took, the way she hissed as she lowered herself into her chair.

Now, she dances across the stage, she hugs audience members without fear of jarring pains and lingering aches. Still, she is not the perfect specimen. She tires easily and sometimes, her fork trembles on the way to her mouth or the water in her bottle ripples while she is standing still.

She pauses in her ministrations to squeeze more lotion onto his back. She'd chosen the least feminine smelling lotion she had, but it's still lavender scented and the smell of it slowly fills the air. On the sofa, Jimmy starts humming to himself. Jimmy has a good voice, the best voice in the room probably, and what is generally an annoying habit becomes somewhat enjoyable.

Soon, Simon begins to snore.

"Is he asleep?" Jimmy asks.

"Hazard of the job," she says. She stands up, stretching and waves Jimmy out of the room. Simon can have a catnap if he wants. There's coffee in the pot, still fairly fresh, and she pours herself a cup. Jimmy declines.

"So, I think I'm going to go up north for a while," Jimmy says. He has a lot of friends in San Francisco and when he's not in L.A. he likes to spend time with them.

"Before the finale?" she asks. "But who will hold down the couch in my dressing room?"

"Seriously, though," Jimmy says.

"Why are you leaving early?" she demands. "Is it Simon?"

"No," Jimmy says. "Maybe. I just... you have this thing with him now and I know you don't think I'm in your way, but I am."

"Not enough that you need to flee the city," she says. "Just stay until Idol is over. If you want, I'll stay at Simon's and then we won't have to worry about anyone being underfoot."

"You shouldn't have to leave your own house to make room for me," he says.

"Have you seen Simon's new digs?" she asks, rhetorically. "Not exactly a sacrifice."

"We'll see," Jimmy says noncommittally. Simon comes padding into the room. His hair is sticking up and he's still bare-chested. He looks a little groggy but he seems to be in less pain.

"Is that coffee?" he says, oblivious of the conversation in the room. He takes the mug from Paula's hand and sips it. He makes a face and then rotates the cup a little before taking another drink. He can taste her lipstick from the rim. Frowning, she takes the mug out of his hand and replaces it with a cold bottle of water.

"Drink this," she says. "You'll feel better."

"I feel great," he says. "You ever think about a change in career?"

"All the time," she says. "But instead of changing I just add another one to the pile."

"Maybe it's time to take one off," Jimmy suggests.

"Stop reading the tabloids," Simon says.

"You're the one confessing your love in the media," Jimmy shoots back.

"What?" Paula asks. Simon rolls his eyes.

"You didn't see TV guide for the week?" Jimmy says, wandering away to find the copy.

"What's he talking about?" Paula asks, putting her hands on her hip.

"I did a little interview," Simon says. "It doesn't mean anything."

"What'd you say?" she asks but he is reluctant to speak and instead brings the mouth of the water bottle back to his lips. Jimmy comes back down with the issue in his hands and gives it to Paula who scans the article quickly. "Simon?"

"What?" he asks exasperatedly.

"You know it's not a secret love if you tell everyone right?" she says, grinning. His words have pleased her. Jimmy starts to laugh.

"Oh be quiet," Simon says, affecting a sulky expression. "Who reads TV guide anyway?"

Paula laughs and tosses the magazine at his bare chest.

"I secretly love you too, baby," she says.

"And that's my cue to move out," Jimmy sighs.

"What?" Paula asks.

"It was one thing when you were just sleeping together," Jimmy explains. "But I want no part of this if you're in love."

"I want no part of you either," Simon says, but he says it affectionately. Paula frowns at him.

"Jimmy, you don't have to go." It's been a long time since Paula has actually lived in her house alone. When J.T. moved out, Jimmy moved in. Before J.T. it had been a string of other semi-permanent guests, starting, really, with Kara. Sure, if Jimmy leaves now, there will be Simon, but Simon won't stay every night.

"I know," Jimmy says. "But it's time."

Paula mopes for the rest of the day. She mopes while Simon's in the shower and when he gets out. She mopes when Kylie and the tailor come over to fit her for her dresses and mopes when they leave. Simon takes a call downstairs and when he comes back up, Paula is lying on the bed, looking pathetically sad.

"I'm trying not to be offended here," Simon says. "But somehow I suspect if it was I who were leaving you wouldn't be quite as sad."

"It's not the same," she says. "You leave all the time."

"Darling, he's not moving to Mongolia. He probably won't even leave the county."

"He'll probably go to San Francisco," she sniffs.

"Which is not even crossing the state line," Simon says. "And how many times a year do you find yourself in San Francisco?"

"A few," she concedes.

"Then why are you so bloody sad?"

"I hate living alone!" she says. "I like having someone here."

"I'm here," he says.

"Not always," she says. "Simon, when I got married the last time, I thought I would never have to be alone again. And then... well, even though things didn't work out I've tried to keep that promise to myself but now here I am. Living alone."

"All right," Simon says, rubbing his face. "Here's our solution. If you find yourself alone and you don't want to be, you just drive your little self over to my house and get into bed with me." He reaches into his pocket and works a silver key off of his keyring.

"What are you doing?" she asks. He tosses the key to her and it lands silently on the duvet beside her.

"If I'm not home, you can let yourself in," he says. She picks up the key, holds it in her open hand. He smirks, watching her stare at it. "Better than flowers?"

"Yeah," she says.

"Are you going to be all right?" he asks.

"Yes," she says, closing her fingers around the key. "Can I pout for the rest of the day though?"

"I suppose," he says. "But I'm not going to hang around and watch you."

"Fair enough," she says. He kisses her cheek.

Alone in her bedroom, she lays on the bed and waits. She hears the door close and then Simon's engine start and fade away. The house is silent now save for faint ticking of the clock on her nightstand. She takes a deep breath and blows it out.

"This isn't so bad," she says out loud, but the words ring out into the silence and don't sound at all believable. She gets off the bed and walks into the bathroom. Simon's towel from his shower is in a wet heap on the floor and she picks it up and tosses it into the hamper. He does this to be picky – he likes a clean towel every time he showers and knows if he hangs it up like he should, she won't replace it with a fresh one.

Cleaning up after Simon is becoming second nature, now. Even when they weren't sleeping together, she would still trail him, picking up the things he left behind. His pack of cigarettes, his cell phone charger plugged into a wall and forgotten, his bright green lighter left carelessly on her kitchen counter. She picks the lighter up and flicks it a few times before the flame pops up steady and bright.

Paula is stepping into her red dress when Simon knocks on her dressing room door. She has three people helping her into the gown. She tries not to pause and think just how many people have seen her naked or in her under things in this room. She isn't zipped but she knows it's Simon, so she holds the dress to her chest and calls for him to come in.

"Not a good time?" he asks, looking around curiously.

"Define 'good time,'" she requests but then thinks better of it and just shakes her head at him before he can make a snide comment. "What's up?"

"I have an invitation for you," Simon says. "Terri filled it out, but it's from me."

She reaches for it, but Kylie chooses that moment to zip her up and she can't quite grab it. Simon tosses it onto the sofa.

"Thanks," Paula says, glaring at Kylie who avoids meeting Paula's eye.

"See you on set," Simon says and heads down the hall.

It isn't until the show is over and she's about to head out to dinner that she spots the white envelope. It has slipped between the plush cushions and she pulls it out, setting her purse down. Everyone is waiting for her – she'd just ran back to the dressing room to fetch her glasses, but they can wait a few minutes longer. She slides the glasses onto her face and inspects the envelope. Her name is written on the front in Terri's bubbly, round penmanship. She opens the flap and pulls the square piece of cardstock out. It's for a party, a housewarming party for the new house.

It feels strange – Paula has a key to the house in her handbag, but it's Terri who is throwing the party with Simon. Paula knows how Simon is – whatever happens at the party, it's going to put their little dinner party to shame. She tucks the invitation back into its envelope and drops it into her purse. She has people waiting for her, after all.

Simon doesn't mention it again until the next night. They're on air and Ryan is on stage, dragging things out. Simon leans in.

"Well, are you coming?" he asks.

"Hmm?"

"To the housewarming party!" he says. "You've not RSVP'd yet."

"Haven't checked my schedule," she admits. He scoffs and rolls his eyes, slightly offended. "I should get all my things out of your room, though." Simon doesn't get the chance to respond as the show moves on. At the commercial break, he practically drags her backstage.

"Why would you take anything out?" he demands, picking up their previous conversation.

"How many people will be there?" How many people will want tours?" she asks.

"Just because they'll poke their head into our room doesn't mean they're going to go through drawers and cupboards," he says.

"I always snoop," she admits. "Someone will look at it won't take a rocket scientist to figure out who the closet full of petite clothes belongs to."

"Do you care if people know?" he asks.

"Do you?"

"I asked you first," he says.

"No," she says, feeling like challenging him a bit. "I don't mind."

"Fine," he says. "So I'll ask again, are you coming?"

"15 seconds!" calls Debbie over the P.A. system. Paula's eyes widen and they both turn and rush back to their seats.

Simon sends Ryan after her, next. The host also grills her about the party and invites her to ride along with him and Randy. She thanks him but doesn't commit.

Later that night, as she's getting ready for bed, her phone rings and the caller ID identifies the number as oversees and belonging to Julie Cowell.

It's just a party, Paula thinks to herself, so why is Simon sending his mother after her?

"Hello?" Paula answers.

"Is this Paula? Paula Abdul?"

"This is she," Paula answers, cradling the phone between her ear and her shoulder. She recognizes Simon's mother's voice.

"This is Mrs. Cowell," Julie says. "Do you have a moment to speak with me?"

"Of course!" Paula says. "How are you doing Mrs. Cowell?"

"I'm doing just fine," Julie says. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"Mrs. Cowell," Paula says, trying not to laugh to herself. "I know Simon told you that he and I have been seeing each other."

"Oh."

"So if you want to ask me about that, you can just go ahead," she says.

"Well," Julie says. "It isn't so much that I want to ask you questions, I just wanted to welcome you into the fold so to speak."

"Oh," Paula says. "Thank you."

"I know my son," Julie continues. "He keeps ex-girlfriends like charms on a bracelet but I want to assure you that he's dedicated and loyal."

"Terri and I are friends," Paula says, uneasily.

"I love Terri," Julie says. "But you, my dear, are a good match for Simon. I like that you don't let him walk all over you."

"I do my best," she says. "Are you coming to the states any time soon? For Simon's housewarming party?"

"I'm afraid not," Julie says. "But I do hope you'll come out this summer with Simon. Come for a few weeks at least so we can really get to know one another."

"I'd like that," Paula says. "Thank you."

When the conversation is over, Paula sits on the bed in her nightgown and stares at the phone. She doesn't know what to think about his mother calling her up out of the blue. Hesitantly, she dials Simon.

"You still up?" he answers.

"Your mom just called me," Paula says.

"My mum?" he asks. "Why?"

"Did you tell her to call me?" Paula asks.

"No," Simon says. "What'd she say?"

"That she wants me to come to London with you this summer," Paula says. "To ignore the harem of ex-girlfriends you have around you at any given time."

"Your words."

"Maybe," Paula concedes.

"Actually, I was going to fly her out for mother's day," Simon says. "As a surprise."

"That's sweet," Paula says. "Maybe we could have dinner. You and your mom, me and mine."

"Sure," Simon says.

When they hang up, she goes to the office and pulls up her calendar on the computer. There isn't a lot of wiggle room. There's Idol, studio time, dance rehearsals, the launch of the new single, meeting after meeting and the hours of the day that aren't already filled are mostly reserved for sleeping. But there is one square that isn't filled with text. It's May 10th, and there's only one word. Mom.

Now she adds Simon and his mother's name to the square.

She doesn't know Julie Cowell very well but she'd like to. Mothers and mothers-in-law were tricky animals. Paula and Janet, Emilio's mom, had gotten along famously. They'd been thick as thieves and the divorce had been much harder on Janet than anyone. As for Brad's mother, well, Paula still referred to her as 'She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.'

She shut down the computer and went back to bed feeling only slightly nervous.

Slow News Day (Part Fifteen)

2009-04-25T01:32:39Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Fifteen)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

The thing about Paula is, she is not abstract. She is what she is – she wears her beating, raw heart right out there on her sleeve for the world to see. She's a terrible liar, which is why, Simon thinks, she is a terrible actress. No matter what face she tries to put on, that delightful quality that makes her Paula shines brightly through and the audience, whomever it might be, simply cannot buy her as this other, duller person. Paula says what she thinks, often blurts out phrases and words that make sense only if you know her well. Simon speaks the language of Paula and he can see when her passion threatens to overwhelm her, when her feelings fight to escape and because of this, the words get mixed up and knotted and all she can do is press her hands to her heart and try to hold it all in.

Simon worries that this simplicity will bore him after a time. When her beauty fades and the newness of this relationship dulls, will he tire of her? Will Paula, a simple girl from the valley with an extraordinary gift, be enough?

Paula does have something that most people lack. She has a great sense of timing. She knows exactly when to rush forward and just when to pull back. She knows what's going to be popular a half step before it explodes onto the scene. She has an amazing ear for music and a mind like a steel trap. He calls her a historian – he can ask her about almost anything and she can pull the information from her mind and hand it to him as if she searched a database. He'd be lost without her on the show. He has trouble paying attention, has trouble hearing over the roar of the crowd and when something whizzes by him, all he has to do is look at her and she's right there with him. She has his back.

He thinks about trying to be nicer to her. He can be cruel on air and she almost always takes it gracefully. No matter what biting remark he makes, when he needs something from her, she's right there, leaning into him so he can speak into her ear. He likes to whisper to her, likes to press his nose into her sweet smelling hair. He likes the way their knees bump under the table, the way her calf looks when her legs are crossed. The way she can march across a corrugated metal stage with spike heels and never miss a beat. He's seen her take off across a gravel covered parking lot at a dead run in five inch heels as if she were wearing trainers – as if she were floating on air.

But still, he worries. He knows himself, knows how quickly he grows weary of even the newest and shiniest toys. Sometimes, they spend nights apart. She likes to work late into the night, becoming more manic as the hours become smaller and he can't stand her when she gets like that. She becomes one of her high-strung dogs, jumpy and nervous and oh so far away. He sleeps better in the center of his soft mattress, without her cold feet pressed against his legs, without the sound of her deep and even breathing in the night. He doesn't wake up with brown hair in his face, doesn't wake up to the sound of her grinding coffee downstairs.

And yet, for all of this, when he wakes up alone, the first thing he thinks about doing is calling her.

"What are you doing?" he asks, pressing his phone to his ear, still in bed.

"Making breakfast," she says. They've completely discarded the notion of hello, good morning, how are you. Her voice is scratchy and it's hard to make the words out. She always has a thick morning voice but this is more. Her tone is lackluster – she sounds tired.

"You feel all right?" he asks, sitting up.

"Oh," she says, as if she's going to shrug it off, as if she's going to tell him not to worry, but she doesn't say anything at all.

"You should get some rest," he says.

"All right," she agrees. "But don't come over. I don't want to give it to you."

He's slightly disappointed. He's a grown man and has plenty to do but he does want to see her.

"Okay," he says. "If you need anything, though, text me."

"What would I need?" she asks. He's used to women depending on him, relying on him, but these offers of help mostly serve to confuse her. There's almost nothing Simon can get her that she cannot get for herself.

"Still," he says.

When she hangs up, he feels untethered for a moment. The bed now seems large and his day too open, too unplanned. He feels like he needs to look over at Paula so she can tell him where he is and what, exactly, is going on.

Simon holds an office in Beverley Hills. He could work from home, but he finds he's more productive if he leaves some of the comforts behind. It also saves him from having employees in his home, something he's dead set against and something Paula seems to find quaint and enjoyable. At his office, a pretty blonde girl called Jennifer works as the receptionist. She's been in the office less than a year but Simon likes her well enough. She's not hard to look at and is smart enough to run the office without Simon ever having to involve himself in management things.

"Good morning Mr. Cowell," Jennifer says, rising to meet him at the door with a cup of coffee.

"Morning," he sighs.

"You have three messages and Paula Abdul is waiting for you on line two," she says.

He glances at his cell phone. It's odd for her to call him at the office but his cell phone says nothing about missing any call from anyone.

"Okay," he says, and steps into his office. He sets the coffee down and picks up the phone.

"Simon Cowell," he says.

"I didn't meant that I don't want to see you," Paula says.

"What?"

"When I told you not to come over," she says. "I do want to see you, I just think that it's for the best if you don't."

"Why on Earth are you telling me this on this line?" he asks.

"I had Kylie call you while I was on the other line, and for some reason she called your office," Paula says.

"Please, please fire her," Simon says, not for the first time. "I hate her."

"So you aren't upset?" she presses.

"Mostly confused," he murmurs, flipping through his messages. "Baby, if you don't feel well, go to bed and I'll see you on Tuesday."

"Okay," she says. She sounds like she hesitates, like she wants to say something more but then decides against. "Bye."

Simon hangs up the phone.

"Women," he mutters. One of the messages is from Terri, asking about lunch. The problems he'd had with Terri have seemed to be solved by their breakup. She's a great friend and still very good company and he sees her often. She's happier dating other people and he's happier knowing every thought she has isn't based around whether or not he will marry her. He was never going to marry Terri, he'd told her that from the start.

"Jen?" Simon calls. "Will you call Terri and set us up a lunch?"

"Sure," Jennifer replies.

Another night alone is what Simon has to look forward to and it doesn't do, so he calls Ryan. They fight, they bicker like brothers, but Simon actually likes Ryan and Ryan's always up for something fun as long as it isn't too late.

"Drinking?" Simon says.

"Yes," Ryan agrees. "I'll meet you at your office when I'm done here."

When Ryan shows up, he's wearing what Simon suspects are the most expensive jeans on the planet and his aviator sunglasses in doors. Sometimes Ryan makes it so easy to insult him that Simon doesn't even bother.

"No Paula?" Ryan asks, looking around the room exaggeratedly. He even goes over to the sofa and lifts up one of the throw pillows, as if Paula could be hiding any old place.

"To go to the bar?" Simon asks.

"You two seem tight, is all." Maybe Ryan heard about the dinner party and feels hurt that he wasn't invited. Simon doesn't want to coddle him all night.

"It's Paula," Simon shrugs. "We're the same as we ever were."

"I can't believe you!" Ryan says. "You're seriously going to pretend that you're not nailing her right to my face?"

"Where did you hear that?" Simon asks.

"Oh come on," Ryan says, disgust marring his features. "Everybody knows."

It's true. They could've been better at hiding it – could've arrived and left in separate cars, could've spent nights apart, could've behaved on set – on air – but they hadn't. Simon is too old, too rich, and too famous to sneak around. Why should he care if people know?

"There you go, then," Simon says. "If everybody knows, why should I have to announce it?"

Ryan is considering his comeback when Simon ushers him out of the office and into the back of Ryan's car. When they go out just to drink, Simon rides along with Ryan because it's nice to have a driver.

"So what's it like?" Ryan asks once the car is underway.

"What?"

"Paula," Ryan says. "In bed."

"It's none of your business," Simon snaps. Ryan has been nursing a little crush on Paula for years. It's nothing serious, nothing Simon has to actively worry about. It's like a boy having a crush on his older sister's best friend but Simon doesn't want to fan the flame, no matter how small.

"Dude," Ryan complains.

"No," Simon says firmly. "This isn't some model or some girl I picked up at a club. It's Paula." He says this with a definite tone. "It's Paula."

"Wow," Ryan says. "You're serious. I thought you two were just hooking up, finally, but you're serious about her."

The whole discussion has made Simon kind of morose. Not only does he dislike discussing his personal life with anyone, but all this talk of Paula has made him miss her. When Ryan calls it an early night, Simon is glad for it. The driver takes Ryan home first and Ryan promises Simon that the car will take him anywhere he wants to go – back to his office to get his car or to his house to sleep it off. The driver idles for a few moments while Simon decides. Practically, getting his car would be wise but he probably shouldn't be driving and anyway, he doesn't feel like going home.

Simon makes a split decision and chooses to give the driver Paula's address.

He realizes too late, however, that he doesn't actually have a key to her house and the property is locked up safe for the night. He knows the gate code but when the gate closes and Ryan's car disappears down the dark street, he realizes he's foiled. All he can do is wake her so he rings the doorbell and starts knocking. It takes a few minutes but he hears the dogs begin to bark and then a light comes on. He hears the lock turn over in the door and then Jimmy answers it in a bathrobe looking grim.

"Simon?" he squints. "It's Simon!"

Paula appears now looking bed rumpled and worried. Jimmy, having done his duty, disappears back to his bedroom. Paula waves Simon in and closes the door.

"Simon, it's almost midnight," she says. "What are you doing here?"

"It's not that late," he complains.

"Why didn't you call?" she asks. "Are you drunk?"

"I missed you," Simon says, simply. Paula seems to relax slightly at this.

"Come on," she says. "You can stay but we're going to sleep."

Her voice sounds deep and thick and he feels a pang of guilt for waking her. He follows her to the bedroom and offers to shower the smell of cigarettes and alcohol off before slipping between her clean sheets. The shower is warm and steamy. She has a variety of body washes and even her bar of soap smells flowery. In bed, she rolls against him.

"You smell like me," she whispers into his bare, slightly damp shoulder.

"Good," he says. "Go to sleep."

"Okay," she yawns.

In the morning, he wakes up to the sound of Paula getting dressed. She's in a sports bra and tight black pants. She's pawing through a drawer of tops.

"Going running?" he asks.

"Dancing," she says. "Teaching the kids the routine for Wednesday night." She'd mentioned that, he's sure. She pulls on a blue t-shirt and fluffs her hair.

"Do you have time to drop me off at my office?" he asks. She glances at the clock.

"Better get up now," she says. "But wait, then how did you get here? Where's your car?"

"Ryan."

"Seacrest?"

"No, Ryan O'Neal," he deadpans.

"Simon!" she says. "The last thing we want is Ryan speculating about us on every media outlet available!"

"He won't," Simon says and he's almost sure it's true. "He respects you too much."

Paula scoffs.

"I'll be downstairs when you're ready," she says.

Simon decides to drive his car back to the Idol studio to check on Paula. He's slightly curious about the hours she' spending with the contestants. Plus, while he's seen her dance he's never seen her teach. He doesn't announce himself in the studio, merely slips in a side door. They've just begun to rehearse the routine on the main stage and Paula stands in front of the judge's table, her aides at her side, watching the Idols move through the steps. The music is loud and no one turns to look at him when the door closes behind him.

On stage, Anoop misses a step.

"STOP," Paula calls and the music cuts out. "It's step left on beat 6, you aren't counting! Again, from the top! 5, 6, 7, 8!"

Paula seldom raises her voice to anyone besides himself, and so watching her berate the obviously exhausted kids like a drill sergeant is fascinating. He watches for a few minutes, leaning against a concrete wall. He's about to walk up to her when she calls a dinner break.

"All right guys, I know it isn't on your schedule but I want you back here in three hours. We're going to do it until we get it right," Paula says. The kids all groan and start to file backstage. Adam hesitates and waits until the others have gone before walking up to Paula and saying something to her. Simon can't make out what it is, but Paula puts her hand on his sweaty cheek and smiles. Adam leans down and they touch foreheads briefly before he jogs to catch up with the rest of the contestants. Simon has seen Paula get close to contestants before, but there's something about this one that has captured her in a whole new way. This is the first season in a few years that she's allowed herself to get this close to a single contestant. The whole Corey Coles controversy had seriously broken her heart.

Simon watches Paula turn and start talking to a couple of people sitting in the front row. It takes him a few seconds to realize it's her pet DJs. Simon has no desire to speak to them so he decides to leave. It ruffles his ire slightly that she got on his case about talking to Ryan, yet she spends all this time with these two DJs who then give a play by play of their time with Paula on the radio. At least Ryan is trustworthy.

In his car, he thinks about their relationship. No matter how beautiful and ethereal he finds Paula to be now, time passing has a tendency to make even the truest love seem plain. It is this that frightens him – that makes himself always hold a little bit back. One morning he will wake up, roll over, and be bored with what he finds.

He calls his mother as he sits in the afternoon traffic. It's late in London, but his mother never minds the hour when Simon is on the line.

"Hello darling boy," she greets.

"Hi mum," he says. They talk about nothing for a couple minutes – the unseasonably warm weather in L.A., the constant rain in London. Finally, his mother grows impatient.

"What's on your mind, son?" she asks. He hates to lie, and almost never lies to his mother. He figures if he's going to tell her, he may as well do it now.

"I've been seeing Paula," Simon says. "Socially."

"Ah," his mother says. "I owe your brother Nicky five quid."

He laughs; he'll have to tell Paula.

"Does she make you happy?" his mother asks. "Are you happy?"

"She makes me happy now," he says. "But what about in a year? What about in five years? Half the time I can hardly stand her."

"That isn't true," his mother scolds. "I've seen you with her. You look at her like she's the sun and everything else just revolves around her."

"But it won't always be that way," Simon argues.

"It's been that way for eight years," his mother says. "And besides, why do you want to live your life waiting around for things to fall apart?"

"That's not what I'm doing," he says, but isn't it? Even though things feel fine now, all he can think about is the time when they won't be.

"Are you going to bring her home with you?" Julie asks, deciding not to call her son out on his lie.

"Hadn't though," says Simon.

"I'd like to talk to her."

"You've met her, Mum."

"But not as your girlfriend," she points out.

"Well," Simon says. "I wouldn't exactly call her that."

Julie makes a disapproving noise.

"It's late for you," Simon says, deciding he doesn't want to get into it now with his mother after all. "I'll call you in a couple days."

"All right, my love," she says. He hangs up and is made to sit in traffic with no distraction. Does he really live his life waiting for the worst or has his life conditioned him to be this way? He's filthy rich, he's on the number one program in the country, and he's involved with a beautiful and successful woman. Where else is there to go but down?

When the exit for the new house comes up, he takes it because he can't stand the stop and go traffic for any longer. He pulls up to the house and can see Terri's car parked on the driveway. He goes around looking for her, but she's not in the common areas and she's not in her suite.

He's walking by the back door when he spots her lying out by the pool in a minuscule navy bikini. He opens the door and walks out.

"Hello, beautiful," he calls. She looks over at him and lifts her sunglasses.

"Simon!" she says. "I wasn't expecting you."

"And yet, here I am," he says, sitting next to her and placing his hand on her flat, tan stomach.

"Naughty boy," she says. "You belong to another. You shouldn't be ogling me."

"Just looking," he says, pulling his hand back.

"It's been such lovely weather, I had to take advantage of it," she says. "Where is Miss Paula?"

"She's with those wannabe Seacrests from Phoenix," he groans. Terri chuckles.

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy?"

"No," Simon snaps. "I just don't understand why she befriends every stray pup that wags its tail at her."

"It's called being nice," Terri says. "You ought to try it sometime."

"I'm nice!"

"No," she says. "You aren't even nice to her. It's a wonder she likes you at all."

"Do you really believe that?" he asks. Her silence is all the answer he needs. He's been worrying so much about wanting to leave her that he hadn't considered that she might grow tired of him first.

"Luckily, she seems to adore you no matter what you do which is puzzling."

"Says the woman who shared my bed for six years."

"Well," Terri says replacing her sunglasses. "I'm not exactly Paula Abdul, am I?"

"Oh stop," he says.

"Are you staying? I'll make dinner," she offers.

"Sure," he says. He feels like being pampered.

It's late when Paula calls him.

"Where are you?" he asks.

"Driving home from the set," she says.

"Now?" he exclaims.

"Now," she says. "Simon, can I come over? I want to see you tonight."

"Sure, darling," he says, immediately giving into her. "I'm at the new house."

"I'll see you in twenty minutes," she says. He rolls his eyes.

"I'll time you," he jokes.

"She's coming here?" Terri asks. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No," Simon says. "No need."

In Paula's defense, she makes it in twenty-two minutes, but Simon still chalks it up as a win for himself. He opens the door for her and she practically launches herself into his arms. She's obviously exhausted and he holds her for a moment, resting his chin on her head.

"Hello," he says after a little time has passed.

"Hi." Her voice is muffled, her face pressed into her chest.

"You're late," he says.

"Shut up," she says. That's muffled too, but he understands her perfectly well.

"So do you just want to stand here or would you like to come all the way inside?" he asks. She breaks the hug and looks at him.

"Kiss me," she says. He obliges, leaning down and pressing his mouth to hers softly.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. "We have leftovers."

"We?" she asks.

"Terri cooked," he says. He watches her face carefully for signs of jealousy, but she instead perks up. Terri is a pretty good cook, much better than anything Simon could've made for himself.

"I could eat," she says. She abandons him in the front hall to go into the kitchen where Terri is. Simon hears them greet one another and then easily fall into gossipy banter as women do.

How many times in the past had Terri walked in on such a moment with him and Paula? Terri would always tense slightly and force a smile onto her face but with Paula, there is no forcing the niceties. Terri's right – she actually is nice.

Simon goes into the kitchen to find Terri handing Paula a plate from the microwave.

"Enjoy," Terri says.

"Thank you," Paula says gratefully, picking up her fork.

"I'm headed to bed you two," Terri says.

"Night," Simon says. He waits for Terri to go before he sits across from Paula and watches her eat. She's shoveling the food down at an impressive rate – it's probably the first thing she's eaten in hours and he knows on days she dances a lot, she gets ravenous.

"You're freaking me out just watching me," she says, finally.

"You know what I've been thinking about all day?" he says. She pauses and decides to set the fork down and give him her full attention.

"What?" she says.

"You," he says. "And me. And the point where this all inevitably falls apart."

She stares at him, her mouth open slightly, surprised.

"Are we breaking up already?" she asks.

"Let me finish!"

"Fine!"

"I just... Paula, I've been worrying for no reason, I think. Worrying about things falling apart, but you know what?"

"What?" she asks.

"You're a spectacular girlfriend," he says. "You aren't clingy or needy, you're not that crazy, you aren't jealous, you're just... honest with me. You're really great."

She doesn't say anything and the silence starts to stretch out too long and make him uncomfortable.

"Paula?"

"Sorry, I was just waiting for the moment where I wake up," she says.

"I'm being serious!" he says.

"I know you are," she says. "You think I don't worry about you waking up and realizing how old and boring I am?"

"Do you?" he asks.

"All the time!" she says. "I know you, Simon. I know how you are. We're on borrowed time here, and that's fine. When we started this, I told myself I would enjoy it for what it was."

"But that's what I'm trying to tell you," he says, getting frustrated. "I'm beginning to suspect that we aren't on borrowed time, to use your phrasing. Or, rather, we don't have to be."

"Are you trying to tell me that I'm the one?" she asks, smirking slightly.

"I'm trying to tell you that you aren't not the one," he says.

"Romance Simon Cowell style, everybody," she says.

"Here I am trying to be nice and all you can do is sass me," he says. "Never again."

"Oh, come on," she says, standing up and carrying her plate to the sink. "As far as romantic declarations go, you have to agree that what you just said was on par with 'I don't hate you'" which I already knew."

"Ouch."

"I'm just saying, if you want to tell me that you love me then tell me that you love me, but telling me I'm not not the one is sad, even for you," she says.

"I've told you that I love you!" he says, his voice raising. When did this turn into an argument? When did he lose control of this conversation?

"Simey loves you," she sighs. "Right."

"Do you love me?" he asks.

"Of course I love you!" she says, throwing her arms up in the air. "I couldn't stand you if I didn't!"

"Right back at you!" he shouts.

"Fine!" she says.

"Fine!" he agrees. They stand in the kitchen at stare at each other for a moment.

"Wait," she says. "What just happened?"

"I think you admitted that you were in love with me," he says.

"And you said you were in love with me too," she says.

"Right," he says.

"So, should we kiss now?" she asks, furrowing her brow.

"I guess we'd better," he says. He pulls her close and kisses her, softly at first and then more deeply. Her arms slide around his neck. When he pulls back, he looks at her. "Also, I told my mother about us."

"All right," she says, stepping back. "This day needs to be over now. I'm going upstairs to take a bath and go to sleep. Since it's your house, you can feel free to join me." She walks out of the kitchen.

He remains in the kitchen, still feeling a little bamboozled. He will go up to bed with her but first he's going to fix himself a stiff drink. Paula is right about one thing at least – this day needs to be over.

Slow News Day (Part Fourteen)

2009-04-19T22:17:08Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Fourteen)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

The morning of the dinner party, Paula's mother comes over with bags and bags of groceries. Paula had offered to accompany her mother on the shopping trip, but Lorraine had brushed the idea aside.

"I don't want my picture taken," Lorraine had said with a note of finality in her voice.

Paula doesn't let her mother carry in any of the groceries from the back of her car.

"We'll do it," Paula says. Her mother is in her seventies and though in very good health, she doesn't need to be lifting heavy bags in the sun. Paula walks to the foot of the stairs. "Hey!" she calls up. "Come help please!"

Lorraine expects the light footfalls of several young assistants, but Paula has sent her staff home for the day. The only people here, besides her housekeeper who is cleaning still, are herself and her mother – and, of course, Simon. Lorraine raises an eyebrow when Simon appears but says nothing.

"Hello," Simon greets, smiling. "You look lovely."

"Thank you," Lorraine says, allowing Simon to kiss her cheek. They make short work of carrying in the food and Simon disappears upstairs without helping to put it away.

"He's using the office to get some work done," Paula explains even thought her mother doesn't ask. Soon, Wendy will arrive and fill the kitchen with chatter. It's not that Paula can't talk with her mother; it's just that her mother always makes her feel like she's hiding something. Simon had offered to go home but Paula had asked him to stay.

"It's not like she doesn't know," Paula had reasoned.

"You told your mother?" he'd asked, surprised.

"No," Paula had said. "But that doesn't mean anything."

Lorraine starts by pulling the skin off the chicken breasts and thighs. Paula is put to work making the marinade. It isn't hard, mostly it involves opening bottles and dumping them into a large bowl. Before she starts, she turns on the radio. It's the tail end of Ryan's show, and maybe it's sick but the sound of his voice droning in the background has become comfortable and familiar. Her phone buzzes and she presses a button to read the text from Simon upstairs.

I can hear that from up here – please, anything else.

She rolls her eyes and switches the radio to another station. Soon, she hears the buzzer by the front door. Wendy is here and so Paula jogs out to open the gate for her and waits on the driveway for her sister to pull in.

"I see Mom is here already," Wendy says, locking her car.

"I see you are late on purpose to torture me," Paula says.

"Drama queen," Wendy scolds. "It's never as bad as you make it out to be."

"Just go in and talk to her," she says.

"Mom?" Wendy calls walking into the house.

"In the kitchen, sweetness," Lorraine calls back and Paula rolls her eyes.

"Mommy's pet," she murmurs and Wendy elbows her hard in the side.

"Grow up, you baby," Wendy says.

"Girls, girls," Lorraine says. "Stop fighting."

"PAULA!"

Simon's voice from upstairs makes them all jump.

"He's here?" Wendy squeaks.

"Yeah," Paula says, rushing out. She doesn't see the look her mother and sister exchange. At the foot of the stairs, she calls up to him. "What?"

"Will you come up here?" he calls, sounding slightly whiny. She hurries up the steps and stops in the office door.

"What's up, babe?" she says.

"The Internet stopped working," he says. "I don't know how to work these bloody machines."

"I just need to reset the network," she says. "The router is in the closet, I think."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" he asks.

"I'll fix it," she promises. "You should go down and say hi to Wendy."

"You want me to go down into that pit of Abdul women?" he asks. "I'm completely outnumbered, I feel like I should be carrying a weapon just in case."

"You're so dramatic," she complains, her voice muffled from the closet. "Will you just simmer down?"

"Isn't your sister still mad about being nice to me when I didn't deserve it?" he asks.

"Mad at me, not you," Paula says. "And she's fine."

"I'll come down in a bit," he says. She doesn't press him, just leaves him to his work. If she wants him to be charming and social at the party tonight, she needs to let him have his space during the day.

She is happy to have her mother and her sister's help, even though the two of them make her feel like a third wheel. Paula knows that when she and Wendy spend time with their dad, Wendy feels the same way. Wendy and Lorraine are much better in a kitchen than Paula will ever be and so she lets them run the show and spends her time on the table setting. When the flowers arrive just before lunch, Simon still hasn't come downstairs.

Paula has ordered five-dozen roses to place casually around the house for the party. Paula loves flowers and they make her house look more like a home.

"I don't know if you got enough," Simon says, coming up behind her. Her slips his arms around her waist and kisses her cheek.

"I know," she says, fluffing the arrangement that she has placed on the coffee table in the living room. "I was thinking of splitting one into two vases so I can have flowers in the kitchen."

"Do you not understand sarcasm?" he asks. She thinks about tossing out a witty comeback but instead she turns to the kitchen.

"Wendy! Come say hi to Simon!" she calls.

"Touché," he says. "Well played."

Wendy comes in drying her hands on a beige dishtowel.

"Mr. Cowell," Wendy says, her face neutral.

"Oh come off it," Simon says, and pulls Wendy to him, crushing her in an uncharacteristic bear hug. "You're practically family now."

Hearing him say this makes something inside Paula feel light and lovely. Wendy hugs him back only slightly reluctantly and when he lets her go he kisses her cheek first. "Thanks for helping us out today."

"You're welcome," Wendy says, clearly surprised. She looks at Paula who just shrugs. This is the Simon Paula knows, but he rarely shows this side of himself to anyone else. "Lunch is almost ready, you two."

They eat out on the patio by the pool so they don't get the dining room table messy. Lorraine has made a big pitcher of sweet tea and Paula doesn't usually indulge in that much sugar, but party days are always an exception. It feels a little bit like a holiday, spending the entire day with her family at home, waiting for a celebration to begin. Upstairs, the windows are open and they can hear Paula's housekeeper humming as she mops the hardwood floors.

"It's a beautiful day," her mother says, leaning back in her chair.

"Good," Paula says. "Since we're having 15 instead of 10, we'll need the patio open."

"Regretting inviting Kara?" Simon asks.

"You invited Terri," she shoots back.

"Now, now," Wendy says. "Play nice, boys and girls." Lorraine and Paula both rise and carry the lunch dishes into the house. Simon pulls out a cigarette and starts to smoke it. Wendy doesn't mind the smell – her late husband had been a smoker and it's a little nostalgic sitting there and watching the smoke dissipate into the blue sky.

"May I ask you something?" Simon says, looking at her.

"Why not?" Wendy says.

"I'd like to know more about Brad," he says. "Your sister is surprisingly tight lipped on the subject."

"Ah," Wendy says. "You know, if she doesn't want to talk about that it's not my place to fill you in."

"That's probably true," Simon says. "But tell me anyway."

"What do you know already?" Wendy asks, picking up her tea glass.

"Not much," Simon admits. "They were married for not very long and she was still sore about the subject when we started working together."

"I had little boys at the time and Paula was so sick..." Wendy says. "You might ask Kara about it. She was with Paula through the really rough time."

"Speaking with Kara is rather a last resort," Simon murmurs. Asking Kara would be giving her the upper hand and Simon doesn't want to do that just yet. "What went wrong, though? Why did it end?"

"Oh, the usual things. It was all a whirlwind and they decided to marry so fast after meeting. I warned her, I begged her not to do it but she was in love. But that new feeling wears off and then you're living with someone you hardly know."

"I suppose," he says, dropping the cigarette and grinding it out with the heel of his shoe.

"After her first marriage, my sister promised herself that she wouldn't make that same mistake again and then she did. I'm not surprised she doesn't want to talk about it," Wendy says.

"We may have problems, Paula and I, but not knowing each other well enough is not one of them," Simon says and Wendy laughs.

"True," she says.

"You never remarried either," Simon points out. "What's that about?"

"Oh," Wendy says, getting a far away look in her eyes. "I had the love of my life already and... nothing really compares to that."

"I meant what I said earlier," Simon says. "About being family. You and I may not be the best of friends but if you ever need anything, you just call, all right?"

"All right," she says. "And Simon?"

"What?"

"If you hurt my sister, I'm going to buy a gun and shoot you in the face," Wendy says, her face serious. He searches her expression carefully but finds no trace of humor.

"Noted," he says.

Paula opens the back door and lets the dogs run out into the sunshine.

"Break time is over," she says, looking at them. "Get back to work."

Paula and Wendy take over the master bedroom an hour before the party starts to get ready. When Simon comes in to get his suit from the closet, he finds Paula and Wendy both in their slips sitting in front of the vanity. Paula is doing Wendy's make-up.

"Hello, hello," Simon says, looking them over. "Two Abduls are better than one, it seems."

"Pig," Paula says. "Get out, we aren't ready." Paula's hair is still up in hot rollers and she's only halfway through putting on her sister's face.

"Fine," Simon says. "Jimmy's here. I never thought I'd be happy about that, but I'll take all the testosterone I can get at this point."

"Good," Wendy says. "You can go talk about cars and testicles and leave us in peace."

Simon snickers. "Oh yeah, Jimmy and I are going to have a long, meaning conversation about balls now."

"Simon, get out!" Paula reiterates. He grabs his suit and heads for the door but pauses.

"What are you wearing?" he asks. She sighs impatiently but answers.

"The yellow dress," she says.

"The strapless one?" he asks.

"Yes," she says. He grins and walks out.

"What was that about?" Wendy asks.

"I was either going to wear that one or the blue one, you know with the halter top? He's just happy I went with the one he wanted."

"How domestic," Wendy says.

"Be nice or I'm going to make you look like a ho," Paula warns.

Wendy is zipping up the back of Paula's dress when the doorbell rings with the first guest. Paula has put Simon in charge of answering the door and a few minutes later, there's a light knock. Kara pokes her head in.

"Hey Sassy!" Paula greets.

"I was told the women were up here," she says. Kara is dressed in a black dress – she doesn't do a lot of color.

"You look nice," Paula says.

"Thanks," Kara says. "I saw your mom downstairs."

"I'm actually gonna go help her," Wendy says. "See you down there."

Alone, Paula grins at Kara.

"Thanks for coming."

"Hey, Mike was actually kind of excited to come. He's still in the star struck honeymoon phase," she says.

"I hope he's not disappointed when I'm the most famous person here," she jokes.

"Well, besides Simon," Kara says. Paula stares at her with her mouth hanging open. "I mean," she backpedals quickly. "You two are pretty much equal."

"Nice," Paula says. "Very smooth."

"I have the worst foot in mouth happening lately," Kara says, shaking her head. "What is my problem?"

"I do not know," Paula says. They head downstairs. The house is beginning to fill up with guests and when Paula doesn't immediately see Simon, Kara points to the backyard. Simon is out there, cigarette hanging from his mouth, with Terri. The backyard looks lovely – the pool lights are on and there are lit candles everywhere giving the dark space an intimate glow. But the glow surrounding Simon and Terri doesn't make Paula feel very good. She goes out, walking carefully on her tall heels over the threshold of the sliding glass door and forces a smile onto her face.

"Welcome," she says. She has to remind herself that Terri is her friend and the recent events shouldn't do anything to change that. Terri has never been anything but kind to Paula. She has to stamp the jealousy down.

"Thanks, the place looks beautiful," Terri says. "And it smells amazing."

"I had nothing to do with that," Paula says. "I basically forced my 77-year-old mother to slave in a hot kitchen all day." She stands equally between Terri and Simon, but Simon steps closer and puts his hand solidly on the small of her back. Paula makes sure she doesn't react to the gesture and Terri pretends not to notice it either but Paula appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

"I'm sure it will taste fantastic," Terri says.

"Do you want something to drink? Wine?" Paula says. They've set up the drinks outside – there's soda, beer, wine, bottled water, and Simon had bought some harder alcohol promising to be in charge of mixing drinks should anyone want anything.

"Sure," Terri says. Paula opens a bottle of Chardonnay that's been sitting on ice and pours Terri a glass. Simon sees someone he knows come through the front door and excuses himself to go inside and greet them. "Paula," Terri says. "It's all right."

"Hmm?" Paula says, feigning like she has no idea what Terri means.

"You seem nervous," she says. "You shouldn't be. I love Simon, but had I stayed with him, I would've been miserable. I want him to be happy! I want that for you too."

"I..." Paula says, cursing herself for being so transparent. "Thanks."

"I was jealous of you, once," Terri admits. "But I haven't felt that for years, and now, when I should feel it, I'm just sort of relieved you've taken him off my hands!"

Paula grins and Terri smiles back.

At dinner, Paula and Simon sit on either end of the long table. Everyone seems to be getting along and enjoying themselves. No one is sitting quietly; everyone is engaged in conversation. Simon catches her eye across the table and winks at her. They hold the gaze and this is why Paula has put up with Simon for so many years. Because for all the heartache he has caused her, he is the only man she can have an entire conversation with across a noisy, crowded room without using words.

Sudden, loud laughter rips her attention away and she looks over at Kara. She's telling the Kevin Spacey story.

"Tell them what happened after that, Paula," Kara says and all the heads swivel to look at her.

"Well, he was so drunk he got sick all over my living room rug," Paula says. "And then tried to cover the mess up by pouring red wine on top of it."

"No," someone gasps.

"Oh yeah," Paula says. "Not only did it ruin the rug but it stained the wooden floor beneath it. When I sold that house, I got an extra three thousand dollars when I told the buyer how the stain got there."

The room erupts in laughter again and she smiles coyly from behind her water goblet. She'd been stressed out about this party, but she's having fun and is ready to admit that it was a good idea on Simon's part. It's ended up being a good mix of people. Paula's family is used to her celebrity and no longer gets star struck no matter who comes through the door. Lorraine has worked in Hollywood before and even her own daughter hitting it big never really seemed to phase her. Simon's friends are all like Simon, cynical and dry and keep the room alive with laughter and her friends are all good listeners, nodding and grinning when appropriate.

"Who wants dessert?" Paula asks, standing up. Wendy starts to stand to help her but Simon puts a hand on Wendy's shoulder and presses her back into her seat.

"I'll help," he says. The room lets out a collective gasp of disbelief. It's a good-natured gasp, but genuine. "What? Come on, come on, I help!"

"He helps," Paula assures their guests. In the kitchen, Paula pulls the cheesecake out of the refrigerator and Simon grabs a stack of small plates. She's deciding whether she wants to plate it now or serve it at the table when Simon takes the cake from her hands, sets it on the counter, and kisses her.

"Simon," she protests. Though their relationship seems to be implied and understood, they have not announced it to any of their guests. Some, like Kara and Jimmy, already know. Some, she has felt them watching her all night, waiting for more evidence. The guests are not far away and some of them could crane their necks from their seats and peer right into the kitchen.

"What?" he says, challenging her, trying to figure out if she really wants him to stop. She does and she doesn't. He slides his hand down her back and lets it rest on her butt.

"You're a little toasted," she says.

"Little bit," he confirms. "Sober enough to fuck you later."

"Ah, but not sober enough not to say that," she says, stepping around him. She picks up the cake and a knife. "Get the plates and some clean forks, please," she says before heading back into the dining room.

By 11:30, everyone has gone home. Her mother had tried to stay and help clean, but Paula had refused to allow it and now she's glad for the quiet. Simon tries to convincer just to come to bed and leave the mess for morning, for someone else to clean up, but she doesn't want food drying to her good china all night so she bats his wandering hands away.

"Hey, focus up," she says to him. Simon is the kind of person who grew up poor and now never wants to take care of him self. Paula grew up poor too, but remembers how to do things for her self. "If you help carry in the dishes from the table, it will go faster."

At least Simon is amiable when drunk and takes her orders easily and without complaint. She fills the sink with water and puts the dishes that can't be loaded in the dishwasher to soak. She puts away the food and he watches her lazily from the corner of the kitchen. He isn't going to help, so him staying quiet and out of the way is the best she can hope for but his patience soon runs out.

"Paula," he whines. "Can we go to bed?"

"Go on up," she says. "I'll be there in a minute."

"Promise?" he says.

"Take the dogs," she says. He looks like he wants to argue but instead, he whistles and heads for the stairs. She can hear the dogs rouse from the living room couch, jump down, and scamper across the tile to Simon. Her dogs love him – her dogs have loved him for longer than she has. Especially Thumbelina. When Simon comes over, the little dog's joy cannot be contained.

Paula is wiping down the counters when Simon comes back into the kitchen and picks her up.

"What the hell?" she yelps, but he puts her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and holds her tightly that she can't squirm free.

"I'm an impatient man," he says. "Don't pretend to be surprised." In the bedroom, after a somewhat dicey trip up the stairs, he lets her down to her feet and she lands on her heels with a jolt. She puts her hands on her hips and gives him a look.

"You're nuts," she says.

"For you," he says. "Nuts for you."

She knows what he's doing, knows that he's trying to charm her to get his way but he is charming and she allows it. Allows him to pull the zipper down her dress and toss the garment aside. Allows his request of leaving her shoes on, allows him to fall asleep after in the middle of the mattress.

She puts on her robe and goes downstairs to lock the front door and turn off all the lights. She blows out the candles outside that haven't already gone out by themselves. This day has been an oasis in the midst of a busy month and later, while she's filming the show or working late into the night in the studio, she will think about this moment. Standing out on the back patio in her robe and bare feet, watching the smoke from the snuffed candle curl up and into the stars.

Slow News Day (Part Thirteen)

2009-04-14T04:30:34Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Thirteen)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

Simon stands in Paula's closet with a small bag slung over his shoulder. She shouldn't laugh at his expression, but he looks so completely overwhelmed and that doesn't often happen to Simon.

"This is..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. Perhaps there aren't words.

"I know," she says. "It's a little over the top."

"A little?"

"I won't show you the overflow closet," she says.

"Please never do," he agrees holding the bag more tightly, as if her things might over take his if he isn't vigilant.

"Look, I want you to keep some stuff here. It's stupid that you always have to leave early to change your clothes. Not that anyone notices, but still. I cleared a drawer for you."

"That's like saying you took one book off the shelf at the British Library," he says. "And I'm supposed to fit all of Shakespeare in the space left over."

"Don't be a shit," she says, pulling open the empty drawer. "Take it or leave it."

"Take it," he says, still staring at her wall of shoes. "I mean, if you combined every pair of shoes I've had in my life it wouldn't even come close to this!"

"Give me that," she says, getting impatient. He hands it over absently and then picks up a dark blue stiletto.

"These are hot."

"How have you never been in my closet?" she asks, unzipping the bag. "Black sweater. How inspiring."

Simon ignores her jibe.

"Closets for women are like... I don't know; it's like a religious experience for you all. Best not to get involved."

"That's actually true," she says.

"What was in that drawer before?" he asks, looking into it. It's not even half-filled; he hasn't brought much.

"Scarves, I think," she says.

"She thinks..." he mutters. "Well, now your overflow closet can be at my house."

"You're sweet when you nest," she says, kissing his cheek.

"I'm not nesting," he complains. "I'm just being practical about our sex conditions."

"That was possibly the least romantic thing you could have said," she says, wrinkling her nose. Every time she thinks he's making an attempt to grow closer, he back-pedals with some snide comment.

"Possibly," he agrees, stepping out of the large closet and back into the bedroom. They're supposed to talk about the party in the hours before Idol. Paula keeps trying to get him to help her and he keeps trying to tell her that he doesn't care about the details. At the kitchen table, she shows him the tentative menu.

"Whatever you want, darling," he says, typing something into his phone.

"Simon!" she says, frustrated. "The only reason I agreed to this was because I thought we were going to do it together!"

"And I thought I made it pretty clear that you were to do all the work."

"I know you have an opinion," she says. "And if you don't start sharing, I'm going to intentionally make all the things that you hate."

"You wouldn't," he says.

"Lamb chops, lima beans, whole wheat rolls, and maybe some key lime pie for dessert?"

"You are a horrible woman," he says. "Fine, let me see that menu."

She smirks.

In the car, Simon smokes out his window while Paula talks on the phone. Both are annoying each other. Paula can feel Simon getting tired with Idol, getting tired of the whole idea of judging. He does it too much and she warned him, when he started his other shows, that he was going to burn himself out. Now, whenever show time looms near he gets moody.

Simon pulls into the parking garage and slides his car into his reserved spot, well away from the general public. It's a short walk to the studio, but one spent in silence. She doesn't know what to say to him in these times, when he's fussy and inconsolable so she says nothing, but that doesn't seem to help either. At the gate, they show their identification badges and sign the log to step onto the lot. Here, they go their separate ways. Paula turns to say goodbye, or that she'll see him later – some acknowledgment but Simon just turns and walks away in the direction of his trailer. Juan, the security guard at the gate notices her crestfallen expression and gives her a sympathetic look.

"You know Simon," Paula says, clipping her ID badge back onto her shirt, trying to play it off like Simon's behavior didn't sting.

"Yes, Ma'am," Juan says. "Have a good show."

"Thanks," she says and walks away.

But she refuses to let Simon dampen her spirits so she shakes it off. In her dressing room, Daniel does her makeup and then helps her into her dress. She loves the dress, but it's tight and the boning that gives it that form-fitting look will make it impossible to move very much. She's grateful she doesn't have to walk across the stage in it.

Daniel has trouble getting it zipped in the back.

"God, you're fat," he says and she rolls her eyes.

"What a wonderful thing to say to someone with an eating disorder," she scolds. She knows he's joking – she's not fat and he's always commenting on how small she is, but still.

"Well, either way, you're going to have to suck it in or lose some ribs."

"Shit," she says. "Okay. Here's what we're going to do." He follows her into the bathroom where she takes a firm hold of the towel rack to steady her. "On three."

Daniel counts and on the third count, Paula breathes in and holds on tight while Daniel forces the zipper closed.

"Got it," he says, letting go. She exhales experimentally – it pinches, but the zipper holds.

"That was an adventure," she says, twisting around a little.

"You look hot," he promises. "And getting out of it will be much easier."

"You'll help me?" she asks.

"Somehow, I don't think you'll need my help," he says, winking. She rolls her eyes.

"I don't know, he's being an ass," she says.

"That's what you love about him," he says. "Right?"

Paula shrugs. "It's like dating Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," she says. "Sometimes he's adorable and kind and sometimes I want to run him down with my car, but there's no good way to predict which one is going to show up at my door."

"Isn't it nice though, someone who doesn't feel the need to impress you all the time?" Daniel asks.

"I've never thought of it like that," she says. "And you know what? It is nice."

"Don't say I never did anything for you." Daniel winks.

Still, Simon is in a mood and like usual, takes it out on the closes person who is, as usual again, Paula. She's learned to treat his hurtful comments like so much water off her back and when he says mean things, she just smiles into the camera. Denying him the reaction he wants is one of the only ways to control him.

During the commercial break, he pulls her from her seat and practically drags her backstage.

"What?" she demands. "What Simon?"

He's being a little rough with her, his grip firm enough on her bare arm that if she actually tried to get away, it would mean a struggle.

There's a nook between a wall and a stack of empty equipment cases and amplifiers. When he pulls her in, they're back out of the direct line of sight but they can see clearly everyone who passes, hear their shouts and stressed conversations.

"Simon, what in the hell..."

But he silences her by pressing her against the wall and kissing her. This is her punishment for ignoring him on camera; this is him asserting his dominance, forcing her to acknowledge him. She tries half-heartedly to push him away, but she doesn't really want him to stop kissing her and she finds herself pulling him closer in stead. He bends his knee and angles it between her legs, and she moans, pressing herself into him.

"God damn it!"

They pull apart and Paula whirls around to see Debbie standing at the entrance to their nook with her hands on her hips.

"It isn't what it looks like," Paula says, quickly.

"It's exactly what it looks like," Simon says.

"I know it is," Debbie sighs. "And now I owe Bruce fifty bucks."

Paula has to laugh because it's so unbelievable.

"30 seconds, you guys," Debbie says and walks away.

"How embarrassing," Paula says.

"Nonsense," he says. She turns back to the wall and reaches down into the front of her dress and fishes out a very small tube of lip-gloss from between her breasts. "Do you always keep that in there?" he asks.

"I just had a feeling this might happen," she says. She reapplies as they hurry back to their seats and they barely make it. Ryan's already talking when they sit in their chairs and she tries to discreetly tuck the tube of lip-gloss back into her bodice.

Kara is looking right at her, though, and smirks as if she knows exactly what is going on.

After the show, when the cameras go off and everyone stands up, Bruce comes down from the booth and practically runs to the table to catch the judges before they can sprint off. Bruce is back after a year off and Paula had missed him while he was gone, but she doesn't miss him now.

"You know what I'm gonna do with my fifty dollars?" he asks, draping an arm over both Simon and Paula's shoulders.

"Careful," Simon says. "Wouldn't want to have to make the kids in the audience witness a murder." Bruce ignores him.

"I'm gonna buy me a big steak dinner!" he grins, hugging them both before letting go. "No one ever believes that I know everything that happens in this place, but I do!"

"I believe it," Randy says. Kara rolls her eyes, ever the skeptic.

"Don't believe me, newbie?" Bruce says. "You know that every room of our studio is wired up to the sound booth, don't you? Oh yeah, we've done so much filming behind the scenes over the years that it's just easier to leave the microphones set up."

"So?" Kara says.

"So, your dressing room used to belong to Cowell here before he moved to the trailer. You're never quite as alone as you think you are," Bruce says, and winks before he walks away.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Kara asks uneasily. Paula feels for her, she really does. Paula takes her hand and leans in.

"Sassy, have you and Mike ever... you know... in your dressing room?" she asks softly.

Kara's eyes go wide and then she flushes, red crawling up her neck and settling into her cheeks.

"Oh God," she squeaks, before bolting from the table to the backstage.

Randy starts laughing so hard he has to sit back down in his chair. Even Simon snickers.

"I'll go talk to her," Paula says, and leaves the boys behind. She signs a few autographs as she makes her way past the pit of still screaming girls before walking down the hall toward the dressing rooms. Wendy, her sister, is waiting in the hall.

"Hey, you want to pop over and watch the results next door?" Wendy asks. Wendy would never admit it, but she's a much bigger Dancing With The Stars fan than an American Idol fan. Paula had forgot that Wendy was going to be here tonight. Wendy is one of the few people who isn't on the Idol payroll who had carte blanche access but she almost never uses it. Paula glances down the hall at Kara's closed door and then at her watch.

"Okay," Paula agrees. By the time they get back and Wendy goes home for the night, the building has cleared out considerably, but when Paula knocks on Kara's door, Kara's still there, her eyes puffy. Paula makes a sympathetic face and Kara's eyes well up again.

"God," Kara says, obviously disgusted with herself. "I just can't win at this job!"

Paula steps in and closes the door behind her. Kara throws herself on the loveseat, curling her long legs up beneath her and Paula sits in the chair in front of the mirror and faces her.

"You're doing just fine," Paula says.

"I'm falling flat on my face every night!" Kara says, loudly. "The media hates me, the audience hates me, and I keep shooting myself in the foot every time I open my mouth!"

"Honey..."

"And now everyone knows that I've had sex in my dressing room!" she hisses.

"Not everyone," Paula says. "In fact, Bruce was probably just pulling your leg. He probably didn't hear anything, just assumed."

"Oh, yeah, he just assumes I'm a slut, like that's better," she wails, pressing her face into an already damp throw pillow.

"Debbie caught Simon and I making out at the commercial break," Paula offers. "See? No one is perfect!"

Kara looks up.

"Really?" she asks.

"Really," Paula says. "He was groping me and everything."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better," Kara accuses.

"Scout's honor," she says, holding up two fingers. "You are no bigger a slut than I am."

Kara smiles slightly at this and Paula grins back.

"Hey," Kara says. "Can I ask you something?" Paula nods, passing Kara a box of tissues. Kara takes one and dabs at her eyes. "What's Simon like?"

"You mean besides being an arrogant, egomaniacal jerk with no fashion sense?" Paula asks.

"I meant in bed," Kara says, bluntly.

"Oh," Paula says. "I see. Um... he's okay."

"Okay?" Kara says. "You put up with him for just okay?"

"No," Paula admits. "He's amazing. He's... it's... the best ever, really. But I don't want him to know that, ever, understand?"

"I understand," Kara says. "I'll take it to my grave."

"Why do you ask?" Paula asks, scrunching up her nose.

"Well, you gotta figure that confidence comes from somewhere, right?" Kara says. "Plus I overheard Terri talking."

"Really?" Paula says, feigning disinterest by checking out her manicure. "Did she say anything interesting?"

"Maybe," Kara says. "But you wouldn't be interested in petty gossip right?"

Paula crosses her arms and her legs and glares at Kara.

"Spill now please."

"Here's the thing," Kara says, leaning forward. "She was talking about you."

"Me?" Paula says. "What about?"

"She was on her phone, but she was talking really loudly you know? Like not only did she not mind if anyone overheard, but she wanted them to and she was talking about how Simon invited her to this party you were throwing and she was like so excited to and there were absolutely no hard feelings."

"We're having a dinner party," Paula says. "It was going to be just family and a few family friends, you know, and then Simon invited Terri."

"Awkward."

"I know," Paula says. "I like Terri, I really do. We've been friends for years, but we've always joked about Simon and I, like, I was the other woman but it was always a joke because we all knew it wouldn't happen. But then it did happen! And if I were her, I might be kind of ticked off!"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Kara says.

"No," Paula says, uncertainly. "But you can see how she might think that we did."

"Yeah."

"She told me herself that everything was fine," Paula says. "Simon says so, too."

"But you don't think so?" Kara asks.

"Sass, will you come to the dinner party?" Paula asks. "Next week? Please? You can tell me what you think."

"Oh, Paula, I don't know," she says.

"You're observant – you can read people. If she's secretly hating me, you'll know. Please?" Paula says.

"I haven't been to one of your dinner parties in ages," Kara says, grinning. "Remember the one when Kevin Spacey got totally hammered and ended up hitting on that caterer?"

"Ugh, he still avoids me at award shows," Paula says, laughing. "I had to totally replace that rug, you know."

"That was a fun year," Kara says, reaching out. Paula takes her hand.

"I just... I didn't know how I was going to get through that divorce alone. You were serendipitous," Paula says, squeezing her fingers. "And look at us now."

"I'll come," Kara says. "If anything, it's one more story to put in my book."

"You'd better not!" Paula scolds. "You okay to get home?"

"Sure," Kara says. "Thanks."

"Goodnight," Paula says, before going back to her own dressing room to change. Simon is waiting for her inside. "You're still here!"

"The oddest thing," Simon says. "Your hairdresser left me a note saying I needed to undress you?"

"Daniel," she says. "I could explain, but you wouldn't care in the end."

"Probably true," Simon says.

"Since you're here, you can unzip me, though," Paula says.

"And I shall delight in doing so," he says. When he pulls the zipper down, she exhales and bends over, her spine curving and her back cracking slightly.

"That's amazing," she says, her voice muffled slightly.

"Lord, no wonder your posture was so good tonight," he says. "You couldn't move!"

"My posture is always good," she says, straightening back up and stepping out of the dress.

"I can see the imprint of the zipper in your skin, babe," he says.

"Fashion," she says and steps out of the dress. He watches her hang up her dress and slide it into the garment bag that hangs on the back of the door.

"You look better without clothes anyway," he says, watching her. She's not shy about her body and she doesn't have anything that Simon hasn't already seen. Still, she pulls on a pair of jeans and a blouse.

"Kara's coming to the dinner party," Paula says.

"What? I thought we agreed!"

"Well, I changed my mind and it's my house," Paula says.

"Paula!"

"She had a hard night, she needed a pick me up," Paula says. "You can play nice for one evening."

"Fine," he mumbles. "Come on, can we get out of here?"

"Yes," she says, stepping into a pair of heels and pulling on a jacket.

That night, Paula can't sleep. She's tired, but she just can't seem to relax. This happens sometimes, these bouts of insomnia. Simon is a log beside her, sleeping soundly as he has been since his head hit the pillow. She envies him; his sleep cycle is dependable.

She goes downstairs and gets herself a bottle of water. She feels restless and her house in the darkness looks unfamiliar and uninviting. She goes down into the basement and turns on the lights. It's bright, the mirrors reflecting the fluorescent lights back to her but soon enough her eyes adjust. She's in a pair of shorts and a tight tank top and as far as dancing clothes go, they aren't ideal but they will do. She picks a pair of old, curled ballet flats out of the basket by the steps. They were pink once, but now they are dingy and beige from hours of use. The sound system is set up to be loud and thumping but she turns the volume down low and puts on some classical music.

A workout will always make her tired. She spends a few minutes stretching out, relaxing her muscles and making sure her breathing is deep and even.

By the time Simon finds her, her leg is up on the high barre and her back is arched away from the mirror. Simon can see her arms trembling slightly in the air and there is a glow of sweat on her skin.

"All right," he says. "Enough. Come to bed."

She isn't startled – she heard him coming and she comes out of the pose gracefully, her feet returning to the first position naturally.

"I couldn't sleep," she says.

"Apparently. I rolled over and you were gone," he says. "It's after three am, Paula."

"Huh," she says. There's no clock in the studio – generally she wears a watch or has her phone on her. Now, she's lost track of the time completely. Dancing is her happy place and if she could, she'd stay there forever.

"Aren't you tired?" he asks.

"Not really," she admits. "Hey, do you want to stay up and watch the sun rise?"

"Can I do that while sleeping?" he asks, watching as she peels the shoes off her feet and tosses them back in the basket.

"I'll keep you awake," she says, suggestively. Simon seems to perk up at this.

"Well, you are already all sweaty," he says, tucking his arm around her waist.

"Exactly," she says.

Outside by the pool, there's a lounge chair built for two with plenty of room for them to snuggle close. Paula brings out a quilt and a couple of the throw pillows and they curl up on the lounge together, facing east. The pool is as still and smooth as glass in front of them. If it were warmer, Paula would jump in and drag Simon with her, but she knows the water will be a little too frigid for her taste so early in the spring.

Simon's hand is warm as it worms its way under her tank top to cop a feel. She allows the indiscretion, even encourages it. The sun won't be up for a couple hours yet. Above them, she can see the faintest stars. L.A. is too bright and too smoggy to get truly dark. The sky turns a deep royal purple but there is never that inky blackness that she sometimes craves. It makes the sunrises and sunsets spectacular, however, all that smog. Everything glows orange and fiery.

When Simon's hand slips inside her shorts, she turns her attention to him instead of letting her thoughts wander. Her knees part naturally, allowing him all the access he desires. Simon kisses her neck, right at her jugular where her blood is beginning to pound through her veins. She'd promised to keep him awake, but here he is, doing all the work.

She turns her face to look at him. He's watching her intently with dark eyes, like she is a very important answer to a very rare question.

"Simon," she sighs, and he slides two fingers inside of her. Her breath catches and she has to close her eyes.

Simon is not, generally, a patient man but in this, he is extremely patient. He knows what it takes to bring her over the edge and is willing to do the work to get her there. He doesn't rush her, doesn't beg her to come or demand her to arrive; he simply watches her face carefully. If she likes something, he does it more; if she can open her eyes and look at him, he tries a new technique until he has her moaning and gasping, her eyes screwed shut once again.

Paula sucks her bottom lip into her mouth in concentration and arches one eyebrow. Simon has dated a lot of beautiful women in his time, but he thinks Paula has one of the most beautiful faces he's ever seen. Simon's type has often been the beautiful body – long and lithe women with great hair and pretty faces but Paula doesn't exactly fit that mold. She's much smaller, and while her body is in great shape, she's a lot curvier than most of his previous girlfriends. Her most beautiful feature is easily her face – heart shaped with strong lines and big, open features.

But her beauty aside, Simon has done something with Paula that he's never done with any other woman before. He's fallen for her insides before her outsides. It sounds stupid, but it's true – it's her personality that won him over. Her constant kindness, her laughter, the way she looks every single contestant in the eye as they audition for that first time.

The pretty packaging doesn't hurt, though.

She's close now, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She's digging her fingernails into his forearm and the other hand is pushed up into her hair. It's easy now for Simon; the rest of this ride is all down hill. A few flicks of the wrist and the well-placed pad of his thumb and her hips shoot up and off of the lounge. She's trying to be quiet, maybe because they're outside, and she clenches her teeth hard until she can't take anymore and pushes his hand away.

"I can't, I can't," she says, pushing her face into his neck. "No more."

"What's the point of being a woman if you don't want multiple orgasms?" he asks, teasingly.

"You're going to kill me with pleasure," she murmurs. "It was your plan all along. You don't like me, you've never liked me!"

"Ah, you've discovered me," he says. "I only give hand jobs to those I hate the very most."

"Well, I can't stand you so I guess it's your turn," she says, reaching for him but he catches her wrist and stops her.

"You know what I really want?" he says.

"What's that?"

"I want to lie here with you and wait for the sun to come up," he says.

"You're turning down sex?" she asks, genuinely surprised.

"Postponing it," he corrects. "I've always liked morning sex better anyway."

"Me too," she says, putting her head on his chest. She relaxes against him, her body still humming and pliable. "I lied before."

"Hmm?"

"When I said I can't stand you," she says. "It isn't true."

"I know, baby," he murmurs. "But we tried, didn't we?"

"We did," she confirms.

"I mean, I tried to hate you and that didn't work. I tried to avoid you, but it's pretty hard considering my entire job revolves around sitting next to you."

"You tried not sitting next to me," she points out.

"That was crap, I hated that," he says. "Then I tried not to want you but, well..."

"I'm pretty freaking hot," she says. "And you're only mortal."

"Precisely," he says, chuckling. "What is a man to do?"

"Give in, I guess," she says.

"Resisting for almost eight years is giving it a go," he says.

"A for effort," she says, yawning.

"Hey now," he says. "This was your idea. You'd better stay awake to see it through."

"I'm awake," she assures him but when he glances down, her eyes are closed. He realizes a little too late that releasing endorphins into her bloodstream was probably not the best way to keep her awake. He'll allow her to sleep and wake her up just in time for the big show.

That's his plan, anyway, but twenty minutes later, he's snoring softly as well.

It doesn't matter, though. The good thing about the sun is that it rises whether anyone is awake to see it or not.

fanfiction writing guide

2009-04-08T03:19:12Z

I thought since I've spent some time writing a fanfiction guide over here, I'd post it here as well. I put it together, but had several people contribute ideas.

oooo

I've been thinking about posting something like this for a while and since I've been writing more, I've really been thinking about the subject a lot. And that subject is:

Editing your fanfiction.

I'm going to try really hard for this not to come off as preachy or bossy because I really just want everyone to be able to write wonderful stories to the best of their abilities and in doing so, the quality of writing at the fanfic archive will improve. These are meant to be helpful suggestions and this thread is meant to promote discussion about fanfiction: both Saula fanfiction and the idea of fan created stories as a whole.

Here's what I've noticed about a lot of the Saula fanfiction on the web: The story ideas are brilliant, but the execution often makes the stories difficult to read. Misspellings and grammar and punctuation errors are often what drives a reader away. Here is my list of suggestions on how to avoid doing that:

1. Spellcheck - I know, it seems lame and obvious, but it's the first line of defense in polishing a story. The grammar check feature can be useful too. Sometimes you can see a sentence differently and reword it to be better. Sometimes you laugh and click ignore because Word doesn't know what the hell it's talking about. Either way, you take a second look at the sentence and that's a good thing. This includes spelling the character's names correctly: Paula Abdul, Simon Cowell, Randy Jackson, and Kara DioGuardi. There's also other characters such as Ryan Seacrest, Paula's sister Wendy, her friends Jimmy and Daniel, etc...

2. Read your story out loud - sometimes spellcheck misses errors because the word is spelled correctly but the usage is wrong. Reading it outloud will help you catch the times you write 'form' instead of 'from' and 'Paul' instead of 'Paula'. My mac has a voice reading feature where it will read text out loud which is nice if you write epic sagas like I do.

3. Get a Beta Reader - I can't stress this enough, you guys. Nothing will help your story like having another pair of eyes to help you edit. The Saula fic archive also helpfully lists the authors who are also willing to beta on their profiles. Win win! Finding a good beta can be tricky. Try asking someone you trust as well as someone who will tell your their real opinion as opposed to just what you want to hear. In the world of beta readers, you want a Simon, not a Randy. This is especially helpful if English is not your first language. Not being a native speaker shouldn't stop you from writing - in fact, it's a good way to improve your skills. Finding a beta who is good with English grammar and usage is a good plan.

4. Format - decide which format is the best way to express your ideas. Most fanfiction is written in fictional, short story format. Some longer stories are more novel like with chapter breaks to help manage the lengths. Both are totally valid. These look like most of the stories you see on the archive. Here's an example:

“You thought I would come in and tell you that you were awful?” he asks.
“That is a fairly accurate description of your day job, Simon,” she says.
“For nobodies,” he snorts. “We both know you can sell albums; it’d be stupid of me to tell you that you can’t.”

Quotation marks and dialog tags help you spot this style easily. If you open a novel, this is the formatting that you will see.

Another way to format your story is in the screenplay format. The same chunk of story would look more like this:

Simon: You thought I would come in and tell you that you were awful?
Paula: That is a fairly accurate description of your day job, Simon.
Simon snorts.
Simon: For nobodies. We both know you can sell albums; it’d be stupid of me to tell you that you can’t.

This can be an interesting formatting choice if done well, but the flow of the story is often the first casualty. Instead of getting lost in the story, I find myself feeling like I'm reading a stage play. It's hard to insert a lot of details into a screenplay, and details are what make a story great!

5. Full words - there is a time and a place for texting language and shorthand, but your fanfiction isn't one of them.

6. Chapter length - Fanfiction is an investment of time, for both the writer and the reader. It takes time to write something and time to read it. Putting time into your work will encourage people to put time into reading it. Having chapters that are longer show that you are invested in your work. It's disappointing to open a new fanfic and only get one or two paragraphs and it's also to move the story along that way. It's better to write a (1/1) or have longer chapter lengths.

7. Title, Headings, and Summaries - This is not a place to cut corners. The title, heading, and summary of your fanfiction is the very first thing your readers see. It's your hook, so to speak. If you can't be bothered to come up with something other than 'untitled' then why should we, as a reader, be bothered to read it? The heading is the part that tells the reader who the author is, which characters will be involved, and the rating. Please rate your story carefully. There are a lot of underage readers on the interwebz. I'm not their mom, and I can't tell them what they may or may not read, but having the proper rating is really important so the reader knows what to expect.

The summary is, perhaps, the most important thing for your story. It tends to be the deciding factor of whether or not a reader is going to click through to your work. Something that says, "Oh, I don't know, read and see" is not very intriguing. Summaries should be short, no more than 2 or 3 sentences at most. I know for the Saula Fanfic site, the left hand side bar cuts the summary off pretty quick, so it is to your benefit as the writer to keep it pithy. Summaries can give the reader an idea of your basic plot as well as the quality of writing they can expect. Sometimes this is the most difficult part - coming up with a good summary. Sometimes I use the first sentence of my story. Sometimes less is more. For instance: "Paula and Simon go on vacation together." Basic and to the point. But try not to be too vague. "Paula and Simon fall in love." Well, yeah. Duh. For the last 8 years. But what makes this story unique?

8. First time writers - Don't be scared! We all had to start somewhere! (May you never find the X-Files fanfiction I wrote when I was 13, if you know what I mean..) Fanfic is a great way to help you learn new skills in writing, reading, and grammar. It's also a fun way to be creative and share your ideas with your friends. The best thing a first time writer can do is do their research. Research doesn't seem fun (well, I think it is, but that's just me...) but it's really important to learning your characters. Would you write a fanfic for a show you've never seen or for characters you know nothing about? Probably not. Research will make your characters more well-rounded, your plot more believable, and readers happy. Paula grew up in the valley, so reading in a fanfic that she was born in San Francisco in 1972 is just going to be frustrating for most readers.

If you, dear writer, are thinking about writing your first fanfiction, it's perfectly acceptable to ask a pro for help. Do you have a favorite author? Drop them a e-mail asking for some advice. In turn, seasoned authors: help a newbie out. I always try to answer any questions, especially if someone takes the time to e-mail me privately instead of just leaving a review. The thing is, you don't know what kind of writer you are going to be until you try, so give it a shot.

9. A/U: This stands for Alternate Universe. Above, I mention Paula being born in S.F. in 1972. She wasn't, but in another world, maybe she was. A/U fics are completely acceptable, as long (and this is important, so read carefully) as long as they stay TRUE TO THEIR CHARACTER. Putting Paula in another place and time is one thing, but she still needs to be Paula. If she doesn't dance, doesn't sing, doesn't create, and has totally different family members, then why is she still Paula Abdul? It's not Simon if he isn't British and snarky.

10. Reviews - Reviews are great. Everyone loves reviews. But, I'm going to admit something. I don't write fanfic for reviews. I write fanfic because I love to write and I love the characters and I love the world that they live in. If fanfiction is the meat and potatoes then reviews are the hot, tasty gravy on top. Writers post their work so that others can read it. But by reading it, the reader does not sign some iron clad contract saying they're going to leave you a review. Readers leave reviews because they want to and that's their choice. Is it great? Yes. Is it mandatory? Unfortunately, no. Begging for reviews is not really very classy. Asking for reviews is fine and everyone does it, but by saying something like "I'll only write more if I get X amount of reviews every chapter" shows your readers that you're writing for feedback, not because you enjoy creating art.

11. Mary Sues - What are Mary Sues? Mary Sue is a character in a fanfiction that is really just the author. It's like an author saying, "Wow, I wonder what it would be like if I got to hang out with the judges or if I were a contestant on Idol and got to see Saula up close every night?" To you that sounds really exciting to think about and read about. To not you (which would be everyone else in the world) it seems silly and indulgent. Basing characters on people you really know or even yourself isn't necessarily a bad thing, but most fanfictions don't need extra characters that you make up, especially ensemble shows like Idol. We have a ton of characters to play with already. Ryan, the judges, the contestants, Idol staff, family and friends... making up new ones probably isn't needed, especially if it's just you living out your Idol fantasy.

If you actually do get on Idol, however, then write away. We want to hear all about it.

These are some things that help me when I'm writing. I hope everyone will add to this thread their own tricks of the trade they use to make a story great! Then we can have an awesome list that will help everyone out if they're stuck!

Slow News Day (Part Twelve)

2009-04-07T02:32:56Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Twelve)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

Paula wakes up sore, but it's a good pain, like after a hard work out. She stretches out like a cat and when her outstretched hand comes into contact with Simon's head, she ruffles his hair affectionately.

He rolls over, out of her reach and says nothing. Perhaps he's still asleep or just wishes to be, but she decides to let him have his peace and gets up, intent on a hot, long bath. She wishes she were at home only briefly, when she notices that Simon's tub is slightly lacking in the bubble bath department, but it doesn't matter. She fills the tub with hot water and steps carefully in, slowly lowering her aching muscles until she is completely submerged.

She's in there almost fifteen minutes before Simon comes in, looking sleepy and totally nude.

"Good morning sunshine," she says.

"Are we at the stage where we can pee in front of each other yet?" he asks, scratching his head. His face is covered in stubble, his hair is pointing every direction at once and his tummy has a slight softness to it, but still, she finds him handsome.

"Go ahead," she says. "But only pee."

"Agreed," he says. She lays her head back and closes her eyes – she has no desire to watch him and waits until she hears the toilet flush before she opens her eyes again. When she looks at him, he's squeezing toothpaste onto his toothbrush.

"Room for two," she offers. He doesn't say anything until his teeth are clean.

"If I get in there with you, I'd displace half the water onto the floor," he says. He has a point.

"Suit yourself," she says. Instead of leaving, however, he puts on his robe that's hanging from the back of the bathroom door and sits down on the closed lid of the toilet. He props his feet up on the edge of the tub and watches her expectantly.

"Did you have fun last night?" he asks.

"It was a good night," she says. "Very good."

"I was sort of afraid that after all the fighting and the will they, won't they that we might actually be bad in bed together," he says. "Wouldn't that be atrocious? To finally give in and learn it's no good?"

"I hadn't considered that," she says, stretching one leg up and out of the water. Her leg is still smooth from being waxed the water drips off it with a trickle. "In my mind, there wasn't any possibility that it wouldn't be good with you."

"Are you saying I'm the best you've ever had?" he asks, grinning.

"I didn't say that," she says, quickly. She knows better than to give Simon a big heaping serving of even more ego on a shiny platter.

"But I am, aren't I?" he says.

"Am I the best you've ever had?" she fires, turning it around. He doesn't hesitate.

"Of course, baby," he says. She grins and rolls her eyes.

"Smooth talker," she says and he just grins.

She doesn't have time to spend the day in Simon's tub, though the idea of locking themselves up in the house hour hours is an appealing one. He brings her a towel and she has to wrap it around herself and go downstairs to try to find her dress. When she does find it, it's a mess. It's in a wad under the coffee table and, though it grosses her out, still kind of damp. She can't wear it, it isn't even wearable, and anyhow, it's a dangerous thing for someone with her level of celebrity to go out into L.A. in last night's dress.

"Simon?" she calls. "Will you go get my bag out of my car for me?" She always keeps a change of clothes in her trunk. It's not a fame thing, it's something her sister taught her to do when she was a teenager and she's never broken the habit. The bag has saved her on more than one occasion and would do so again today.

"Are your legs broken?" he asks. She sees him pulling on a t-shirt as she reaches the top of the stairs. She holds up the dress – the buckle closure that holds the front together has torn through the thin fabric and hangs loosely. "Fair enough. Where are your keys?"

"I have no idea," she says. "I..."

"They're still in the ignition, aren't they?" he asks.

"I think so," she says, covering her mouth with her hand.

"I know you so well it's disgusting," he says walking past her and down the stairs. He comes back with the bag in his hand and she reaches for it. "Ah, ah," he says. "Bag for the towel."

Paula starts to argue but thinks better of it and instead slowly slides the towel from her body and drops it to the floor. She's in her late 40s and knows that she has nothing to be ashamed of in regards to her body. She's thin, she's in shape and over all things are holding up pretty well. Simon doesn't manage to make some snarky comment – instead he just stares and hands the bag over. He watches her disappear up the stairs.

Sometimes she likes to remind she can give as good as she gets.

Paula only sees Simon occasionally throughout the week. Their schedules don't mesh well for some reason, and actually, it's nice to have some time for her self. The first night she spends away from him, she wallows in the center of the bed, her arms and legs stretched out, all of the pillows beneath her head. The second night she spent alone she listened to whatever music she wanted without his complaints and watched trashy television shows until late but already she knew she missed him.

Sunday she wakes up late, tired from the long and eventful night before. She doesn't have time to lie around in bed – it's her sister's birthday and she'd promised to be there bright and early. The boys will be home and she's so excited to see them she can hardly stand it. She loves those boys, loves them like they are her own. When they were small, Paula would take them overnight and let them both sleep in her bed with her. She loved to smell their little boy smell while they tossed and turned in the night. Now, when she sees them, which is less and less often, when she hugs them they smell like men. Oh, but she loves them and it's that burning love that gets her out of bed and out of the house on time.

Wendy opens the door wearing a plastic tiara and a pink feather boa.

"Happy Birthday," Paula says. "Are they here?"

"I'm doing great," Wendy says, the smiling on her face sliding into scowl.

"Oh, I love you," Paula says, hugging her. "But I see you all the time. Gimme those boys."

Austin lopes in from the living room in that tall, leggy way that he has. The boys take after their father in height and they tower over their aunt. Alex comes in, grinning after his brother.

"Hey Aunt Paula," Alex says. Austin, however, hugs her so hard that he picks her up and swings her around easily. Paula hugs him back hard.

"I missed you!" she says. When Austin sets her down, Alex hugs her just as hard. She inhales deeply and kisses his temple. "I love you!" Alex laughs and takes the attention humbly.

It's a small party – Paula's parents are there and several of Wendy's girlfriends as well as a few cousins and extended family members. It's nice to go somewhere familiar and accepting. She doesn't have to be 'Paula Abdul' because she can just be Paula, herself. She sits on the couch with Alex who lets her touch his face and hug him more than his brother. Alex tells her about school, about his on-again, off-again girlfriend, and his life away from his childhood home.

"Have you been watching the show?" Paula asks.

"Yes," Alex says, carefully. "I like the redheaded girl."

"Allison," Paula supplies. "She's great."

"Yeah," Alex says.

"If you want to come, just let me know, I'll put you in the front row."

The boys know they can come whenever they want, can watch from the audience or from the monitor in her dressing room. They've come before, but in public, they get shy. It's like they suddenly have 'property of Paula Abdul' stamped on them and instead of being normal people, they become minor celebrities.

"Sure," Alex says, committing to nothing. Paula's phone rings and she glances at the screen. Simon knows she's busy today, so she sends it straight to voicemail, but a minute later, he's calling again and then a third time.

"Maybe it's important," she says. "Excuse me, baby."

She steps into the backyard and closes the sliding door behind her before answering.

"What?" she says.

"Where are you?" he asks.

"You know it's my sister's birthday," she says. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong," he says. "I just haven't seen you in days."

"Simon," she says. "I miss you but I have to stay here. It's my sister's birthday party."

"Is there cake?" he says.

"Of course there's a cake."

"What flavor?" he asks.

"I don't know, chocolate, I think? Why?"

"I like cake," he says.

"Oh God."

"What? It's a party. How come I can't come to the party? I know your sister and I'd bring a nice gift."

"You and my sister barely tolerate one another," she says. "I promise you, you'd be bored out of your mind."

"Well I can't see you then until Idol and that's simply unacceptable," he says. "Give me your sister's address."

"Simon! You can't crash a family birthday party!" she says.

"It doesn't matter," he sighs. "I'll get it from one of your assistants. See you in a few darling."

She stares at her phone, the call ended. Part of her thinks there's no way Simon is going to actually show up, but the rest of her knows better. When she comes back in, Wendy looks at her strangely.

"Everything all right?" she asks.

"Oh," Paula says. "Yeah. That was... you know my friend Simon?"

Wendy bursts out laughing.

"Your friend Simon? Simon Cowell? Yeah, I think you've mentioned him before," she laughs, rolling her eyes. "About yay high, terrible fashion sense, worse haircut and nasally British accent?"

"He's on his way," she says.

"What?" Wendy says, her mocking forgotten.

"He'll bring you something expensive, don't worry," she says. "It might be horrible, but it'll be expensive. You can always sell it."

"Why is he coming here?" Wendy presses.

"He's been... well, you know, since the break up with Terri he's been kind of clingy," he says. "Pathetic really."

He's going to kill her.

"That's kind of sad," Wendy says.

"Very, very sad," Paula agrees, her face serious. "He'll try to put on a brave front but try to be kind, all right?"

"Sure," Wendy says. Their mother watches this exchange from her seat on the sofa. When she catches Paula's eye, Paula flushes with guilt. Her mother always knows when Paula is being less than truthful. Paula can remember each and every lie she's told her mother. Wendy broke the vase, of course I'm eating, yes, my marriage is fine.

"Come sit with me for a while," her mother says in a voice that leaves no room for argument. Paula is a grown woman, but around her mother she is not a pop star or a wild success, she's still a little girl. She sits next to her mother and her mother takes Paula's face in both hands and stares steadily into her eyes. Paula forces herself not to look away. Lorraine's eyes are dark and bottomless like Wendy's. Paula has her father's eyes, brown, almost amber and sparkling. "How are you?"

"Fine," Paula says. "I'm fine, mom." Lorraine waits to see if Paula is going to say anything else but Paula clamps her mouth closed careful not to spill an secrets not yet meant to be shared.

"I love you, darling girl," Lorraine says.

"I love you too, mommy," she says. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Lorraine says, releasing her daughter's face. "I just get sentimental on birthdays. I got your invitation in the mail the other day."

"Yeah, just a small dinner party," Paula says. "Want to help me cook?"

Lorraine laughs.

"I'll come help you, sure," she says, knowing she'll end up being the chef for the night.

When Simon arrives, he walks into the small family home holding a wrapped gift and everyone stops and looks at him, their voices hushing. Wendy has spread the word that Simon is a somewhat fragile state and Paula has to work to keep a straight face as he looks around at the group of people, confused.

"Simon," Wendy says, her voice dripping with sympathy. "How are you?"

"Fine," he says, looking at Paula who offers no explanation. "Happy Birthday."

"Oh," Wendy says. "That's so kind of you." And then Wendy does something she's never done. She hugs Simon, and she hugs him tenderly. Paula has to move her hand over her mouth as Simon looks over her shoulder, totally gob-smacked.

"Yeah, well," Simon says, stepping back. "I'm a nice guy."

"You are," Wendy confirms. "You have a good heart."

Paula takes pity on him and crosses the room to stand by his side. She takes the gift from his hands and hands it to Wendy.

"Go put this with the others," she says. "I'll show Simon around."

"What the bloody hell was all that?" Simon says, leaning down to speak quietly in her ear as the conversation resumes.

"I'm not sure," Paula says. "Maybe she's just warming to you."

"Warming to me?" he says, his voice raising an octave. "The woman sent me a noose in the mail once after I was mean to you on television. An actual bloody length of rope with a slipknot!"

Paula laughs.

"I forgot about that," she chuckles.

"There was a note that said 'Watch your back, Cowell!'" he says. "And you think she's warming to me?"

"It's her birthday," Paula says. "She's in a good mood. Come on, I'll introduce you around."

Simon is patient as he's paraded around the room. Everyone knows who he is, but still, he makes the effort to repeat the names of the people he meets, to shake her father's hand and kiss her mother's cheek. He even tolerates a ten-minute conversation with her uncle who spends the whole time telling him the same joke again and again because his memory is gone. Paula rescues him, eventually.

"The boys are in the back barbequing, let's go back there," Paula says.

Austin stands at the big gas grill with a metal spatula in hand and Alex stands next to him holding a beer. When he sees his aunt and Simon approaching, he leans down and pulls another bottle out of the ice chest and hands it to Simon wordlessly.

"Thanks, mate," Simon says, twisting the cap off and handing it to Paula who rolls her eyes and tucks it into her pocket. They boys resume their discussion of basketball but Simon doesn't really follow sports, and Paula is made to translate the conversation for him.

"March madness," she says. "The college basketball tournament."

"With the Lakers?" he asks. She stares at him.

"Please say you're pulling my leg," she begs. Simon pauses for too long.

"I am," he says, but she doesn't believe him. "What? If you want to discuss cricket or the king's game of polo, I'd be able to do that."

"Yeah, we play a lot of polo," Austin snickers, pulling the lid off the grill to check on the tri tip inside.

"Wise ass," Simon says. "I liked you better when you were 13 and frightened of me."

"That was a long time ago," Alex says, grinning impishly.

"Everything is a long time ago when you're 21," Paula says. "God, to be 21 again."

"Ugh, no," Simon says. "No thank you."

"It's not so bad," Austin says.

"You're poor," Simon points out.

"Yeah, but the girls dig me."

"Austin!" Paula says, scandalized.

"What? It's true. You don't get hot girls when you're 50," he says.

"Not true," Simon says.

"But I thought you just got dumped," Alex says, never one for tact. "Aren't you all sad and lonely and whatever?"

"What?" Simon exclaims. Paula looks away, hoping to avoid his eye contact. "Oh is that the lie she's spreading? We'll I'll have you know I'm nailing your aunt on a regular basis!"

"SIMON!" Paula says. "They're just boys!"

"They're plenty old enough," Simon says. The boys look like the don't know whether to laugh or cringe but then Alex pulls a twenty from his pocket and hands it to his brother.

"Why is it whenever we admit that money changes hands?" Paula asks.

"I told you," Austin says simply and Alex scowls.

"This is... not appropriate," she says, rubbing the crease in her forehead as if she could simply smooth the stress away if she worked at it long enough.

"Don't worry," Simon says, poking her arm with the open mouth of his beer. "They won't tell anyone."

"We swear," Austin says, nudging his brother.

"Yeah," Alex agrees quickly. "Besides, I like Simon."

"Really?" Simon asks. Alex nods. "By god, we've done it, Paula. We've found the one person in this country who cares for me."

"I like you!" she says indignantly.

"Yes," Simon says patiently. "But you like everyone."

It's late when the party starts to wind down. It's nice, the truce Simon and Wendy have struck up and the crystal candlesticks Simon bought her for her birthday have only endeared him to Wendy more. Paula hopes this ability to get along lasts longer than one day. Of course, when her sister realizes that Simon isn't heartbroken but, in fact, doing just fine, all bets will be off.

Simon walks with her to her car. He's parked around the corner. Wendy lives in a normal suburban neighborhood and Simon had to park on the street like a commoner but Paula's car is on the sloped driveway.

"Where'd you park?" she asks.

"Couple blocks," he says, shrugging.

"I'll drive you," she offers, so she slides into the passenger seat and she backs out slowly, her taillights glowing red in the reflection of the car parked across the street. When she gets to the car and starts to slow, however, he just waves her on.

"You can drop me off in the morning to get it," he says.

"Simon, that car is worth a fortune, you really want to leave it on the street all night?" she asks, idling in the middle of the quiet street.

"Is this a particularly bad neighborhood?"

"No," she says.

"Then it's fine. I'd rather be with you."

She can't and won't argue with that, so she heads home. Simon is restless in the car, he's nearly intolerable to drive with if the traffic is bad, and now, he squirms in his seat and finally opens the glove box to search the CDs she has in there. Simon almost never listens to the radio, which drives Ryan nearly mad.

"What do you want to listen to?" he asks, flipping through the book of discs, frowning.

"My glasses are in there too," she offers and he doesn't even hesitate any longer before putting them on and bringing the book closer to his face. "I guess something I can sing along to."

"That narrows it down," he mutters. "What's in the player already?"

"Kelly," she says.

"Still?" he says. "That came out weeks ago."

"I can't stop!" she says. "I love it." Simon tosses the book back into the compartment and slams the hatch closed before pressing the CD button on the stereo interface.

It takes almost no time for them to get home so late on a Sunday night. Paula parks in the garage and they enter the house through that door instead of through the front courtyard. Paula will have to adjust her schedule in the morning to accommodate driving him back to his car, but she thinks it's probably worth it.

They have the house to themselves. Jimmy is gone and there's no other staff and it's nice not to have to interact with anyone but him. She puts some tea on and he wanders around the downstairs, looking at pictures on the wall and reading the pad of paper next to the phone that holds messages and the occasional grocery list. Across the dining room table is her sewing machine and a few pieces of clothing that need mending. Her purple blouse has a hem that has started to unravel and there's a pair of black slacks where the seam has split along the hip.

"You don't have a tailor?" he asks.

"I use one for complicated alterations, but this is easy," she says. He picks up the slacks and wiggles his fingers through the hole.

"I didn't know you could sew," he says.

"Well, maybe there's a lot you don't know about me." She means to tease but he looks concerned after she says it.

"I hope not," he says. "I know you better than anyone else and if that's not good enough then I don't know people at all."

"You know me," she tells him reassuringly. She means to say more but the kettle on the stove starts to whine, so she must shut the burner off and pour the hot water into the big white mugs. He accepts the cup gratefully and she holds her hands around it to warm them as they climb the stairs. He trails behind her, making sure the front door is locked and the lights are off. She ushers the dogs upstairs, coaxing them on a high voice to climb the stairs and then get into their beds.

It seems odd that they already have a nighttime routine. They haven't been together long but then, maybe that isn't true. They've been together for years in a way.

"I'm going to New York this weekend," he says, undoing his watch and dropping it on the nightstand.

"Okay," she says. "I have that guide dog thing anyway."

"So will you come stay with me after Idol this week, then?" he prods.

"Sure," she agrees. It's easy to give into this request, to say yes, I'll sleep in your bed and let you touch me in the night.

Why would she say no?

Slow News Day (Part Eleven)

2009-03-29T01:48:40Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Eleven)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.
Authors Note: PLEASE note the rating change.

Mandatory production meetings are always dreadful. They get cooped up in a small room and talked at for at least three hours, and when Paula gets a memo for one, she groans and lets her head drop down to the desk.

"What?" Simon asks, popping his head into the room.

"Production meeting," Paula says. "Did you get the e-mail?"

"Yes," Simon says, retreating back to the other room. She doesn't know what he's doing in there and she doesn't care. Maybe he's watching TV; maybe he just got tired of watching her work. "Maybe it won't be so bad," he calls.

"I was so excited about not having to go in on a Tuesday for once," she says. "And at 1:30? That's a weird time."

Simon doesn't respond.

"I wonder if it's all of us, or just some of the staff," Paula says. "I hope Debbie has to go. I want to sit next to Debbie."

"What about me?" he calls. She knew that would get his attention back.

"Every time I sit next to you, you get bored after twenty minutes and start torturing me," she says.

"It's not my fault!" Simon says, coming back in. "They're so boring!"

"Why can't you take it out on Ryan?" she pouts.

"He'd like it too much," Simon says. "We'll go tomorrow together. Make a day out of it."

So, Tuesday they go out to lunch and then Simon drives them down to the studio. It's eerie when the studio isn't filled with people rushing around, trying to get things situated for air. While there are people around, they have a more relaxed pace. They don't scurry like mice trying to find the cheese in time, but by tomorrow night, that will all change. Simon leads her confidently to the conference room but when they get there, the whole staff is not present. Instead, it's only Randy and Kara and they both look confused and more than a little upset.

"What's going on?" Kara says, springing to her feet. "Where is everyone?"

"I don't know," Paula says, checking her wristwatch. "It's already 1:40."

"Actually," Simon says. Paula looks at him and lets go of his hand, surprised. "I called the meeting and it's just for us."

"Dude," Randy says.

"Simon!" Paula says, her voice several octaves higher than normal. "Are you serious?"

"Like you didn't know," Kara says, crossing her arms.

"I didn't," Paula snaps.

"She didn't," Simon says.

"Man, Simon, we all have things to do today," Randy says. "What's the deal?"

"The deal is, we need to talk about our judging," Simon says. "It's been erratic and I think we can do better."

"Is this going to be the part where you lecture us from on high?" Kara asks.

"I'm being serious," Simon says. "I think we all need to have a seat and talk about things."

Kara looks poised to argue, but Randy and Paula sit down and she's left standing alone.

"You two are so used to taking orders from him! You know, it doesn't have to be like this," Kara says.

"Sassy, we've been doing this for a long time, and if we didn't think Simon had a point, we wouldn't have sat, so get your ass in that chair," Paula says, suddenly very tired of her.

Kara, chastised, sits down but no one looks happy.

"I know you've all seen the ratings and have been hearing what the media has been saying," Simon says. Kara looks down at the table, her face blank. "There's no use denying it, people don't like a fourth judge."

"I think she's doing a good job," Paula says, quickly coming to her defense.

"I do too," Simon says, surprising them all. "It's not you they hate, Kara, it's the idea of a fourth judge. It's the change."

"So what do we do?" Randy asks.

"We make Idol fun again!" Simon says, simply. "We stop treating it like it's a United Nations meeting that the fate of the world is hanging on. It's a reality show and it needs to be entertaining and fun. If we stop taking everything so seriously, I think it will all be better."

"But it's serious," Paula says. "To these kids, it's very serious."

"I know you love them baby, but the majority of these kids aren't good enough to have a recording career this year and the ones that are will be fine," Randy says. "I think Simon has a point."

"So what do we do?" asks Kara.

"We have to put on a show," Simon says.

"We have to give them something to talk about every episode," Paula jumps in. "Make it so the media has to report on something other than Kara or bad song choice, you know?"

"Like, say, if you girls started to wrestle on top of the judges table," Randy says with his best 'I'm-just-trying-to-be-helpful' voice.

"Water cups get spilled, clothes get torn," Simon says, grinning.

"Hair pulling and then, suddenly, you realize it's not fighting that you want but..."

"All right, we're done," Paula says, cutting Randy off before he can finish the thought. Kara rolls her eyes.

"You men are sick," Kara says, looping her arm through Paula's. "Come on, let's ditch 'em."

"Sure," Paula says. "You and I haven't had a naked pillow fight in some time!"

"That's true," Kara says, glancing over her shoulder. "My dressing room, doors locked, five minutes?"

"Man, that's just cold," Randy says, his head tilting to watch both women walk out and down the long hall.

Simon makes good on his promise. On air, things spiral into silliness more than once, and though the plan hadn't been to make it the Simon and Paula show, Paula finds the camera pointed at her more often than usual. Simon doesn't stop chattering to her, and when she gives him the crayons from under her desk, he giggles so hard she thinks he's going to roll his chair right off the dais into the laps of the people behind them.

When he starts to draw on her, she tries to stop him.

"For the good of the show, babe," he says, waggling his eyebrows in a decidedly wicked manner.

Kara has to help her get the marks off her face. She thought he had a crayon in his hand, but it was his pen and now pictures of her with a mustache are going to be all over the news. Kara uses her thumbs to wipe the ink off her upper lip the way her mother used to lick her thumb and clean food off her cheek when she was little girl.

"Punish him," Kara mutters. "No sex for a week."

"At least," Paula agrees before realizing just, exactly, what she has admitted to. Simon and Paula haven't exactly been the best at hiding the recent evolution of their relationship, but she hasn't announced it either. Kara, to her benefit, doesn't say anything, just grins at Randy knowingly. As soon as the cameras go off, Randy pulls a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet and hands it to Kara who tucks it smugly into her bra.

Ryan appears at the table, jumping like a high strung Chihuahua.

"You two!" he says, pointing at Paula and Simon with both hands. "You! Two! What is happening over here?"

"I have to go wash my face," Paula says, slapping Simon in the back of the head hard enough that he rubs the sore spot and watches her stomp off to her dressing room.

Simon looks at Ryan's grinning face.

"Nothing, mate," he says. "Just pushing her buttons."

"Are you pushing all of them?" Ryan asks, leaning over and putting his hand over the microphone, even though it should be off. Ryan is never too careful. "You know, pushing them with your penis?"

"Yes, I understood the implication but thank you for spelling it out," Simon says, pushing his chair back and standing up.

"Well?"

"Well, you're the last person on Earth I want to talk about my penis with," Simon says.

"Come on!"

"I have to make sure Paula isn't planning on murdering me," Simon says. "If you're such a good journalist, I have no doubt you be able to sort out the details yourself."

But as he's walking away, Simon's not so sure challenging Ryan Seacrest was a good idea after all.

Paula doesn't want to see him. Simon knows she already has after show plans and that his dismissal from her dressing room by Jimmy is his punishment, but he needs to make sure that she isn't actually upset with him. He calls her and she picks up right away which is a good sign.

"You ass!" she says. Not such a good sign.

"Oh come on, love, are you really that upset?" he asks.

"No," she says. "I guess not. But I'm going to dinner and don't have time for you. I'm very busy and important you know."

"I know," he chuckles, stepping into his trailer. "Will I see you tonight?"

"You will see me tomorrow," she says. "You ass."

"Ass, got it," he says. "All right Miss Abdul, stay out of trouble."

"Night, Simon," she says, hanging up.

The next night, Simon avoids Ryan before the broadcast, but knows he probably isn't safe. Paula sits next to him and in the few moments before air, Daniel is beside her, fussing with her hair.

Simon leans into her and taps her wrist to get her attention.

"Don't let Ryan get under your skin tonight," Simon says.

"What?" Paula asks, shooing Daniel away. "Why? Why do you say that?"

"Just... ignore him. I'll deal with him," Simon says. Paula groans.

"What did you do?" she hisses. But then Ryan is bounding up to the stage and there's no longer time to talk. It's been years since Ryan has teased them about their relationship on air and even longer since Simon has played along instead of them both issuing flat denials. Paula is shocked and it shows on her face, but she doesn't feel right about denying anything – doesn't feel right about flat out lying on air so she holds her tongue and endures the oohs and ahhs from the audience surrounding her.

Besides, watching Simon cop to it instead of denying it is quite the turn on. When the show moves on, he keeps her close, rubbing her back and holding her hand beneath the table. The show seems to drag on and she knows that they won't be able to get away when the cameras stop either. There are obligations: interviews and commitments threaten to overwhelm her.

"My house," Simon whispers, as Ryan is signing off. "Eleven O'clock, we'll both be there."

"Deal," she says. She'll make it happen.

It's not easy, extricating her self from social obligations, but at 10:45 she's in her car, speeding dangerously down the freeway in an effort to make it there on time. Her body has been humming for Simon all night. Every moment she had time to think, to catch her breath, all she could do was imagine his hands on her and now she's being reckless trying to make that feeling come true as soon as possible. On the seat next to her, her phone starts to ring and she hits the speaker function.

"You on your way?" Simon asks. She can hear that he's in his car too.

"Yes," she says. "I might just make it."

"God," he says. "Are you speeding?"

"Yes," she promises. "I've been thinking about this all night."

"Me too," he says. "I can't wait to touch you. I can't wait to run my hands..."

"Simon!" she cuts him off. "You're going to make me crash if you finish that sentence."

"Fine," he says. "See you in... seven minutes?"

"God willing," she says, before ending the call. When Paula turns onto his street she can see his car only a couple hundred yards ahead of hers. It's well timed, their arrival, and she follows him up the driveway and kills the engine quickly before throwing open the door and rushing to him. He's kissing her before they even make it to the door and she hopes no one has a long lens pointed at them from the bushes because his hand slides down her back onto her butt and he half carries her to the porch, pausing only to open the door and push her inside.

Simon can't keep his hands off of her. He barely closes the door before he's on his knees in front of her. The dress she's wearing is backless and the wall is cool against her heated skin. He likes the gold on her, likes the way her skin looks warm and alive. He likes the dress, too, because it is loose and easily pushed up around her hips. He sees that she's not wearing any underwear.

"Haven't been wearing them all night," Paula tells him when she sees the look on his face.

"Fucking Christ," he groans before pressing his mouth against her. She screams, or tries to, but the sound gets lodged in her throat and it's all she can do to just hang on. She puts one hand on the doorknob next to her and one hand on Simon's head and finds enough balance to keep her upright. She finds enough balance to put one leg over his shoulder.

No one can make her come like Simon can. It's like somehow he has found a roadmap to her body. With his tongue, he controls her completely. He licks her long and slow and keeps her on the edge for hours or, like now, his tongue is unrelenting against her while his fingers move inside of her and in minutes, she's practically sobbing for the relief of it all.

She has to push on his head, force his mouth to disengage and then she collapses into a pile in his arms.

"Oh no you don't," Simon says, wickedly. She's easy enough to pick up and he leads her down the hall to the living room. It's not a bed but the sofa will have to do. "We're not done yet." Her knees are like rubber, but they open easily enough and Simon doesn't even have his pants off before he's thrusting into her. His jeans are hanging dangerously low on his hips and he has her dress bunched up in his hand. This is the way good, couture dresses get ruined but at the moment, she doesn't care.

"Simon," she whimpers.

"Put your legs around me," he says and she complies, sliding down on the cushions to make the angle better. She lifts one arm to hold on to the couch and her other hand grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him toward her. She wants to kiss him, wants him to feel just a little of what she's feeling.

She'd been worried, after a few years of dating, that her days of hot, wild sex were over. Maybe it was her, maybe she was the one who attracted men who wanted to make love to her sweetly, who wanted to hold her and look her in the eyes while they were on top of her. That kind of sex had its place, it was enjoyable but she missed the raw passion, that fever that controlled her actions, that didn't let her be embarrassed that she was getting nailed on a sofa in a party dress.

With Simon, it is like she's twenty-five again. She can't control how badly she wants him, and when he touches her she comes unraveled. Now, she can see it on his face. He's close, his skin is bright red and he's sweating. He opens his eyes to catch her watching him and then she clenches her muscles hard, bucking up against him and he's done for. He groans and stiffens and she helps him along.

"Baby, come on, Simon, come for me," she pleads and he all but falls on top of her, exhausted. She wraps her legs around him and her arms and holds him close while his vision swims. She slides her hand under his shirt and rubs his sweaty back. She pushes his jeans down enough to get a view of his cute little butt; she slaps it and he chuckles into her neck. "That's my man," she whispers, biting his earlobe. "You know what I like."

Simon kisses her, kisses her lips and her jaw and her shoulder.

"You're completely irresistible," he mutters. "Can't keep my hands off you."

"I know," she says, scooting over a little so he has more room to lie down. "All of America knows, I think."

"Ryan made sure of that," Simon mutters, resting his head on her chest.

"Can you not talk about Ryan while you're still inside me?" she requests. He pushes his hips into her sharply, as if to punish her but instead she gasps and presses back. She pulls at the bottom of his sweater and takes it off him, throwing it across the room where it lands on a chair briefly before sliding to the floor. Suddenly, she wants nothing to do with clothes. He helps her get the dress over her head, and she uses her feet to kick his jeans down. He manages to take them and his shoes off so the only thing either of them have on is on Paula. She has on her strapless bra and her high heels. She can feel him getting hard inside her again and she nods, telling him yes, to keep moving, to not stop. It's easier, both of them horizontal on the sofa. He can rest his elbows on either side of her and get a little more leverage. And now that the urgency has been taken care of, they can take their time.

"Like this?" he asks, moving his hips faster, and then slower, in a circle, wanting to find what feels right.

"Yeah," she sighs, bringing her knees up. She tries not to dig her heels into his skin, but when he drops his mouth to her breast to pull the soft cup of the bra down and take her nipple between his teeth, she can't do anything but focus on the sensation. Simon loves the noises she makes, the gasping, the half words, the growls low in the back of her throat. He loves it best when she starts to pant his name and to get her to do this he slips his hand between them and presses his thumb hard against her clit.

"Say it," he says.

"Simon," she cries. She can't see anything, now. Her vision swims and so she closes her eyes and lets her head fall back over the arm of the sofa, exposing her long neck to his teeth and he takes advantage of it. When he bits at her jugular, where her blood flows hot and fast, she comes. And when she comes, clenching tightly around him again and again, he comes too.

When she wakes up, he's carrying her up the stairs.

"Did we ruin the upholstery?" she asks, tiredly. He looks down at her and laughs a little, careful not to let her head hit the doorframe as he enters his bedroom.

"Oh yeah," Simon says. "We did a number on it all right."

"Sorry," she mumbles, as he sets her on the mattress. He takes one foot in his hand and eases her shoe off.

"Don't be sorry," he says. "I'm about to move out of this house anyway." He takes the other shoe off and the runs his hand up her calf lightly, admiring the smooth leg. She points her toes for him like a good dancer should, out of habit more than anything else. He sets her foot down and leans over her, sliding his hands under her back. She's confused for a moment, but then she feels him unhook the bra and pull it off her and she feels better without it biting into her skin.

"You're going to sell someone a sofa covered with our bodily fluids?" she asks, watching him with heavy lidded eyes as he slips the bra into a drawer.

"I'll flip the cushion first," he promises, shutting the lamp off before crawling into bed with her. She rolls into him, pressing her self against his warm skin. She drapes her leg over his hip and burrows into his chest.

"Simon?"

"Yes, darling?"

"We have to be careful," she says. "We were bad on the air tonight."

"Very bad," he admits.

"And last night," she says. "And the week before."

"I stand by what I said," he says. "We need to make Idol fun again. I think we're doing that, at least."

"Well," she says. "Can we figure out a way to do it where we're not eye fucking each other on screen the whole time?"

"You cussing like a sailor is hot," he mumbles, moving his hand to cup one of her breasts.

"I applaud you if you have another round in you but I don' t think I do," she says.

"Me either," he says. "I can still touch though, right?"

"Sure," she says, letting her eyes close. But he drifts off before she does, his hand sliding slowly down to the mattress.

"Simon," she whispers, snuggling into him. In his sleep, he sighs and holds her close. She realizes as she's drifting off, that the warm feeling spreading through her is happiness. The last few weeks with Simon have been exciting and satisfying, but Simon being a source of happiness for her is something she's going to have to think long and hard about.

But not tonight. Tonight, all she has to do is fall asleep wrapped up in a handsome man, and so that's what she does.

Slow News Day (Part Ten)

2009-03-27T15:36:12Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Ten)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: R
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

Paula doesn't tell Simon exactly when she'll be in the studio or where, but still, he shows up anyway. She's in the booth, listening to playback when she sees him come into the outer room and shake hands with her producer.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asks. Her voice is filtered into the outer room through the microphone. When he just shrugs, she takes off her headphones and goes out to talk to him. "Can we take five?"

Her producer, Tony, knows a dismissal and makes himself scarce.

"I wanted to see you work," Simon says.

"How did you find me? I specifically didn't tell you where to find me."

"I asked Ryan," Simon says, looking around the studio curiously.

"I didn't tell Ryan," she says. "How did he know?"

"How does Ryan know half the things he knows," Simon says. "He has spies all over this town." He gets a goofy grin. "Isn't it ironic that we spend so much time avoiding the paparazzi but anytime someone needs to find a celebrity, that's who we call?"

"Simon, I'm working," she says, helplessly. "I don't have time to ponder the mysteries of life right now."

"Work away," he says. "You won't even know I'm here."

She opens her mouth to argue, but he crosses his arms across his chest and she knows it's not worth the effort. Either she lets him stay or they get into a big fight and he stays anyway. Simon sits on the sofa in the corner and looks for all the world like the room before him is the American Idol stage. The only thing that's missing is Randy and herself by his side and some scared young thing in front of them.

But Paula isn't 22 anymore and she isn't afraid.

Most of the vocal tracks have been laid down already; today she's adding harmonies and background vocals. Ultimately, it really won't be that interesting to watch, especially for someone like Simon who has spent years in the record industry. She thinks that after an hour of listening to her sing "oh yeah" and "baby" and "uh-huh" he'll get bored and leave. But instead, he moves into the chair next to the soundboard and says something to Tony softly.

"Paula?" Tony says, speaking into his microphone. "Let's go again from the top, but why don't you try it a half-octave lower."

"Sure," Paula says. Simon leans in.

"Darling, you were a little sharp on the bridge as well," Simon says.

"We can clean it up in post," Tony says.

"She can do it right," Simon says. "Why waste time in editing when she can just cut it again?"

"Mr. Cowell..." Tony says, glancing through the window at Paula.

"I can do it again," Paula says. She can do it right and doesn't want to have to be cleaned up in editing. While perhaps Simon coming in and manhandling her producer is not ideal, Simon does know what he's talking about.

It's after midnight when they call it a wrap. Her voice starts to go, her throat hurts and she's tired.

"See you tomorrow," Tony says and Simon walks her to her car.

"You can't manhandle Tony," Paula says. "He's good at his job."

"I wasn't," Simon says, draping his arm over her shoulder while they walk. "He understood that."

"Okay," she says. "It was actually kind of nice having you there, you have a good ear."

"You thought I would come in and tell you that you were awful?" he asks.

"That is a fairly accurate description of your day job, Simon," she says.

"For nobodies," he snorts. "We both know you can sell albums; it'd be stupid of me to tell you that you can't."

"I'm going to have sex with you so hard," she says, squeezing her arm around his waist.

"I thought you didn't want me over this week," he says, laughing.

"That was then," she says, opening her car door. "But if you know what's good for you now, you'll follow me home."

"Aye, aye," he says, and all but sprints to his car.

Paula doesn't know what it is, but there's something about Simon admitting she's a successful artist that is a serious turn on. She speeds home, but he still manages to beat her there. She chalks it up to the fact he's driving a stockcar around Los Angeles like it's completely normal. Once they've both pulled through the gate, she cuts the engine without bothering to put the car in the garage.

Simon opens the door, and closes it behind them, spinning her so her back is against it before kissing her. He lifts her so she's level with him and she wraps her legs around his waist.

"Wait," she says, "Why was the door unlocked?"

She looks past his shoulder to see Jimmy and Pam standing there watching them. Pam looks slightly horrified and Jimmy looks far too fascinated for Paula to be comfortable with. Paula hits Simon and he lets her down to her feet.

"What are you doing here?" Paula asks. Simon decides to keep facing the door. He's not exactly comfortable showing everyone his front side right now.

"I live here," Jimmy says. "Sort of."

"I was just leaving, but..." Pam says. "I can go through the garage!"

"I can stay though, right?" Jimmy says, watching Pam disappear through the door into the garage.

"You see?" Simon says. "This is why I don't have a personal staff and if I did, it's why I wouldn't let them in my house."

"We're going to bed," Paula says, ignoring Simon. "Goodnight Jimmy."

"Goodnight," Jimmy says, in a deep newscaster voice. "And good luck."

"Oh shut up," Simon says, but Paula pulls his wrist and drags him upstairs.

In the morning, Paula wakes up early. Simon is asleep in her bed; she knows this not because she can see him beneath the covers but because she can hear him snoring. He'll sleep for several more hours if she lets him and that is her plan. She gets dressed in the bathroom, and sneaks out of the room silently.

In the kitchen, Jimmy hands her a travel mug of coffee.

"Put a little nutmeg in it," he says.

"Thank you," she says. Her voice comes out scratchy and hoarse. She should've had some tea last night, something with a little honey and lemon, and now she has to face the consequences.

"Have a good one, sweetheart," Jimmy says. Paula kisses his cheek before getting into her car and heading off.

She's gone for just under two hours. When she comes back in, she leaves the empty mug in the sink and slips off her shoes. She carries them upstairs with her and opens the bedroom door quietly. If she plays her cards right, she can slip back into bed and...

"Where on Earth have you been?" Simon says, his arms crossed. He's sitting up and is, for some reason, on her side of the bed.

"I had to go out," she says, sighing. Life never works out the way she thinks it's going to.

"To do what?" he asks.

"Run some errands," she says.

"Where did you go?" he asks.

"Shopping," she says. "You know, stuff you hate."

"Right," Simon says. "Show me what you bought, then."

"Oh, it's... not here," she says.

"Where'd you buy it?" Simon asks.

"The store?" she says.

"Lord, you really are terrible at lying."

"I know," she wails.

"Let's start again," he says. "Where did you go where you felt you needed to sneak out and then lie about it?"

"I had an appointment," she says, setting her purse down and sitting on the edge of the bed. "With my therapist."

"And?" he asks.

"And I didn't think you needed to know I was seeing a shrink," she says.

"I've always just assumed that you were," he says.

"What?"

"Don't all celebrities?" he asks. "The pressure of fame is crushing."

"You mean you see one?" she asks.

"Sometimes, when I am in London," he says. "Is therapy new for you?"

"Yeah," she says. "Ken suggested I go after what happened... during Hollywood week."

"Ah," Simon says. "And you were embarrassed."

"People already think I'm nuts!" she says. "I didn't need to add therapy to the list of reasons why they're right."

"Says the woman who openly visits psychics."

"Shut up, Simon," she says.

"Sorry, sorry," he says. "Darling, what happened to you was traumatic and if seeing this therapist is helping you, then there's no reason to hide. Especially from me."

"When do we get to work on some of your issues?" she says, smiling softly. "Not fair to focus just on me."

"I invited Terri to the dinner party," he says.

Paula is silent for several seconds.

"You know, I really meant that to be a rhetorical question," she says, finally.

"I know," he says. "I'm not going to stop being friends with Terri."

"Neither am I," she says. "Does she know that you and I are...?"

"Yes," Simon says. "She's fine with it."

"I'm sure," she says. "Remind me to hire another bodyguard though."

Simon rolls his eyes.

"Is she coming?" Paula asks.

"Yes," Simon says.

"I wish I'd known that before I wasted an hour of therapy on feeling guilty about that girl," she says.

"How dramatic," Simon says. "Once you talk to Terri, you'll see that I, once again, am right."

"I guess," Paula says, uncertainly.

"Let's go to the house," Simon says. "You haven't seen it and she's there supervising the furniture delivery."

"Oh, I don't know," Paula says.

"You're going to be spending a lot of time there, so you might as well get used to it," Simon says. The matter-of-factness of his statement initially infuriates her and triggers her response to fight back, but after a moment she realizes that he's probably right. If she continues this thing with Simon, there's no reason she wouldn't spend as much time at his house as he's been spending at hers and from what he's told her, his house will be astonishing, will make hers seem like the barest of essentials. And if she doesn't continue this thing with Simon...

Her mind can't exactly process the thought. She worries all the time that something will go wrong and that they will break up or break it off and she will be devastated, but actually imagining her life now without him is impossible. She can't do it. The images don't come.

"So it will be you and me and Terri living happily ever after?" she asks, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

"In a way, it's as much her house as mine," Simon says. "She and I put years into designing it and it just doesn't seem right to tell her no, she can't be a part of it now."

"But you aren't together anymore and it's your money that bought it," Paula says.

"True," Simon says. "Still, it didn't feel right. And anyhow, she designed the guest wing. Her suite is on the other side from the master. We'll hardly see her."

"Is she going to be living there full time?" Paula asks.

"No, no," Simon says. "She just... has an open invitation, that's all."

"I guess I just don't have any exes that I get along with well enough to see it from your perspective," Paula says.

"Nothing is as weird as you think it's going to be," Simon says. "And if after a little time passes something isn't working, we'll all sit down and figure it out."

"Okay," Paula says. "Say that's what happens, say in four months she and I can't stand one another and I want her out. What would you do? Would you make her go if I asked you?"

"I'm not sure," Simon says. "First of all, you two have always got on so that doesn't seem very likely."

"Theoretically, I mean," Paula presses.

"Theoretically, I guess I'd consider it," Simon says. "I wouldn't like it." Paula is surprised. "I don't really fancy ultimatums and you've never been the 'her or me' kind of person."

Paula chuckles.

"What?" he asks.

"One or the other," she says. "Is it gonna be her, is it gonna be me?"

"What are you talking about?" Simon asks, perplexed.

"You jerk," she says. "Have you really never listened to any of my albums?"

"I have," he says. "Perhaps they're not all completely committed to memory, but I've heard it."

She chooses not to be upset about this, chooses to forego this battle in lieu of getting along with him, of humoring him. Around him, her heart opens wide like throwing back the drapes on the first day of spring and letting the world bathe you in its light. Around him, she glows and he glows too and together, the darkness recedes, if only for the moment. And, if this strange situation with Terri and this house is the darkness, they will chase it away.

"Okay," she says. "Let's go see it."

The pleased look on Simon's face is worth the potential discomfort that is the afternoon ahead of them. Paula makes more coffee before they go and stands in the kitchen, watching the pot brew. She likes the way the smell fills the kitchen. She remembers the smell from her childhood, her mother putting on a pot early in the morning or in the evening when they had company and the smell always makes her feel at home.

She fixes Simon a cup and he takes it when he gets out of the shower.

"I'm driving," Paula says, refilling her own mug.

"You don't even know where we're going," Simon says.

"You'll just have to direct me," she says picking up her keys. She doesn't feel like folding herself into his ridiculous sports car, doesn't think she could stand watching every head turn as they breeze by, another elite Hollywood couple enjoying their privilege and wealth.

Paula's car is nice, of course, but more practical. Tinted windows and a frame that sits higher off the ground – Paula learned long ago that people would be more than willing to leap into an open window, or a convertible if given the chance to get to her.

Paula's sunglasses cover most of her face and when Simon pulls a cigarette out and cracks the window, she snatches it from between his lips before he can light it and breaks it in her hand.

"Hey!" he says.

"No," she says. "Not in my car."

"I'll get it detailed," he promises reaching for the pack but the look she gives him brokers no arguments and he mutters under his breath but doesn't try to smoke again. In her stereo, Simon recognizes the newest offering from Kelly Clarkson. "You know I actually like this quite a lot."

"I've been listening to it nonstop for days," Paula admits. When Simon lapses into silence, his attention on his phone, she sings along, the open sunroof warming the top of her head pleasantly. "Then you don't need to be with me, and I don't need to hold on," she hums along, carrying the note quite well.

"I'm happy we're together," Simon says rather starkly out of the blue. She looks at him to make sure his face is sincere.

"Me too, baby," she says. "It's been fun so far."

"So far?" he says. "You expect bad things?"

"No," she says carefully. "But I have to be prepared on some level if things don't' work out."

"Why on earth wouldn't they work out?" he says. Paula isn't usually pessimistic, quite the contrary.

"Don't be naïve," she says. "We fight more often than anything else."

"Yeah, but it's fun," he says. "Darling, take this exit." She flicks the signal and pulls off the freeway.

"Fighting is fun?" she asks.

"Making up is fun," he amends. "Do you not have fun with me?"

"I do," she says. "Sometimes I worry I can't think properly when you're around though."

"You can't see straight around me?" he says, remembering Randy's early warning and predictions for the season.

"Something like that," she says. The conversation is put on hold while he directs her through the neighborhood and when he lets them in the gate, she's struck speechless anyway. The house is enormous, sprawling and new. In the driveway are several trucks belonging to various workmen and Terri's car. Paula tries not to feel nervous but she flushes anyway. Before they get out of the car, Simon leans over and kisses her cheek.

"I can't wait to show you around," he says. Suddenly, he's giddy as a schoolgirl. Nothing makes Simon happier than real estate.

All Paula can do is look around with her mouth hanging open. Every detail is immaculate from the pristine lawn to the doorknobs and light fixtures. Paula's heels echo loudly in the front hall and he takes her hand to pull her though the house, pointing out the features and new furniture. He makes her sit on the sofa, spin the light dimmer and test out the intercom that runs through the house. He shows her the security station, the back yard, and finally, the master bedroom.

"There's enough closet space for both of us," he says.

"God you know how to turn me on," she says. "But what will I need with your closet space?"

"If you wanted to keep things here," he says. "For when you spend the night."

The closets are enormous, there are two walk-ins with built in shelving, wide counters and in one, a window to let in the light. The tub in the bathroom is built for two, at least, and the shower looks nice as well.

"Okay," she says. "Show me the rest."

Simon doesn't bother showing her the servant's quarters but when they go to the guest suite, Terri is there, talking about flooring with a contractor.

"Hello," Simon says, kissing her cheek. Terri surprises Paula by hugging her as well. It isn't the first time Paula has seen Terri since she has started sleeping with the Simon, but it's the first since Paula knows that Terri knows.

"What do you think of the house?" Terri says throwing her hands in the air.

"It's... not like anything I've ever seen," Paula says. "You two did a great job."

"Took long enough," Simon says.

"I know," Terri says, sighing. "All this effort and I don't even get to reap the rewards."

Paula blushes, turns away slightly.

"Oh, I don't blame you," Terri says, quickly. "I mean, this was always going to happen, wasn't it?"

"I never meant..." Paula says quickly.

"It was," Simon agrees. "Paula is the only one who doesn't know that."

"Simon!" Paula says.

"She'll never admit it," Simon says, pulling her close.

"It's all right," Terri says, her face patiently kind while Paula looks more and more mortified. "It really is. This is the way life works out."

"I did not plan for my life to work out like this," Paula says, looking up at Simon. He just grins.

"Well, you've been lucky before," he says. But for all the teasing, Simon can see the discomfort Paula is feeling as if it's coming off her in great waves and so he excuses them and leaves Terri to finish her meeting.

"I just... I can't see how she isn't upset with me," Paula says.

"Give her a little credit," Simon says. "I'm sure she doesn't like it, but she's a rational adult. We can all be friends."

"If you say so," Paula says. He wants to show her the balcony attached to the master suite and so they step out. The view of the hills is stunning and it over looks the pool. The pool has no water in it, but Paula can use her imagination and knows when everything is finished, it will be stunning. Simon stands with his arms crossed, looking around as if he is king of all that he can see.

When he puts his arm over her shoulder, she feels, for a moment, like his queen.

Slow News Day (Part Nine)

2009-03-21T16:56:37Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Nine)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: R
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

On St. Patrick's Day, Paula wakes up to Simon pinching her.

"Ow," she says, smacking his hand away. "Quit it."

"But you're not wearing anything green," he says, capturing another bit of flesh between his fingers.

"I'm not wearing anything at all," she argues, sliding out of the bed to avoid him. "I could pinch you back!"

"Nope," Simon says, tossing the covers aside. His boxer shorts have a line of green around the elastic waist. She rolls her eyes and puts on her robe, making sure there is green on it before putting it on. There are rose stems, so she's safe.

"It's amazing the lengths you go to just to be obnoxious," she says.

"Aren't you proud?" he asks. She ties the sash tight before walking into the bathroom and closing the door hard behind her. "I'm taking your silence as a yes!" he calls.

Simon leaves her house to go home instead of driving into work together. He needs clean clothes, needs to spend some time by himself. Simon is much more introverted than the world gives him credit for. When he spends too much time with people, a lot of people or a few friends, he tends to get moody and closed-off. This includes Paula and she understands his need. She doesn't want to be around a moody Simon anyway.

He sticks his head in the shower while she's in there, her hair full of suds.

"I'm leaving," he says, eye-balling her up and down.

"All right," she says. "I'll see you this evening."

"You look ridiculous by the way," Simon says, reaching his arm in to touch her butt. Of all her body parts, it's her backside he can't keep his hands off of.

"I'm in the shower," she says, turning around to rinse the shampoo from her hair. "No one is supposed to see me."

"Not even me?" he asks.

"You're letting the warm air out," she says.

"Fine, fine," he says. "Bye, love."

"Bye," she calls.

When she gets out of the shower, she wraps herself in a large, plush towel and uses its pair to dry her hair. In her bedroom, her bed looks rumpled and lived-in. The sheets almost certainly need to be changed and when she picks the comforter up off the floor where Simon had kicked it off in early morning haste, she finds one of his socks underneath it. It does a strange thing to her, seeing this intimate detail of every day life lying on her floor. She feels like her stomach bottoms out, like her heart misses a beat. It makes what they've been doing feel real. She knows that out there, somewhere, Simon is driving home with one sock on and she's the only one who knows it.

When Daniel comes by to pick her up, she's still in a weird mood. Daniel has only recently been put back on the Idol payroll. He has been on tour with another artist but Paula has only leased him out and now he's come back home to roost for a while. Daniel has been with her since her first tour and everyone knows it.

"We need to do something about that hair," Daniel says, pushing his sunglasses up on his head.

"Hello to you, too," Paula says, letting him the house. "You haven't seen me in three months, at least, and all you have to say is how my hair looks bad?"

"Meow," Daniel says. "What's your problem?"

"Nothing," she says. "Just tired." Paula walks into the kitchen to retrieve her phone but is stopped by Daniel's exclamation.

"Oh my God," he says.

"What?" she says, whirling around to face him.

"You had sex!" he says.

"What?" she says.

"I've known you for 600 years, I can tell," Daniel says.

"You can't tell," she says. "Liar."

"You're walking funny," he says. She isn't, but still she glances down at her backside, which only confirms it for him. "You big ho! Who is it?"

"It's my good friend none of your damn business!" she says.

"As long as it's not Simon Cowell, I don't care who it is," Daniel says with a chuckle.

Paula swallows uneasily.

"Oh hell no," he yells. "Girl, I leave for one season and look what happens? Please tell me he slipped you a Mickey."

"He slipped me something," she mutters with a saucy grin.

"Ew! Ew! Wrong! Cowell wing-wong is just wrong!" he says.

"You're the only gay man who can't say penis," she says, mockingly.

"What happened? What made you give in?" he asks.

"I didn't give in," she argues. "And we're not going to talk about this. Come on, you can help me pick my dress upstairs."

"Not going to talk about it? Are you kidding?" he asks.

"No," she says, stopping at the foot of the stairs. "Listen to me very carefully, Daniel Combs, because I'm going to say it one time and you are going to hear it and hear it clearly. I am not going to talk about it with you and furthermore, you are not going to talk about it with anyone else and if I so much as see your name or the words 'close friend of Paula Abdul' in the tabloids, you and I are over."

"Paula, come on, you know I'd never..."

"Do you understand?" she snaps.

"Yes," he says. "I understand."

"Good," she says. She takes a deep breath and smiles. "You know, I was thinking of wearing green tonight, do you think that's too much?" she says, continuing up the stairs.

"You are a scary woman," Daniel says, cautiously climbing the stairs behind her.

On set, Simon has to help Paula down the steps of the main stage. She's wearing a long dress and heels and feels a little uncertain on her feet. Simon's hand in hers guides her to her chair.

Paula knows that the Simon people see on the show isn't really Simon. He plays a character; he plays the villain. It's a version of him self to be certain, but it's an exaggerated caricature. The real Simon would never call her stupid, the real Simon let's her talk, but the American Idol judge Simon Cowell cuts her off and presses his hand to her mouth, he casually adjusts her microphone so that it will drop mid-sentence.

Their fights on air tend to lean toward the staged as well. She lets him rile her up, fights back with more vigor than she actually feels. When they cut to the break, he leans in and pokes her ribs.

"Kiss me," he says.

"No way," she says.

"Come on," he says. "I want to know you aren't mad at me."

"I'm not," she says. "I know exactly what you're doing. I see the little wheels turning in your head."

"Kiss me, darling," he begs and pouts a little.

"Simon," she whines.

"Of for heaven's sake, kiss the man," Kara says.

"Thank you Kara," Simon says.

"I just can't stand to see your old wrinkly face pouting like that," Kara says.

"You will be dealt with later," Simon says, "But first, I need some Paula lips."

"Fine," Paula says and leans in for a quick peck. But when she pulls back, Simon pushes forward and doesn't stop until they hear the pit start to hoot and holler. She grins at the people in front of them and rolls her eyes, pretends to wipe her mouth. Simon looks smug and makes sure his arm holds her chair in place. After the show, Simon pops into her dressing room. Her usual entourage is there, or at least, some variation of it. There are regulars, like Jimmy who comes nearly every week, and then there are the more interchangeable members, like Daniel or her pet DJs.

"What a motley crew," Simon says. "May I steal Paula away from you for a moment?"

"No," Daniel says, quickly. "Anything you have to say in front of her you can say in front of us."

"Shut up," Paula says to Daniel. "Simon, come with me." They step into the bathroom because it's really the only place that isn't currently swarming with people. Simon looks around curiously.

"I really don't miss having a dressing room in this godforsaken hallway," he says.

"What did you need?" she asks.

"I wanted to know what you are doing?" he says. "Want to come home with me?"

"We're going to a thing," Paula says. "But you could come."

"I don't want to go out with your man-harem," he says.

"Fine," she says, draping her arms around his neck. "I don't want you in my man-harem anyway." He kisses her and pulls back.

"But you'll come over after?" he asks.

"Sure," she gives in. "Why not?"

"Brilliant," he says. "Also, I did not miss Daniel. I thought he went away."

"He's back," she says. "And I know he can be somewhat over the top..."

"Like Adam Lambert is somewhat gay," Simon interjects.

"But he's a dear friend and he makes me look good."

"He does," Simon agrees. "Did you cut your hair?"

"Daniel gave it a trim," she says. "Said something about cutting the terrible out of it."

"Want me to thump him?" Simon asks. She considers it for a moment.

"No," she says. "But he does know you and I are... more horizontal than normal. He said I was 'walking funny'." Simon grins.

"I tried to make you walk funny, but you dancers are so flexible!" he says.

"Baby, I can bend in ways you haven't even seen yet," she says before opening the door.

"Cruel," he mutters. Everyone watches them emerge.

"Everything all right?" Daniel asks pointedly.

"We both had burritos for lunch," Simon says. "Wouldn't go in there if I were you."

"Ew, Simon!" she says. "Go away please."

"Gladly," Simon says and steps out the door.

By the time Paula gets to Simon's house, it is late and she's tired deep down to her bones. Simon has left the door unlocked for her and she sheds things as she makes her way up the stairs. She leaves her shoes by the door, her jacket gets slung over the banister of the stairs and she drops her purse just inside her bedroom door. Simon is in bed and the TV is the only thing on. It lights the room with an eerie blue glow.

"Simon?" she whispers. But he is sleeping and when she looks at the screen, it's the last couple minutes of today's episode of idol. Ryan is signing off and she knows that soon the camera will swing around to show the judges pushing their chairs back while the credits roll. She shuts the television off and removes her clothes in the dark. She shuts the bathroom door before turning on the light and looks at herself in the mirror. She's standing in her underwear and she leans against the counter. She's tired and her make-up is beginning to fail her.

She washes her face and brushes her teeth and tiptoes into the bedroom. Simon does not sprawl across the mattress like she does, so there is plenty of room for her to sneak in without disturbing him.

"You aren't going to wake me at all!"

His voice scares her and she jumps.

"Jesus Christ, Simon!" she says. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"The whole point of you coming over was so I could see you," he says, switching on a lamp.

"It's been a long day, I wanted to let you sleep," she argues.

"I don't want to sleep," he says. "I want you."

"I'm tired," she says. "I can see you're tired too."

"I'm not tired," he argues petulantly.

"Simon, you're at fussy level ten and I need you at about a fussy level four," she sighs.

"Oh shut up."

"See? Now we're fighting."

"We're not fighting, you're crabby."

"You calling me names isn't fighting?"

"You said I was fussy! Which I am now!" he says.

Paula throws the covers back and gets out of bed.

"I'm going home."

"I didn't know you were naked under there!" he says. She's not naked, but she is only in her underwear. "I wouldn't have said anything if I knew you were naked. Babe, come back to bed."

"No," she says, crossing her arms. "This is all about sex, isn't it? If we weren't having sex, we would never be able to stand one another."

"You know that's not true," he says. "We got along very well without sex."

"It is true," she cries. "The only thing we're good at is fucking and fighting."

"Paula," he says. "What in the world has gotten into you?"

"I don't know," she says. "This is all going way too fast. I need some space, I think."

"You don't need space," he says. "Come here, just come here."

"No," she says, pulling on her jeans. "That's always what happens, Simon. I start to have doubts and you talk me out of them, but I always have them again, don't I?"

"Paula..."

"I'm going home," she says.

"No," he says, getting out of bed. "You are not going home."

"Is that a challenge?" she demands picking up her blouse but he comes over and pulls it out of her hands and throws it to the floor.

"It's a fact," he says. She looks furious and he thinks for a moment she's going to slap him across the face. He even tenses for it.

"You have some nerve," she says, her voice low and dangerous. "Some fucking nerve."

"If you think I'm going to let you walk out of here without talking about this you are out of your mind," he says. "It's like you're a completely different person. What happened?"

"You're an ass, that's what happened."

"No," he says. "You came in here and picked a fight so you could be mad."

"Why would I do that?" she asks.

"That's what I would like to know," he says. "Darling, all I want to do is see you, be with you. What are you afraid of?"

"Maybe Daniel was right," she sighs, putting one hand on her hip and using the other to smooth the wrinkles from her forehead. "Maybe I just gave into you because you were so persistent."

"Jesus," he says. Her words hurt.

"I don't know what I want!" she says.

"Six hours ago we were necking in your bathroom!" he says.

"I know," she says. "I just feel all of a sudden like I'm unraveling inside."

"You're not unraveling," he says. "You're just tired. Exhausted. It's been a long week and we just need to get some sleep."

"Maybe," she says.

"Will you come to bed?" he asks. She looks up at him, meets his eyes and it's like the real Paula snaps back into place. Her eyes get really wide and fill with tears.

"Oh my God, Simon! I'm so sorry. I just freaked out, I don't know why!" she says, bringing her hands to her mouth.

"It's okay," he says opening his arms. She rushes into them, presses her face against his bare chest. She starts to cry and feels small and fragile in his arms. He rests his chin on her head. "It's all right."

"I'm sorry," she says. "I just... I got really upset and I don't know why."

"It's fine," he says. She's had a hard few months of it – the suicide, the Idol press and rigorous filming schedule and she's been piling on the extra work with all her jewelry and he knows she's scheduled in the studio all next week. He's surprised she hasn't shown signs of wear before now. "Come on. In bed with you."

He undoes the button of her jeans and pushes them over her hips so they can fall and she can step out of them. He pushes down her panties and unhooks her bra. He steps out of his own boxers. He doesn't want anything between them. In the bed, they are skin to skin, and he holds her close, almost too tightly but she clings to him.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm not in control of my own life anymore," she says into the darkness. "Like my life is a train that's going too fast around the bend and all I can do is ride it and hope for the best." Her cheek is pressed against his chest and when she blinks, he can feel the flutter of her eyelashes against his skin. "But if the train goes off the tracks, it's not just my life that is affected. It's Idol, it's my staff, it's you. It's too much."

"You're in charge of your own life," he says. "Idol is just a television show. It isn't worth you feeling bad all the time."

"I love Idol," she says. "I love it. I've put my heart and soul into it."

"I know you do," he says. "But if it's making you ill, you need to think about your life beyond it."

"I can't imagine my life without it anymore," she admits.

"Your contract is still up in the air," he says. "Maybe you should think about what you really want to do. To move on from Idol or take a season off?"

"Leave Idol?" she asks, sitting up and looking at him in the darkness. "I could never leave Idol."

"It was just a thought."

"A thought that would leave America and the contestants at your mercy without me to help. I don't think so, mister." It's a small joke, but he's glad to hear her make it.

"Good," he says. "Can you imagine if it was just Randy, Kara, and I? I would shoot myself with only those two."

"Me too," she says. "Besides, five years ago you promised me that we would never do the show without each other."

"I did," he agrees. "But I want what's best for you."

"What's best for me is being with you," she says.

"That's what I've been telling you all night," he says. "Did I or did I not give you a quite eloquent speech about us being like two puzzle pieces or matching or something?"

"Yes, quite eloquent indeed," she says.

"So?" he prompts.

"So what?" she says. "I'm here aren't I?"

"Yes," he says, running his hand over her bare back. "Naked and in my bed, right where you belong."

"Well get your fill," she says. "I'm busy for the rest of the week."

"You have to sleep," he argues.

"That's what you think," she says. "I recorded my entire first album without sleep."

"Yeah right," Simon says.

"I'm serious," Paula says. "I worked all day and booked a studio at night. Sometimes I would sleep for an hour in my car, but sometimes I wouldn't."

"You know, that actually explains a lot about you," Simon says. She smacks him but he catches her hand and kisses her knuckles.

"It was hard," she says. "I forget now, but oh lord, it was hard."

"Paid off in the end," he says.

"I guess," she says.

"You guess?" he squeaks. "You're on the best show on television and while I haven't seen your bank statements lately, that jewelry has got to be making you a small fortune."

"It is," she says. "Hand over fist."

"Nothing turns me on like a wealthy woman," he says, nuzzling his face into her neck.

"You're a pig," she says.

"You like it," he says.

"It's a sickness," she agrees. "I'm sick."

"Oh yes," he grins. "You're a very naughty girl."

She should smack him, she should, but because he's so adorable she doesn't.

This time.

Slow News Day (Part Seven)

2009-03-15T02:10:22Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Seven)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: R
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

Simon invites her over late on a Monday night. Idol always makes their week crazy and he wants to see her before the ride starts again. She comes straight from some charity dinner or event, he sort of zoned out as she'd described it to him on the phone. When she arrives, though, she's all made up in full make-up and the highest heels. She leaves a trail of sweet fragrance in the air behind her as she passes him to set her purse down.

He has a drink in his hand and has been drinking lightly for a few hours now. He feels warm and relaxed and the sight of Paula in his home floods him with warmth. He's happy to see her. She stands in front of him, waiting for him to tell her where to go, what he's been doing.

"Are you staying?" he asks. They hadn't really talked about it on the phone.

"I thought I might," she says. She pulls off her heavy earrings and takes off her rings and drops the whole lot into her purse. All the jewelry gets heavy.

"Well, we could putter around for an hour or two, but honestly, I just want to go to bed," he says. She looks slightly relieved.

"Me too," she confesses. He points to the stairs and pats her butt as they climb. His bedroom has seemed empty since Terri moved out. There's a whole closet that's empty and Simon is tidy, so there's never shoes lying on the floor or dresses over the back of a chair like when Terri was here. When Paula walks in, though, the room seems to fill up with life. She pulls the pins out of her hair and drops them on the dresser. She shakes out her hair in the mirror.

"Pretty," he comments. She smiles at him.

"Simon," she says. "I think I'm ready."

"For bed?" he asks, confused but the sly smile on her face rights him soon enough "Oh!" he says. "Good."

"Good?" she says. "I say I want to make love to you and you just say good?"

"Let's not fight," he blurts. "Trust me, I'm thrilled."

She looks less than convinced but when he kisses her, she allows it.

For a moment anyway.

"God, Simon, you taste like a bar!" she says. He rolls his eyes and surrenders.

"Fine, I'll brush my teeth but I want you in far less when I return," he orders.

"Yeah, yeah," she says. Simon likes to order her around but she seldom follows them. When he comes out, she's still dressed but she's at least on the bed. He doesn't mind too much. Undressing her is just going to have to be part of the fun. Her feet are bare and her toenails are painted a bright red.

When he reaches for the hem of her shirt, she stops him.

"Wait," she says. "Doesn't this feel weird?"

"Weird?"

"Like... not natural," she says. "I always just thought this would happen naturally and now it feels... scheduled."

"Jesus Christ," Simon says and sits next to her on the bed heavily. "Will nothing make you happy?"

"I'm not unhappy!" she argues. "I just want it to feel right."

"It's going to feel right," he says, trying to reign in his exasperation. "But you can't know that until you try."

He is right, she knows he is right but something is holding her back. Every time he reaches for her with that look of desire on his face, she feels a twinge of fear. It is the fear of a life without Simon. The fear that she'll wake up alone, the fear that in the morning, he'll realize he doesn't want her after all, that she wasn't good, that she wasn't worth the trouble. There's a reason they've never done this in the almost nine years they've known each other and maybe those reasons are still good.

She takes too long to respond.

"Here's what's going to happen," he says. "I'm not going to do anything. When you're ready, you can make the first move."

"Simon," she says, but he stands up.

"I'm going downstairs," he says.

Left alone, she flops down and presses her face into the pillow. She wants to be ready, had tried to talk herself into being ready, but it hadn't worked. She'd faltered and froze up. Now, Simon is angry. He is being understanding, but he is still upset, she can tell. She's upset too. She's never had a problem jumping into bed with a handsome man before, why is this so difficult?

"Because it's Simon," she says out loud to herself. Since day one, things have been different with Simon. But she knows she needs to go downstairs and face him, try to get him to understand. She looks at the dresser and sees Simon's glass sitting there, still a quarter full of amber liquid.

She hasn't had a drink in a few years, hasn't let a drop of alcohol pass her lips since the drinking rumors had begun to spiral out of control. Not a sip of wine or a flute of champagne on a special occasion, nothing. But now, she picks the glass up and sniffs it, holds it up to the light. Then, bracing herself, she throws it back with one swallow. She forces herself not to cough or sputter. When she has control of her breathing, she sets the glass down and goes downstairs.

Simon sits in front of the TV, looking irritated. She stands in front of him, blocking his view.

"Are you going home?" he asks, his tone bored.

"No," she says. She doesn't let him ask anything else, instead she crawls on his lap and kisses him forcefully. He was right, she needs to push through her fear and the only way to do it is to be bold and not slow down enough for her fear to catch up with her brain. She forces her tongue into his mouth, but then he pushes her shoulders back.

"Did you drink alcohol?" he asks, confused.

"Simon," she says. "Just kiss me." He looks like me might argue for a moment but then gives into her. He slides his fingers into her hair, tilts his head, and gives her what she asks for.

Paula doesn't sleep. She tells herself she's having trouble because Simon is snoring beside her in the bed, but she fears nothing could get her to sleep at this point. She doesn't want to fall asleep and wake up to everything having had changed in the night.

But things are different. She has that delicious, deep ache that comes with sex. She feels soft, pliable and her weight compresses the mattress beneath her. Her skin still hums with residual sensations – she can still feel his fingers skimming over her, into her, feel the way he pulled at her hair. When she closes her eyes, she can see his face twisted in pleasure, in her ears she can still hear the echo of him gasping her name.

Simon sleeps hard on his stomach, his face obscured by the pillow. His back is broad and he takes up more than his fair share of the bed, but she doesn't mind. She likes that their legs touch beneath the covers – likes that he'd fallen asleep naked and when she'd reached for her top he'd grabbed it from her and tossed it across the room.

"No clothes," he'd said. Like he'd worked too hard to get them off her for them to go back on so soon. She isn't ashamed of her body; she knows she looks good for her age. Right now, she feels younger than her 47 years. She feels like a teenager, feels that rush of a new experience, the giddiness that comes with the first time. She and Simon have spent so much time together that they don't have a lot of first times left. This was a big one, though.

She watches the sun come up through the window. She is tired now, but it's going to be easier to stay up than to sleep for just an hour or two. She thinks about her dogs at home who had to spend the night outside in the fenced off part of the yard. They won't be pleased when she comes home.

"Paula?"

Simon's voice startles her. He'd been sleeping so peacefully only a moment before, but when she turns to look at him, he's propped up on one elbow, looking at her with a furrowed expression of concern.

"Hi," she says. Her voice is even more hoarse than usual and her words come from deep in her throat.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

"Fine," she says.

"Did you sleep?" he presses. She looks back at the window and catches the very end of the sunset. The sky is losing the pink color and fading into the blue of the proper day.

"No," she says. "Not much."

He reaches for her, gathers her up into his arms and breathes deeply her scent.

"You smell like shagging," he says.

"So do you."

"It's intoxicating," he says. "Are you happy?"

"Sure," she says.

"Not exactly a shout it from the rooftops answer," he says, kissing her shoulder, her neck.

"I thought I wouldn't be," she admits. "I thought something terrible would happen."

"Volcanoes erupting, earthquakes, plagues?" he offers. "Toads from the sky?"

"Something like that," she says. "But I feel pretty good."

"Good," he says. "Now lets stay in bed until show time."

"I wish," she says, running her hand over his forearm. "I have a dress fitting at 10:30."

"What time is it now?" he asks.

"Early," she promises. "I'm not going anywhere just yet."

On the set, Simon is in quite the mood. He's friendly to the stagehands, he chats up the audience and though Paula didn't witness it, Randy swears he saw Simon sign an autograph. Kara brings her fiancé with her and Paula stops by her dressing room to say hello. When she gets there, Simon is shaking Mike's hand and making small talk.

Paula stares flabbergasted and Kara just shrugs.

"Paula, will you help me with something?" Kara says, and pulls Paula into her bathroom.

"What is going on?" Paula asks.

"Simon is being nice, and not just to Mike, but to me!" Kara says. "But I have him all figured out. I'm on to his game."

"His game?"

"He's trying to get into my head," Kara says. "Luring me into a false sense of security so when he attacks, it's all the more devastating."

"Sassy," Paula says. "Sweetheart, Simon is mean and powerful, but not that smart. Don't read too much into it."

"If not that, then Simon is in a good mood, legitimately, and that I don't believe."

"Simon is allowed to be in a good mood," Paula says. Kara narrows her eyes at Paula and puts her hands on her hips.

"All right, what do you know?" Kara demands.

"Nothing!" she says. "It's just, I know Simon well, and he isn't always a terror."

"Well not to you," Kara says. Paula rolls her eyes and opens the bathroom door. She doesn't want to talk about it anymore and is afraid the more Kara presses, the less she'll be able to hide. The last thing Paula needs is for Kara to find out the truth about Paula and Simon. Paula knows Kara and knows that Kara uses everything for inspiration in song writing. Paula doesn't need to hear Kelly Clarkson or Pink singing a song about her life on the radio.

Simon grins when Paula comes out and she goes to stand next to him. He puts his arm around her and lets his hand slide down to her butt. It's not necessarily unusual behavior for Simon to cop a feel, but now Paula feels like he's broadcasting their secret.

"Mike was telling me about his trip to Spain," Simon says to her.

"It was a lot of fun," Mike says. Paula knows Mike only superficially. He doesn't come to a lot of tapings and didn't accompany Kara on the audition circuit.

"I haven't been to Spain since the tour," Paula says.

"What tour?" Simon asks, looking confused. He can't remember any Idol press that would've taken her there, especially without him.

"The Spellbound tour," she says.

"Oh, right. I forgot you used to be a pop star," he says. He's teasing, but she still elbows him hard enough the ribs that he puts a little distance between them and rubs the sore spot tenderly. A show runner knocks on the open door.

"Wardrobe," she calls. It's time to start getting ready for the show. Paula's dress fitting was only a few hours ago and she loves the dress – it's small, white, and very short. She's nervous about their entrance. Simon had suggested that they get a proper introduction on the new stage and now she'll have to walk down the steps and climb up to the judges' dais in a dress that wasn't designed for movement.

"See you in a bit," Kara says. In the hall, they have to go different directions. He kisses her cheek before they part.

In the make-up chair, she receives a tongue-lashing.

"You look exhausted!" the make-up girl screeches. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Nope," Paula says. "So cake it on, because HD is nobody's friend."

She doesn't see Simon again until they're standing back stage, waiting for the screen to part, to reveal them as dramatically as possible, per Simon's style. Paula is actually nervous. The dress had fit perfectly only hours before, but with the microphone pack tucked into the back of it, the dress is tight and she feels a little lightheaded.

"Stunning," Simon says. Randy makes a fake gagging noise and Paula sticks her tongue out at him.

"I'm nervous," Kara announces to no one in particular, so Randy takes her hand. Simon, not wanting to be one upped, snatches up Paula's hand and squeezes hard.

"This is going to be fun," he whispers to her.

"What?" she says. He just smiles at her, that shit eating grin he wears so well. "Simon, no."

"Here we go," calls out Debbie, the stage manager.

"Be good," she hisses and then the stage begins to part. The roar of the crowd is overwhelming. Kara squeaks beside her. Simon simply grins.

The broadcast seems both long and short at the same time. Simon touches her leg under the table, whispers dirty things into her ear. At the commercial break, he drags her backstage and kisses her in an empty office. She can't control him, all she can do hope for the best. When he starts tugging on her dress, she announces to the world that he's trying to undress her and this only seems to make him more giddy. She can't win.

After the broadcast, she's unsurprised when Ken drags them aside.

"What the hell was that?" he demands.

"I know, we were seven minutes over but we tried to keep it short," Simon says.

"Not that!" Ken says. "You two!"

"Oh come on," Simon says dismissively.

"This is a family show," Ken says. "You two were all over each other."

"He was all over me," Paula pipes up, not feeling like taking the fall for him.

"You used to be able to control him," Ken says. Paula doesn't really think that's true.

"I don't need to be controlled," Simon says.

"Look," Ken sighs, rubbing his forehead. "We all know that half the audience watches the judges' table more than the contestants, and we also know that it's not Randy and Kara they're looking at. You two are the heart of the show, but I need you to tone it down a bit. It's coming from the network."

"Sure," Simon says. "The network."

"Are we done?" Paula asks. Her feet are killing her and she really hates being dressed down like she's a child, not the second highest paid person on the number one show in America.

"Sure," Ken says. He looks tired too. She turns on her heel and walks out. It only takes Simon a moment to catch up with her.

"He's an idiot," Simon says, falling into step beside her. "Ignore him, I do."

"He's right. We were... you were..."

"What?" Simon says. "We put on a good show and everyone knows it."

"Oh is that what we were doing?" she says, throwing open her dressing room door. "Putting on a show?"

"Paula," Simon whines. There are people in her dressing room and she stops short, causing Simon to bump into her.

"Everyone get out," she says. It's unlike Paula to be so abrupt – usually she falls over herself trying to be accommodating but right now, she looks like she's about to have one hell of a fight with Simon. Jimmy, one of her closest friends, makes a surprised face and ushers everyone into the hall quickly. Paula closes the door and turns to face him.

"Are we really fighting?" Simon asks skeptically.

"No," she says. "I just wanted to kiss you for a few minutes." She grins and he laughs.

"You're a better actress than I give you credit for," he says and pulls her to him. She lets the backhanded compliment slide and focuses on his lips for a few minutes. When he pulls away, she's a little breathless. "What do you say we get out of here?"

"Can't," she says. "I have dinner plans."

"What?" he says.

"Jimmy's here, my friend Alan, and Johnjay and Rich came all the way from Arizona!" she says.

"Ugh, those DJs?" Simon says. "Why do you keep inviting them back?"

"They're great guys," she says. "You think someone without your level of fame or wealth is inherently inferior."

"I do not!" he says. "That's a terrible thing to say."

"Well you treat them like it," Paula says. "Simon, they're waiting, I have to change."

"Turn around, I'll get the zipper for you," he says. She does and has the dress off before she realizes that if she comes out in another outfit, everyone will know she changed in front of him. She's pondering this when he starts talking. "Paula, do you really think I'm the monster you tell me I am?"

She sighs and hangs up the dress and faces him in her strapless bra and underwear.

"No," she says. "I just think that sometimes – hey, eyes up here mister – I think that sometimes you don't consider your words carefully enough before you say them and end up hurting people's feelings."

"I'm being honest!" he says. "The truth is important to hear."

"Yes," she agrees, pulling on some pants. "But delivering it with some tact is a certain sort of kindness."

"That's rubbish," he says. She shrugs into her blouse.

"I don't think so. I won you over with my kindness, didn't I?"

She has a point. She'd realized early on that hatred wasn't going to get them, or American Idol, anywhere and had decided to just be nice to him until he couldn't hate her anymore. It had worked – he'd warmed up to her and one day it was like a switch had flipped – they'd gotten on famously. They still bickered, but they hardly ever fought like they used to anymore.

"I'll come with you," he says. "To dinner. With your friends and I'll be nice about it."

"No way," she says laughing.

"What? Why?"

"Because you aren't invited," she says. "Because I already made the reservation, and because then the whole night will be about you and me instead of a group of people having dinner and I work hard enough keeping those DJs off my back about you."

"Those DJs, your friends," he says.

"Shut up."

"Will you call me after?" he says.

"Simon," she says. "Simon, listen. I adore you, you know I do. And I had a great time last night and I want to have sex with you many more times in the future, but you've never been needy or clingy before so I really don't want you to start now, okay?"

"God," he says. "I should be pissed off by that but instead I'm just kind of turned on."

She grins at him and he smiles back.

"Go away now."

"Yeah, yeah," he says. In the hall, there is a line of people waiting to get into see her. Her usual entourage as well as the two DJs he recognizes from meeting them last year, and a bunch of other people. They all look at him expectantly and he realizes they were supposed to have been fighting. He glances at the door and shakes his head. "Such a little pill."

Everyone chuckles nervously as he walks away.

Slow News Day (Part Six)

2009-03-12T16:42:32Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Six)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: R
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.
Author's Note: Please take note of the rating change.

They are unendurable now. Paula can see it all around her. Randy says more than once that he's grateful for the buffer of Kara but Kara simply seethes. She's already uncomfortable about the bad press she's receiving, all the "Why is she here?" headlines regarding the addition of a fourth judge. Now, she must sit next to Paula as Paula simultaneously ignores her and annoys her.

Paula is precariously close to annoying her self, even. She knows that she and Simon shouldn't behave unprofessionally on camera, but she has trouble containing her self when she's around him. He's no better. He touches her almost constantly, always whispers in her ear. Ryan will ask Paula questions, and she'll have no idea what he's talking about. She'll try to listen to someone singing, but instead, Simon will talk to her and then she's left commenting on outfits and song choice because she has no idea what the performance was really like.

Paula can feel Kara losing her cool exterior and she thinks it's only a matter of time before the younger judge snaps and says something she'll regret. She and Kara are friends, have been friends for years, but Kara has never been patient and has never been good at holding her tongue. Paula doesn't call her Sassy for no reason.

Simon comes for dinner at least twice a week now. He doesn't like to stay at his house, and Paula is just as happy for him to come over. There's something impersonal, something sterile about Simon's house. She's never warmed to the place. Paula's house is considerably smaller, but at least it feels like a home. And with the dogs, it's just easier. Paula leaves the door unlocked on the nights she expects him. She gives him his own remote to her gate so he can come in without buzzing first.

Tonight, Paula is making dinner herself. She's tired of take out and there are a few things she can make, a few basic meals. She doesn't do her own grocery shopping, she hasn't in years, so opening the refrigerator is always an adventure. She's standing in front of the open door when Simon comes shuffling into the kitchen, his hands full of his keys, his phone, and his cigarettes.

"Hey babe," he says.

"Hi," she says, most of her attention still focused on the food in front of her. She pulls out a pound of ground beef and an onion and lets the doors close. "Hi!" she says again, as if she's just realized he was here. It's the first she's seen him in almost two days and she's glad he's here. She used to wish for the days they didn't film and she didn't have to see him, but those days are gone.

"Are you cooking?"

"Yep," she says. "I think spaghetti is safe, don't you?"

He sits on one of the stools at her island counter and chooses to say nothing. Paula has cooked for him a few times before and it's never bad, but even she admits it's not really one of her skills. But pasta is generally safe. Or so he hopes. He watches her open the meat and dump the whole square into a frying pan to brown. He turns on the small TV set and surfs around, pausing at the news, on a few of the entertainment stations, on MTV for a brief moment and finally settles on the BBC. Paula is starting to get used to the noise of a British newscaster droning in the background of her life.

But Simon doesn't really watch the TV. He watches Paula, the way she leans against the counter, moving the beef around with a spatula, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"Want some help?" he asks.

"No," she says. He doesn't know if he's because she really doesn't want help or she doesn't think he can do it, but either way he won't ask again. "Wait," she says. "You can set the table."

Setting the table for two takes about two minutes. He can carry the napkins, plates, and silverware in one trip and does so. Paula prefers cloth napkins and he picks out some navy blue ones out of a drawer full of them. She has enough napkins, dishes, and silverware to host a dinner party for twenty, but she never does it.

"We should throw a party," Simon says, voicing the thought out loud. She's dumping a jar of red sauce into the pan with the meat and finishes this task before answering him.

"Why?"

"For fun," he says. "We could have it here."

"Oh could we?" she says. "How nice of you to volunteer that."

"It'd be fun."

"Your house is much better for parties," she says. "It's bigger, more open."

"It doesn't have to be large," he presses. "Ten people."

"You want to throw a dinner party together?" she asks.

"Mostly I want you to throw it and for me to come."

"I see," she says.

"It could be the grand announcement that you and I are finally sleeping together," he says with a grin.

"Simon, we're not sleeping together," she points out.

"Well, we haven't yet but I'm not suggesting we throw the party tomorrow!" She grins and shakes her head. If anything, he is persistent.

They haven't slept together, but every evening they spend with each other, they come a little bit closer. They kiss for longer, more intensely and seriously. One night, they go from sitting on the couch to lying across it. Another night, Simon slips his hand beneath her blouse. She stands up and realizes that he has unhooked her bra and it hangs loose from her shoulders. She looks at him, surprised, and he just looks smug.

Tonight, after dinner, Simon sits on the couch and Paula straddles his lap. He likes it, likes being able to slide his hands over her back, the curve of her rear. He hears one shoe drop from her foot and then, a few minutes later, the other. She's wearing a t-shirt of the softest cotton and he bunches it in his fists, revealing a thick strip of tan skin at her waist.

It's becoming a problem, how much he wants her. She sneaks into his dreams, and during the day, he finds himself thinking about her, finds himself actually excited to film Idol. It's been long time since he's felt that. Because, when they get along, it's actually fun. The music seems better, the jokes funnier, the audience more enthusiastic and loud. It feels like the early years – not the first year when no one knew who they were, but the second season. That was also when he and Paula stopped fighting so much, when they had realized that they were going to be in this for the long haul and had better work something out.

They'd worked it out all right.

Paula's the most flexible woman he's ever had on his lap. She's surprisingly strong as well, pinning him in place with her knees and moving her hips against him insistently. She raises her arms and he pulls the shirt over her head. Her bra is leopard print, and the strips are black – stark against her skin.

"Nice," he says. Though he imagines Paula is the sort of woman who always wears the nicest lingerie. From the glimpses he's caught over the years, she's never disappointed him.

Across the room, the phone begins to ring.

"Leave it," he says, grabbing her waist but she slithers off his lap and answers it. Honestly, he could use the break to catch his breath. He watches her stand with one hand on her hip with her back to him. Her hair is tousled and she skin slightly flushed. He can't tell whom she's talking too. After a moment, she goes into the office.

"I'll just wait!" he calls. He sees her hand wave out the door in acknowledgment.

It takes her almost fifteen minutes for her to come back out. Long enough that he's stretched out across the couch. When she comes back, she leans over and picks up her shirt and puts it back on. Not exactly what Simon was hoping for but she sits on his legs, lets her butt slide between his knees.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

"I don't want to tell you who it was because you'll be pissed I took the call," she says.

"Then don't tell me," he says. Paula frowns for a beat and then collapses under the weight of the gossip.

"It was my friend Holly. She broke up with her rebound boyfriend and is a mess," Paula says.

"Women."

"She's coming over."

Simon sits up slightly.

"Now?" he asks. She nods. "It's ten-thirty."

"Heartbreak doesn't really work on a timetable," Paula points out. "Stay."

"Why on earth would I want to witness two women bashing men and eating ice cream?" he asks.

"We're not going to bash men," Paula says. "She's just... she's lonely. She doesn't know how to be alone."

"Like you and me," Simon supplies.

"Right," Paula says, softly. "Simon, I want to ask you something, but I don't want you to take it the wrong way."

He has a thousand smartass replies on the tip of his tongue, but holds them all in and nods.

"Will you spend the night tonight?" she asks. "Not for sex, but just to stay with me?"

It's humorous, how excited and crestfallen his face gets in such a short period of time, but then he smooths his features out and she can see him consider it.

"All right," he says. It's not like they haven't been close before, they've even been in the same bed before. They've shared a mattress for photo-shoots (though Randy is usually on her other side) as well as on airplanes or in random motel rooms waiting for meetings to begin or suites to be cleaned and prepped. But there's always other people around, either in the same room or just down the hall.

Paula smiles, happy about his decision.

"I'll be upstairs watching TV," Simon says. He's not going to wait around for this girl to show up. Besides, Paula's home theater is pretty comfortable and her collection expansive. He settles in on the sofa and just flips through the stations. She brings him a Coke and he winks at her, thanks her.

Twenty minute later, he hears the doorbell ring. The little dogs go crazy, their barks echoing through the house. Simon stays on the sofa, his feet propped up on the big ottoman. He has no desire to meet one of Paula's friends. If she were interesting or famous, he would've met her already. Simon knows better than to get involved with everyone Paula takes under her wing.

"Come on," he hears Paula say. "Simon is upstairs."

Simon groans. Of course he isn't safe – Paula always wants to share everything with him. Sometimes this is good and sometimes he is made to enduring evenings of dull company. But when Paula comes into the room, the woman behind her is not a stranger at all. It's Holly Madison, former Playboy girlfriend. Simon has met her numerous times before at Playboy parties and Simon remembers that Paula has vacationed with Holly before. Holly is beautiful, tall and thin and curvy as hell. She doesn't have the most organic beauty, but Simon appreciates beauty of all kinds.

"Well Hello," Simon says with a grin. Paula frowns at him briefly – she knows the look on his face.

"Hi!" Holly says. She seems as bouncy and bubbly as she usually is. "I hope you don't mind me crashing your party."

"Not at all," Simon says. "A friend of Paula's is a friend of mine."

Paula scoffs but both Simon and Holly don't seem to hear her. "We were just going to veg for a while, I hope that's all right?"

"It's great!" Holly says. "I just moved back to L.A. but Bridget is still out of town and I don't know... it's weird being back here but not at the mansion."

"I get it," Paula says. "I'm going to get some snacks."

Holly sits next to Simon on the sofa with a smile.

"So you and Paula are totally having sex now," she says. Simon has to laugh at her tenacity.

"No," Simon says, assuredly. "I can promise you that we are not."

"What's wrong with you?" Holly asks, seriously. Simon's smile fades.

"It's not me!" he insists. Holly twirls her hair and tilts her head slightly – the first time Simon met her, he was sure that she put on an act, but Holly is really this way. She's like a living, breathing Barbie doll. She's not stupid, she's just gotten used to being eye candy.

When Paula comes back, she sits on Simon's other side. Simon holds the bowl of popcorn on his lap and they watch a movie. He's got a beautiful woman on either side of him and wishes for all the world Ryan could see him now. When both Paula and Holly fall asleep with their head on his shoulders, he wishes for it even more.

When the movie ends, he wakes up Paula first.

"Did I fall asleep?" she asks, sitting up. Simon tilts his head toward Holly to show Paula that she isn't the only one. It's late, after one am.

"Go on to bed, I'll make sure she gets home safe."

"You aren't going to stay?" she whispers with obvious disappointment.

"I'll be back," he promises. When Paula leaves, he wakes up Holly.

"Do you want me to drive you home?" Simon offers. Holly looks at him confused for a moment.

"No," she says, finally. "I'm fine. I have my car here, it'd be a hassle."

"Are you sure?" he presses. But Holly doesn't seem too groggy as she stands and stretches.

"I'm sure," she says. "Thanks for letting me come over. I know it probably wasn't your idea of a perfect night."

"Oh," he says, watching her backside as she heads down the stairs. "It wasn't all bad."

He sees her off and then goes to Paula's bedroom. He's only been in there a handful of times – she's open about her home but the bedroom door is almost always closed. He's been in once to use the restroom and once to help her carry suitcases to the car. Now, he pushes open the door slowly, like at any moment she might snap at him for the invasion. The room is almost dark – in the corner is a lamp lit to its lowest setting. He can see Paula in the big bed but just barely. He can see the top of her dark head poking out from the yards of white bedclothes.

It's an odd feeling, kicking off his shoes and pulling off his belt in an unfamiliar place to sleep in a foreign bed with someone he's not really slept with before. After only the slightest hesitation, he sheds his jeans too and slides under the covers in his t-shirt and boxer shorts. Her bed is soft, much softer than his, and she doesn't wake up at all.

In the morning, he wakes up alone. He doesn't remember falling asleep and morning seems to have tiptoed in without his notice. It takes him a moment to realize where he is – the white pillows, the art on the walls, the curtains flanking the window. But the bed is empty and when he sits up, he can see the bathroom is empty as well and the light is out in the closet.

"Paula?" he says, but only silence greets him. He puts his head back on his pillow and thinks about what to do next. Does he want to get up and look for her or snuggle back down into the covers and push through the early morning? He's still deciding when Paula comes in.

"You're awake!" she says. "I brought you some coffee."

"Thank you," he says, accepting the cup. Paula is already dressed in jeans and a blue sweater and she perches next to him. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"I thought you could use the sleep," she says. He drinks the coffee and it's good. Coffee is one of the things Paula is really good at making. She knows just how he likes it and this cup is no exception.

"Good," he murmurs. "How long have you been awake?"

"A couple hours," she says. "I had some phone calls to make."

"I'll go home," he says. "Let you work."

"I was hoping we could have breakfast," she says.

"Okay," he says. She goes downstairs to wait for him and he puts on his pants. She's left a new toothbrush still in the packaging for him on the counter. He uses it and debates whether or not to toss in the bin or keep it. After a few moments, he puts it in the holder next to hers. If she doesn't want it here, she can get rid of it herself.

Downstairs, he can see she's set up breakfast on the table outside. It's warm enough out and when he sits down to a plate of eggs, toast, and bacon, it's actually quite nice to have the breeze. Paula wears enormous sunglasses and holds her own mug of coffee close to her chest. She's quiet this morning.

"Sleep well?" he asks.

"I did," she says. "It was nice to wake up in the middle of the night because I was cold and have a body to warm me up."

"Any body will do?" he teases.

"Oh sure," she says. "In a pinch."

"Can I ask you something?" he asks.

"Does it matter what I answer?"

She has a fair point.

"What are you so afraid of?" he asks. "About you and I?"

She sets her mug on the able and draws up her legs beneath her. She looks small curled into the chair.

"I'm afraid everything will change," she says. "You're Simon! I always want you to be Simon."

"I'll always be Simon," he says.

"Things change," she says. "Men change."

"Of course things will change," he says. "But what if it's for the better?"

"What if it's worse?" she counters. He doesn't think that will happen.

"You've never been one to play it safe," he says, biting the corner off his toast.

"That's not fair," she pouts, but he knows she only says it because he's right.

"Life's not fair, as my mum always says."

That, Paula knows, is true.

Slow News Day (Part Five)

2009-03-07T19:43:59Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Five)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

On the drive home, Paula starts to cry. It's an unexpected reaction, but she isn't sad, she's just emotionally overwhelmed. She drives through her tears – she learned the art of driving and crying at age 16 and it's a rite of passage that all women share.

Simon has brought her to tears more times than she can count, but it's interesting when the crying isn't paired with anger. Instead, she feels filled to the brim. Maybe that's why she's crying – there's no more space and some of it has to spill over.

But thinking of Simon in a new light is frightening too. She realizes that while they've talked around the issue, they have yet to come out and say it. Their relationship is changing and she's not quite sure where it's going to end up. But her fears are legitimate—she doesn't have, perhaps, the best track record with men. Both of her husbands had wooed her to a certain extent. Emilio had aggressively pursued her and Brad, though she tries not to think about him, had done the same. Somehow, these men had convinced her to marry them before she got the chance to make sure they were a good fit. Now, she's scared to face that pain again.

Simon is already a good fit, though. She's known him for nearly a decade now, knows him inside and out. Still, a relationship changes things, sex changes things and it's that change that scares her.

Is she really considering having sex with Simon? She thinks about how they were in the first season and it seems impossible that they have come to this place.

She wipes her face with the back of her hand and tries to pull herself together. Tomorrow is a new day and she wants to face it fresh and not puffed up from salty tears.

In bed, just as she's about to fall asleep, her phone buzzes on the nightstand. It's a message from Simon.

Dream of me.

Simon waits impatiently for Wednesday to arrive. He has offered to pick Paula up on the way to the studio so they can ride together. It's been a hell of a week. Simon warns her all the time not to talk to tabloids and now her interview has been twisted all out of proportion. The media has created this fight between her and Kara and instead of getting any work done, Paula's week was spent fielding phone calls form every pseudo-journalist this side of the Mississippi.

Kara had elected to play along instead of nipping the rumor in the bud. Ken and Fuller had encouraged her to do this – more coverage could give the ratings a boost and even though they haven't fallen out of the number one spot in four years, the margin continues to shrink.

Paula, of course, is not ready when Simon arrives. She lets him in still in sweat pants and a t-shirt, her hair messy and her feet bare.

"Don't dress up on my account," he says.

"Can it," she says, heading up the stairs. "I need a few minutes."

Perhaps it's best not to provoke her foul mood so close to show time. He waits downstairs while a few minutes turns into the better part of an hour. He hears the voices of her staff but they stay away from him. Maybe she has instructed them to keep their distance or maybe they've learned that his tolerance for lackeys and hangers-on is incredibly low. Either way, he gets the living room to himself.

He stretches out on her sofa, one of her scratchy decorative pillows beneath his head. He kicks his shoes off and when a small dog jumps up with him, he lets it lay on his stomach. Simon is lightly dozing when she comes down. He's not really asleep, but his attention is more on the inside of his eyelids than anything else.

She wakes him by lifting the dog away and setting it on the ground. He opens eyes to find her standing over him.

"Hey," she says. She looks better – she's in a little dress and boots and has put on a little make-up. She always is pretty, of course, but now she's ready to face the scrutiny of the public.

"Hey," he says. "You ready?"

"If we must," she says. "We have a few minutes. Want to finish your nap?"

"No," he says, sitting up. "I'll just be more groggy."

"I can drive," she offers.

"I'm awake," he promises.

In the car, she scoots the seat up and opens the mirror on her visor to primp a little.

"You're fine," he says. "Hair and make-up are just going to attack you anyway, so don't worry so much."

"You have no idea what it's like to be a woman over 40 in Hollywood," she says mildly.

"Who is going to take your picture between here and the studio?" he asks.

"I don't want to fight," she says. It's her fall back statement – when he starts needling her she says this and for the most part, he backs off.

"All right," he says amiably. He starts the car, but takes a few moments to fiddle with the radio, trying to find something they can both agree on.

"Come on, come on, the 101 is going to be a nightmare," she says, impatiently.

"You're the one who..."

"No fighting!" she says and he scowls.

"Since when do you get to make the rules?" he asks, pulling out of the driveway. She just scoffs. The ride to the freeway is clear, but the 101 is backed up with the beginning of the commute traffic. Paula fiddles with the vents on her side of the car, making sure the air doesn't blow directly on her. Simon likes to always have the fan on, even if it's cold out.

The longer they sit in traffic, the more impatient Simon gets. There's nothing to be done about the congestion and nothing she can say will console him, so she lets her hand rest on top of his on the gearshift, and when he shifts gears, she shifts along with him.

"I'm glad we're riding together," she says. He glances at her and her face looks sincere.

"Me too," he says. "We used to spend more time together."

"You're in London most of the year," she says. There was a time when Simon wasn't so in demand but now he films shows practically all year round.

"You used to come see me in London," he says.

"We're both more busy," she admits. "But this season is going to be different."

"Agreed," he says.

During a commercial break, the cameraman stationed behind the judge's table comes around to the front.

"I can't get the shot," he says. "I need you to move your chairs apart."

Simon has kept her close and during the songs, Paula leans her head toward Simon. He makes comments throughout and it's hard to hear him otherwise. But the camera can't get the shot of whoever is on stage while they're performing.

"So film between Kara and Randy," Simon says. The cameraman glances at Paula, waiting for her to say something – anything – but Paula doesn't pipe up.

"Fine," he says, and heads back to the camera.

"You're bad," Paula says, but when he laughs, she giggles too.

After the show, after the press, after they all eat their dinner that was ordered in, Paula makes her way to Simon's trailer. She knocks on the door and lets herself in. He's on the phone, standing by the open window with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She hates when he smokes, hates the way the smell clings to him. Even if they don't touch, it always manages to transfer to her clothes and hair. At the sight of the cigarette, she scrunches her nose and he rolls his eyes and tosses it out the window.

She sits down at the table and waits for him to finish his call. She checks her e-mail on her phone, texts Wendy about the show, and when he finally hangs up, she smiles at him.

"May I have a ride home, Mr. Cowell?"

"Mr. Cowell? Oh, I like that," he says. "Since you asked so sweetly, I suppose that could be arranged."

Paula always feels very subdued after filming. She saves up all her energy for the broadcast and when that's over, she becomes soft, quiet, and docile. Simon used to love to spend time after the show with Paula because she didn't chatter constantly. She's like this now, companionably quiet. On the ride home, she lets her head rest against the window and hums along with the stereo softly. When she doesn't talk, he doesn't feel compelled to talk so he stays quiet too. She doesn't say anything until he parks the car outside her door.

"Want to come in for a cup of coffee?" she asks. She's so matter-of-fact about the offer, like they drink coffee at 8:00pm together every night.

"Sure," he says.

Inside, she pets the dogs and then moves to the kitchen.

"Decaf?" she asks.

"All right."

"My mom dropped off a pie yesterday," Paula says, pouring the beans into the grinder. "Are you hungry?"

"For pie? Always," he says. She grinds the beans and gets the coffee maker going before pulling a pie out of the refrigerator. "Why is your mother bringing you pie?"

"She thinks I'm getting too skinny," Paula says. "She's retired and has a lot of time on her hands, what can I say?"

"Subtle," he murmurs. She turns on the oven low and puts the pie inside to warm up. "Apple?"

She makes a little noise of affirmation and busies herself getting out the mugs. But he has trouble keeping his mouth closed and his opinions to himself, so he just says what he's thinking.

"I didn't think you actually meant coffee," he blurts. She pauses and looks at him, a carton of half and half in her hand.

"And what exactly did you think?" she asks.

"You know."

"You thought I invited you in for a booty call?" she asks, looking mildly scandalized.

"I wouldn't phrase it like that," he says.

"God, Simon," she says. "You really do expect every woman to fall at your feet, knees apart."

"I do not!" he says. "I just thought we were having a good night."

"We were," she says. "We were about to have some coffee and pie, too."

"We still can," he says, quickly. "I enjoy pie. Paula, I didn't mean to insinuate you were anything but a beautiful woman that I would like very much to kiss."

"We kiss all the time," she says, lowering her voice. "I don't know why it's strange all of a sudden. Why did it get weird?"

"I don't know," he says. He steps toward her very deliberately. "Perhaps it's only strange if we allow it to be."

"I see what you're doing," she says.

"But you're going to let me do it anyway, aren't you?" he says. They're standing so close now that she has to look up at him. There's nothing left to do now, but allow Simon to kiss her or order him out of her house. She doesn't want him to go.

Perhaps he tastes a bit of stale cigarettes but when his tongue traces along her bottom lip, she forgets to care about that. It's easy to open her mouth and meet his tongue with her own, to allow him to lift her onto the counter and wind her arms around his neck. He kisses her so thoroughly and so well that her knees slide up his hips and she wraps her feet around his waist, tugging him closer.

When he tries to pull back, she holds him tight, but he drags his mouth away.

"Do you smell that?" he asks, breathlessly.

"Smell what?" she asks, her face buried in his chest.

"Like burning."

"Oh, shit!" she exclaims, shoving him away and hopping off the counter onto wobbly legs. "I forgot about the pie!" She turns the oven off and when she pulls the door open, smoke billows out. Using a mitt, she takes the pie out but the crust is singed all the way around.

Above them, the smoke detector starts to beep shrilly.

"Christ!" he yells. "That's bloody loud."

"I can't reach it," she shouts, turning the fan on the oven hood on. "Can you climb on the counter and push the button on it?"

It's either that or continue to bear the awful noise, so he awkwardly climbs onto the counter and can just barely reach the detector to silence it.

Paula starts to giggle. Simon laughs too, looking around the smoky kitchen. Nothing is ever easy, it seems. Paula opens the sliding door to try to air out the room.

"Come on," she says, wiping her eyes. She gets two forks out of a drawer. "We can still eat the inside." So she pours them some coffee and they sit with the pie between them, digging out the center with forks.

"I don't know what I want, yet," she warns him as they eat.

"Do you ever?" he asks.

"Don't rush me, Cowell," she says. "I won't be rushed into anything."

"There's been eight years of foreplay, darling, I don't think anyone could accuse me of rushing."

She shoots him a look but nudges his foot under the table with hers.

"I'll just take out my frustrations on Kara," Simon says. "I've been awfully easy on her so far, don't you think?"

"I think she's already on the edge of smashing your teeth in," Paula says. "How much more can you give her?"

"She's weak. You took all that and more for years," he says.

"I still take it," she mutters. "Tell me, do you kiss Kara in her kitchen too? Are we female judges interchangeable? Sharon? Dannii? Cheryl? You just swap us out for whatever country you're in, whatever show you're filming?"

"God, no," he says. "No. No."

Paula knows the ideal of kissing Sharon Osbourne is particularly gruesome for him and he pushes the pie away form him, tossing down his fork.

"Lost my appetite," he says. She smirks, pleased with her self.

"Paula, you've known me for years. I was very faithful to Terri and I'm not the womanizer you make me out to be."

"I know," she says. "You're right."

She picks up the pie and sets what's left of it in the sink. She'll have to return the glass dish to her mother. Simon excuses himself to use the bathroom and when he comes back out, he finds her standing over the sink, washing the dish and singing to herself quietly. It's one of the songs the contestants had sung and he can just hear her over the sound of the water.

"Roll you like you were dice, until you come out blue," she sings in a sort of slow, melancholy way. She shuts off the water and reaches for the towel. "She's got Bette Davis – ah!" She jumps and the sight of him and blushes. "You scared me! I didn't hear you come out."

"You know, I've not really ever heard you sing," he says.

"Yes you have," she says, throwing the towel at him. He lets it hit his chest and it falls to the floor.

"I've heard some of your songs, I've seen film clips of you performing, but I've never really seen you put on a show. You know, stand at a microphone and sing a little tune."

"That wasn't really my style," she points out. "I'm a dancer, I always danced."

"Translation: lip-synch," he says.

"No," she says, seriously. "I always sang live in concert. Sometimes, on live shows, you had to synch up with a track, but always live in concert."

"American shows, always prepping for the worst," he says.

"Don't be such a snob! I always had to synch when I went on Top of the Pops," she says. "So put that in your Union Jack and smoke it."

"My what?" he asks, laughing. "You're nuts."

"So they say," she says.

"You should sing for me," he presses. "I'd like to hear."

"Um, no," she says.

"Yes," he says.

"You want to see me sing? It's called YouTube," she says, and turns back to the sink. She's being flippant, but while she's washing out the coffee mugs, he pulls out his phone and looks her up.

"Paula Abdul live in Japan, Paula Abdul Top of the Pops, Paula Abdul for Diet Coke," he reads. "Diet Coke, Paula, really?"

"I've been selling Coke for a long time, Cowell," she says. "Long before anyone in this country knew your name. But please, let's not watch these."

"No, I want to," he says, pulling the phone out of her reach when she tries to grab it. "Let's find a good one... Ah, Cold Hearted Snake. Here we are."

Knowing she can't change his mind, she hops up on the counter and watches it with him.

"What are you wearing?" he laughs. "You look like a bad clone of Gloria Estefan."

"Hey, that was high fashion back then," she defends.

"I'm surprised you can even hold up your head with that ponytail."

"The early nineties were hard on everyone," she says. She hasn't watched this concert footage in a long time. She follows herself with a critical eye. "The dance sort of loses its edge when you have the hold a microphone the whole time."

"You really are singing, aren't you?" he asks.

"Yes," she says, elbowing him. "And dancing on a bum knee." She tilts her head. "Maybe that's why my ass looks so big."

"Looks fine to me," he says. "The guy who is practically eating you out on stage doesn't seem to mind."

"You're so vulgar," she says, glaring at him. "It's a sexy dance."

"You're dancing with Mimes!" he laughs.

"They aren't mimes," she says. "They're... French? Actually, I can't remember what they're supposed to be."

"Gay, I think," he laughs.

"Well, that goes without saying," she says. "Couldn't let just anyone feel me up."

"Ah, right," he says. "After all this, you went home and nailed Emilio Estevez."

"You really are a poet," she says, sarcastically. She hops off the counter and leaves him to watch the rest of the video alone. But he's seen enough. This is a Paula he didn't know and the Paula that is in the same house as him is the one he much prefers. He turns off the video and follows her.

"I was teasing!" he says. "I'm sure it was very romantic and sweet love-making!"

"Thanks for the ride," she says, standing by the door. "You can go home now."

"I don't want to go home," he says.

"You're being a jerk," she says.

"I'm trying to get to know you better!"

"You know me as well as anyone, Simon, and if you want to stay you'd better start playing nice," she says. He puts his hands up in surrender.

"Fine," he says. "We'll play nice."

Paula wishes she could show people what a celebrity's life is really like. Sure, there are days when she is going nonstop form sunrise to well after sunset, but some days, her life is exceedingly normal. Simon settles himself in front of her CD collection on the floor. She has a 5 CD changer and he busies himself with choosing while she sits on the couch with her computer on her lap. She has plenty of work e-mails to respond to and she's been meaning to e-mail her Dad for a couple days now.

Her American Idol contract states that no other project may interfere with Idol filming so generally, on Idol nights, she tries not to schedule any other commitments. The house, save for the two of them and the dogs, is empty. In the office, the computers are dark and the phones do not ring.

"You have more Kenny G albums than I'm strictly comfortable with," Simon comments, inspecting a jewel case rather closely. Simon could use a pair of reading glasses. More than once they've been in a meeting or riding in the car and she's had to hand her glasses over to him so he could see something. Now, she pulls the dark frames off her own face and tosses them across the room to him. He puts them on and continues his task. She smiles to herself at the sight of him. The frames are too small and feminine but she likes him in glasses. He looks smarter; his face looks kind. She gets her phone out and snaps a picture.

"Oh, you're in trouble now," he says.

"Oh yeah, this one is going on the website," she says, putting her phone away before he can get to the device.

"Now who isn't playing nice?"

"I'm nice! I think you're adorable, how is that not nice?"

"Hmph." He puts a CD into the player and closes it. "Done."

"What'd you pick?""

"Van Morrison," he says. "The Beatles, Adele, Amos Lee, and Tom Petty."

"Nice," she says. "Sergeant Pepper?"

"Rubber Soul," he says. He turns the music low so it doesn't overwhelm the room and sits next to her on the sofa and gives her the glasses back. Simon may be cantankerous and he may tote around the biggest ego ever, but the man does know music. He gets a bad rap for Il Divo and the Teletubbies, but he has an ear for what will sell, even if it sells to middle-aged mothers and three-year-olds.

He lets his head rest on the overstuffed cushion and closes his eyes. Sitting next to Paula while she works is strangely relaxing. There's a soothing quality to listening to her fingers hunting and pecking across the keyboard, the way she occasionally sounds out a word as she tries to spell it, the ding as she chats with her sister online.

"Wendy says she liked your shirt tonight," Paula says. She knows Simon isn't really sleeping.

"Tell your sister I don't need her fashion advice."

Paula snickers. Wendy teases Simon almost as much as Simon teases Paula. It's a good thing it isn't Wendy he sits next to daily because there wouldn't be any way they could have survived eight seasons together.

"She says don't worry, it's free," Paula says.

"Tell your shrew of a sister that we're busy and sign-off," he orders.

"Busy?" she asks. "Busy holding down the sofa?"

"Sure," he says. "Busy spending quality time together."

"We never do that," she says.

From the speakers, Tom Petty sings Hey baby, there's something in your eyes...

She closes her laptop and sets it on the coffee table. All she really has energy to do is nothing so settling against Simon is just right. His smell is familiar and oddly reassuring. Expensive cologne, a faint lingering of cigarette smoke and the chemical he uses to treat the leather interiors of his sports cars. She takes a deep breath and he rests his lips against her forehead.

This time, it's Paula who kisses him first.

Slow News Day (Part Four)

2009-03-05T01:12:47Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Four)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

Ryan always picks where they eat dinner. Ryan likes to be seen and has an army of paparazzi who loyally follow him around town. In a way, Ryan is their king – it's Ryan who pays their bills by both hobnobbing with the celebrities and reporting about them. The judges learned early on that while Ryan is a good friend, he is not nor should he ever be a confidant.

Paula is tired of the Sunset strip. She avoids Ketchup now, because she doesn't fancy running into her ex no matter how good of friends she claims they are and she's tired of Mirabelle, tired of all the glitz and glam. Kara had suggested the Ivy but the only thing more tiresome than Sunset is the Ivy. At least once a week, their lunches are ordered from the Ivy and brought to the studio and if Paula has to eat one more Cobb salad from that place, she might scream.

"What about Dolce?" Randy says.

"No more Italian," Paula says. "I can't take the carbs. What about Spago?"

"Good lord, you want to go all the way to Beverley Hills?" Simon says.

"It'll take 20 minutes," she says.

"You think everything takes 20 minutes," he argues.

"That's because I'm from L.A. and actually know my way around," Paula says.

"You think after eight years here I can't drive to Beverley Hills without getting lost?" Simon says, throwing up his hands.

"I'm surprised you manage to stay on the right side of the road," she snaps back.

"Why are you fighting?" Kara asks. Paula and Simon both turn to her.

"Who's fighting?" Paula asks.

Kara stares at them and Randy pats Kara's back.

"This is the way they communicate," he says. "Sick and twisted, but true."

"I've got it," Ryan says, snapping his fingers. "My house."

"What?" Randy asks.

"I'll call my cook, let her know we're on our way," Ryan says. "Then I won't have to worry about staying out too late."

"You sure?" Paula asks. "We could just go another night."

"I think we need to help Kara bond into our group more," Ryan says, his voice getting that affected radio tone. "It'll be good for us."

"I'm going for a smoke," Simon announces, bored. "I'll see you there."

"Yeah," Paula says, walking away. "In 20 minutes."

"I heard that," Simon calls, pushing on the silver bar on the exit door.

"You were supposed to!" she calls back.

Simon is, of course, the last to arrive. Ryan's backyard is expansive and Paula sits with Kara poolside. There is a glass table with six chairs. Ryan and Randy are inside, doing whatever it is that men do, but it's a nice night and so Paula takes advantage of the cool air. The pool glows blue and bright, and Paula can see the reflection of the water ripple across Kara's features.

"This is my life," Kara says suddenly. "Sometimes it doesn't seem real."

"What I don't understand is you got through the whole auditions circus without missing a beat, but now that you're back home, in L.A. it's suddenly crazy?" Paula says. "What's that about?"

"I don't know!" she says. "It's just... when we're filming, it's live. I know millions of people are looking at me at that very moment."

"True," Paula says. Kara holds a glass of white wine; Paula drinks a diet Coke. She should lay off the caffeine, but she won't.

"I never set out to be famous," Kara says.

"Bullshit," Paula replies. Kara looks shocked. "Of course you set out to be a star. So did Randy, so did Ryan, so did I, and so did Simon."

"I just wanted to make music," Kara says.

"And you wanted to be adored for it. You write amazing songs and now everyone will know it. Just embrace this life because it's not going to last forever."

"When we first met, did you expect things to turn out this way?" Kara asks.

"Nope," Paula says. "That's the beauty of it."

"I guess," Kara says. Paula hears the slamming of a car door on the other side of the fence.

"Come on, Sassy, I think Simon is here," she says, standing up.

"I'll never understand you two," Kara says, taking her glass and following Paula through the sliding glass door. "You either need to get married or never see each other again."

"Simon? Married? Ha," Paula says.

But their conversation is cut short when Simon comes into the room. His lateness is rewarded, unfortunately, because he arrives just as dinner is served. It's useless to berate him about it – nothing Paula has ever said to him has made him be on time and, even worse, it tends to work out in his favor. She doesn't know how he does it.

Ryan has a beautiful house and a well-run staff. The dinner is just as good as anything they'd get in a fancy restaurant, better because they don't have to worry about other people. Paula sits across from Kara and Simon snags the seat to her left. She places her napkin on her lap and thanks the cook who brings the last dish to the table.

"This looks great," Randy says.

"I'm sorry Erica couldn't come," Ryan says.

"She's been fighting the worst cold," Randy says. "I'm surprised I haven't caught it."

"Airborne," Paula says. "I swear by it."

"If Dr. Phil told you eating dirt cured the cold, you'd do it," Simon says, looking at her.

"Like you're such a health expert. How many packs a day do you smoke now?" Paula retaliates easily.

"At least I know what it is I'm putting into my body," Simon says.

"Can someone pass the green beans?" Ryan says, loudly.

"Let's see, tar, rat poison, nicotine," she says, ticking off her fingers. "CANCER."

"I'm healthier than you, love," Simon says. Paula glares at him.

"You know what, Simon?"

"So is this communicating or is this fighting?" Kara asks. Randy glares at Simon, pointedly.

"Sorry," he says, immediately. "Here, Ryan." He hands over the platter of green beans.

"Did you just apologize?" Paula asks.

"Yes," Simon says. "You're right. Sorry."

"Does anyone else think they just went to the Twilight Zone?" she says, looking at the rest of the table.

"Look, I'm trying to make this a nice dinner. Are you going to be needling me all evening?" Simon says.

"Maybe," she says, poking his ribs. "Do you like your own medicine?"

"Delicious," he says, grabbing her finger and biting it lightly.

"Communicating," Kara says, answering her own question.

They fill their plates and for a few minutes, there is only the noise of utensils against flatware. Paula sits and listens to them talk shop – ratings and song choice, ad-buys and production decisions. Paula must look bored, because Simon's hand, behind the curtain of the tablecloth, comes over and settles on her knee. She looks at him and he winks, so quickly she almost misses it. He lets his fingers drum out a little rhythm on her leg and it's nice knowing that while he's talking to others, a little bit of his attention is saved just for her.

While Kara is talking about a group of contestants, Paula puts her hand on top of Simon's. She rubs his knuckles with her thumb, little circles and he turns his hand over to hold hers.

Sometimes it's frustrating. People see the bickering, the disagreement, the torment he lays down upon her, but they don't see these little moments of intimate sweetness. But at the same time, it's something that they have that they don't have to share with anyone else. It'd be nice if people knew Simon was a sweetheart but it's not worth the trade. This is why she tells the media that he's a pest, a monster, a mean person. It throws them off the scent.

Ryan, however, is not so easily dissuaded.

"What's going on over there," Ryan says. Paula pulls her hand away so fast that it hits the underside of the table everything rattles.

"Nothing," she says, guiltily. Now all eyes stare at her.

"Fine," Simon says, dramatically. "You caught us. We were holding hands."

"Another season of you flirting?" Ryan asks. "Can America stomach it?"

"America won't have to if you'd just shut up about it," Simon points out.

"Hey, man, it's my job to report the facts," he says. "I'm a journalist."

"No," Simon says, a note of cruelness seeping into his voice. "You're a broadcast personality. You don't report the news; you report gossip and human tragedy. If you reported any actual news, your head would spin and pop off."

"Simon." Paula speaks softly, but warningly. Ryan and Simon are so competitive that it's easy to cross lines, easy to go to far and say things that can't be taken back.

"Well," Ryan says. "I have to get up early to report to my sham of a job, so maybe we should just call it a night, huh?"

He stands up, tosses his napkin on his plate, and walks out of the room.

There's a heavy, uncomfortable silence while the remaining people stare down at their plates.

"You should go apologize," Paula says.

"I'm not wrong," Simon says. "Why does anyone care that some psychotic girl died on your street, Paula? You know why people cared? Because it was a slow news day and Ryan decided that he should tell the world!"

"Ryan doesn't always get to make those choices," Paula says. "And you can't fault him for doing what he does. It's a million dollar industry for a reason. Do I like having my every move followed? No. But, I do like singing and dancing and working for American Idol, and that's the price we pay."

"It's too high!" Simon says, angrily.

"Then you get out," Paula says. "No one makes you stay."

"We're going to..." Kara interrupts. She and Randy are both standing, holding their coats. "Go."

"Go on," Paula says. "Goodnight, guys."

Alone in the dining room, Paula and Simon sit and look at each other.

"Are you mad because of celebrity gossip or are you mad because he was teasing you about me?" Paula asks.

"I think you deserve a break," Simon says. "With the whole... thing last month. He should lay off you for a while."

"Honey, I can take care of myself," Paula says.

"I know," he says.

"Come on," she says. "We're going to go say sorry."

Simon grumbles but follows her to Ryan's office. She knocks and when he doesn't answer, she opens the door anyway.

"Ry?" she calls. He's sitting at his desk staring at his blank computer screen.

"Ryan," Simon says. "I'm a gigantic arse."

"True," he says.

"I..." He looks at Paula who nods. "I apologize. You do more an in an hour than I do in a day."

"We're sorry, sweetie," Paula says.

"Okay," Ryan says.

"We promise never to hold hands in your house again," Paula adds.

"We don't promise that," Simon says. "But, as a favor to me, I'd appreciate if you didn't speculate on my love life on the radio."

"I promise nothing," Ryan says. Simon opens his mouth, ready to fight again.

"Fair enough," Paula says quickly. "We'll see you next week."

She all but drags Simon to the door.

In the driveway, hidden by a grove of trees, they stand between their cars. Simon steps closer and she tilts her head up.

"See you next week?" she asks. He tucks a finger into the pockets of her jeans.

"I could follow you home," he suggests.

"It's late," she says.

"It's 9:30," he argues.

"Well," she says. "It feels late."

"You don't want me to come over?" he pouts.

"I didn't say that," she says. She looks down at his fingers. "Maybe we should have a conversation."

Simon sighs and steps back.

"A conversation." He repeats this dully. "Very well then."

"Get in," she orders, pointing to her car. He sits in the passenger's seat and she in the driver's side but she doesn't start the car. She doesn't even put the key in the ignition.

"What are we doing?" he asks.

"Simon," she says, taking a deep breath. "Simon, you know I am so happy you're back and that we're filming again, right?"

"R-ight," he drawls. "Why do I get the feeling you're about to break up with me?"

"I'm not!" she says. "It's just, you're so different suddenly. You're caring and affectionate – I think you even took my side on the air yesterday. I just need to know... what are you doing?"

"Hold on, are you upset that I'm being nice to you?" Simon asks.

"I'm not upset, I'm suspicious!" she says. "And if you were me, you would be too."

He shrugs his shoulders, a small concession.

"How much longer are we going to be doing Idol?" he asks. "How much longer will we be in this place in our lives?"

His questions make her face fall – it's sad to think of Idol ever coming to an end, but eight years is a long time for any TV show, even theirs.

"I don't know," she answers, honestly.

"I just want to spend the time with you while I can," he says. "Is that too much to ask?"

"No," she says quickly.

"I can't win with you! If I'm mean, you hate me, if I'm nice, you hate me."

"I don't hate you," she says. "Come on."

"Well," he says sullenly, but his eyes twinkle. She realizes he's giving her a hard time so she sticks out her tongue.

"It's just... I fall for it every time," she says, more seriously.

"Fall for what?" he asks.

"Men being nice to me," she says. "But in the end, it never works out. I'm never what they want."

"You're most definitely what I want," Simon promises.

"You say that now," she scolds. "But you can't promise me that. Time passes, relationships change and... and the things you thought you'd promise to do forever no longer seem important."

"Maybe that's true," he says. "But now, in this moment, I mean it when I say you're important. What we have is important."

She smiles at him and he leans in slightly, hopefully. She leans in too, and kisses him lightly on the corner of his mouth.

"I'm going to try to remember this the next time you do something irritating," she says, sitting back.

"See that you do," he says. She pulls on her seatbelt.

"I'm tired," she says. "Do you mind if we just call it a night?"

"Not at all," he says. "I'll call you tomorrow."

He gets out and walks to his own car and then sits in it while she starts hers and drives away.

When he gets home his house is still big, open, and empty.

Slow News Day (Part Three)

2009-03-05T01:11:03Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Three)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

Simon wakes up and realizes that he's on the couch and alone. He has a slight headache and has no idea what time it is. He sees the water and chugs it down and then stands up. He wanders through the house searching the empty rooms but he's alone. He uses the restroom and finds his phone and calls Paula.

"How you feeling?" she answers.

"You ditched me," he complains.

"You fell asleep," she retorts.

"Why didn't you wake me?" he demands.

"Seems your fine," she says. "I'll see you at work."

"Wait," he says. "Just wait a moment."

"What, I'm busy?" she says. He can hear people in the background – the sound of the printer chugging in her office.

"What did we talk about?" he asks.

"HA! I knew you had too much," she says. "What do you think we talked about?"

"Paula," he whined.

"We talked about the difference between men and women," she says, mysteriously. He gets a flash of memory, Paula watching the TV, the smell of her hair just under his nose, the way she looks as she leans against his counter.

"We talked about sex," he translates and she laughs.

"Bye," she says, and hangs up.

"Rude," he murmurs.

In the shower, Simon lets his forehead rest against the tile. He's not used to being alone so much. Breaking things off with Terri was the right choice, of that he's certain, but the loneliness is overwhelming at times. Even being at home with his family for the holidays did little to soothe the ache he carried within him. He' d tried to fill it with alcohol, which served as a stopgap not a solution, with work, which was less and less satisfying, and with young, beautiful women but they, for some reason, just made the emptiness grow.

But lately, with Paula, that feeling of despair disappears. When he is with her, he forgets about feeling alone, feeling old, feel sad. He has spent a lot of time teasing her about their chemistry, but now he wonders if chemistry like that is easy to find. Maybe he should stop joking about it and start doing something instead. He wonders if she can be convinced.

At work, he knocks on her dressing room door and she answers in a robe. Her hair and make-up is done, but she isn't dressed yet. The robe is a blush color, satin and he can see the outline of her undergarments beneath the flimsy fabric.

"Hi," she says. "What's up?"

"Nothing," he says. "Just stopping by. You look nice."

"I'm not even ready," she says, motioning to the sofa.

"I know," he grins. He takes a seat and watches her lean into the mirror to check her eyes and when she does it, her foot pops up. He wonders if she does these things to torment him.

"Where are we going tonight?" he asks. She turns to look at him surprised.

"Again?" she says. He nods. "Well, we sort of blew of Ryan last night. I think we have to go out with them."

"Oh must we?" he groans,

"We must," she confirms. The door opens and one of her assistants slips in with a garment bag. They both turn to look at Simon who makes no effort to stand.

"What?" he asks.

"I have to get dressed."

"And?" he drawls.

"Simon, get out," she says, but in a kind way. He grumbles and makes sure he gets to kiss her cheek before he steps out and closes the door. He lingers for a moment and is rewarded with a snippet of conversation.

"Strange," her assistant says.

"He's been so affectionate lately..." Paula says, but then there are people coming down the hall and so he must walk away.

At the judges' table, he pulls on the arm of her chair. On the screen, he can see them and it looks like Randy, Kara, and Paula and Simon. They're so close, they're a pair.

"You all right?" Paula asks, touching his forehead with the back of her fingers.

"I'm not ill," he says.

"We danced, I have to check," she says, dryly.

"You danced, Cowell?" Kara asks, smirking.

"I did not," he says. "Did I?"

Paula just grins.

"He was so cute," she says, turning to Kara. "He started it and there wasn't any music, but we just swayed anyway."

Kara makes a horrible mewing sound.

"So adorable," she says, looking at Simon with big doe eyes. Simon wants to refute this but he seems to remember standing in his front hall doing just that.

"It's not me," he says. "It's Paula. She makes men do crazy things."

"Thirty seconds!" the Stage Manager calls. Simon glances over at Randy who is staring at him with a suspicious expression.

"What?" Simon says. They have to talk over the girls who both look back and forth at the man as if watching a tennis match.

"I'm on to you, dawg," Randy says.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Simon says, pulling his Coke cup toward him.

"Yeah," Randy says. "I know your game."

"Rubbish," Simon mutters but their time us up as the show begins.

After filming, Simon tries to escape backstage as quickly as possible. The girls wander through the crowd, shaking hands and signing autographs and Simon heads for the stage but Randy grabs his elbow.

"What?" Simon snaps, knowing he has been caught.

"Hey," Randy says. "Come with me."

Randy is almost never serious. He's jovial and kind, fun loving and teasing but Randy is rarely stone-faced and focused like he appears to be now. He steers them to the empty sound booth where there's no chance of a microphone picking up their conversation.

"What are you doing?" Randy asks.

"What are you doing?" Simon retaliates.

"You think I don't know that look in your eye?" Randy asks. "It's fine if you're on the hunt, man, you deserve love like everyone else but do not take it out on Paula."

"I'm not taking anything out on Paula," Simon says.

"Dude, Paula is our friend. You can't treat her like she's just another lady."

"I'm not!" Simon says.

"So you're telling me that if you were to date Paula it would be the real thing?" Randy asks, skeptically. "Because she can't see straight around you."

"Who told you I was trying to date Paula, anyway?" Simon says, dodging the question.

"I can see it on your face, man," Randy says. "And answer me."

"Paula is..." Simon says, helplessly. "Paula is my... best friend, she's... beautiful and... oh God, don't make me say it."

"Say it, Cowell," Randy says. "Loud and proud."

"I can't," he says, glancing over his shoulder.

"You l-l-l-l," Randy says.

"Stop it."

"You Lo-lo-lo," Randy taunts.

"Fine!" he says, lowering his voice. "I love her."

"I knew it."

"You love her too," Simon says.

"Yeah, but I don't want to bone her," he laughs. Simon scowls. "But I'm watching you," Randy says, sobering. "Don't hurt her."

"Fine, fine, fine, now sod the bloody hell off," Simon says.

Randy uses two fingers to point to his eyes and then to Simon's as he's walking out.

"Wait," Simon says. Randy stops. "You think she can't see straight around me?"

"Jesus, man, this is going to be a long damn season," Randy says as he walks out the door.

Slow News Day (Part Two)

2009-03-05T01:08:15Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part Two)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

When Simon returns, it's because Idol is slated to start filming live. Paula is excited. In May, when it finally all comes to an end, she's always so exhausted that she thinks she'll never want to live through another season again, but invariably January comes around again, and she can't wait for America to see what these new kids can do.

She orders flowers for Simon's trailer and gets to the set early to make sure they've arrived. It's a big, colorful bouquet with lots of oranges and purples. Simon's trailer is still empty when she lets herself in. The flowers are so large they threaten to overwhelm the table they sit on, but they're beautiful. She finds the blank card tucked in the blooms and pulls it out. She couldn't decide on what to say when she was ordering them, so now she pulls a pen from her pocket and sits on the chair. She doesn't have a lot of time, so she quickly decides and scribbles the note out. She signs her name with a flourish and reads it back.

Thanks for being my perfect match. Welcome back.

Love, Paula

She hopes it isn't too cheesy, that he doesn't see the little heart at the end of her name and roll his eyes and think her needy. She tucks the note back into its holder and rushes out of the trailer.

It's not as if she hasn't spoken to him but she feels like she hasn't seen him in ages and can't wait to hug him close. She's doing much better and firmly believes time does heal all. Time and talking about it with her family, with Simon and her close friends. What that girl did was tragic but Paula can say for sure that it wasn't her fault. She can't be held responsible for every mentally unstable girl who gets cut in the audition process. With a new season will come new press and soon, no one will be talking about the unfortunate incident.

Kara is already in her dressing room when Paula walks by. Paula is early but Kara is always the first one, still new to the team and not wanting to upset the higher ups with tardiness or diva behavior.

"Hey, Sassy," Paula says, using the nickname she'd given Kara when they'd first met. "You ready?"

"Yes?" Kara says, not sounding exactly convinced. "I think?"

"You'll be fine," Paula assures her. "It's just like auditions but with more live booing."

"Really?" Kara asks. Paula smiles.

"By next week, you'll be an old hand," Paula says. "Is Randy here yet?"

"I haven't seen him," Kara says. "But I thought I heard Simon's voice."

"Really?" Paula says, perking up. Simon is always late and Paula hadn't expected him to be there for at least another hour. "Where?"

"I don't know," Kara says. "I'm still finding my way around the studio."

"Did you see him? How'd he look?" Paula presses. Kara grins at her, waggling her eyebrows.

"Don't tell me all those rumors are true?" Kara says.

"Oh, shut up," Paula says. "Simon and I are friends, good friends and I haven't seen him for a month."

"Good friends or GREAT friends?" Kara asks.

"Best friends," Paula says, seriously. "Honey, let me give you some advice."

Kara senses the change in her tone and sits up a little straighter.

"Simon is a very loyal friend, but you have to earn that friendship. I'd be careful about alienating him too early in the game," Paula says.

"I don't need Simon's approval," Kara says, defensively.

"All right," Paula says. Kara is so worried about proving her worth to the show that she's overreacting to Simon's playfulness and treating it as hostile attacks. "See you in make-up, Sass." If Kara wants to dig her own grave with Simon, there's not a lot to be done. Paula had to learn the hard way with him and she knows what it takes. In the beginning, she and Simon had hated each other after all, and now, they are closer than they've ever been. Paula can't see why someone would knowingly turn a friendship with Simon away.

Paula sits in her make-up chair knowing that if Simon really is on set already, this will be where he goes to look for her. Her regular make-up artist is out on tour with another artist for a few months, so she's using a new girl, someone recommended to her by one of Ryan's people. The girl is serious and not at all chatty but she does good work and no matter who pops into the make-up room, she never gets star struck. Paula thinks she'll go far.

"Hi Kate," Paula greets her when she comes in, toting her heavy make-up kit.

"Good afternoon," Kate says politely. At first, Paula thought she didn't like her, but now Paula knows this is just her way. Kate opens her kit and Paula can't stand it. She fishes out her BlackBerry and texts Simon, asking where he is. He still hasn't texted back when Kate leans her chair back gently and starts applying her foundation.

"Have you been using that moisturizer I gave you?" Kate asks.

"I have."

"Your skin looks amazing," Kate comments, letting her thumb run lightly across Paula's cheekbone, smoothing in the color that the sponge had missed.

"Hello," Simon drawls from the doorway. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Simon!" Paula exclaims and scrambles up and out of the chair. Kate steps back, with wide eyes, narrowly avoiding Paula's limbs hitting her.

"Hello, doll," Simon says, hugging her tightly. "How are you?"

"Better now," Paula says, grinning up at him. She hasn't put on her heels yet, is still in more comfortable flats, so she has to crane her neck to see him. "How was your flight?"

"Transatlantic," he says. "But I'm here now. Wanted to pop in to see you before things got busy."

"Simon," she says. "Can we have dinner tonight? I want to hear about your trip."

He looks at her with a raised eyebrow and a Cheshire cat grin. Over the last month, her mood had been steadily improving on the phone, but he knew he had to see her in person to be sure she really was doing better. Now, she looks up at him, rosy cheeks and a bright white smile.

"All right," he says. "I believe that can be arranged."

She sinks into the make-up chair and Kate returns to her side, holding a brush in her hand. She looks down at Paula with an enigmatic smile.

After the show, Paula sits in her dressing room. She's trying not to feel too disappointed about the mediocre show she just witnessed. The singing was not at the level she was used to, but it was still nice to sit next to Simon, to have him whisper is sarcastic comments into her ear. To know that as soon as they got through the show, she'd get to spend some time listening to Simon tell her about his holiday.

The knock on her door is expected and she calls for Simon to enter, but when the door opens, it's Ryan who pops his head in.

"Hey, you want to get something to eat?" he asks.

"Oh," she says. "I was going to go with Simon, actually."

"I was going to ask him, too," Ryan says. "Randy and Kara already said yes."

She doesn't want to be rude but eating dinner with everyone isn't exactly what she had in mind. She hesitates, trying to think up an appropriate response.

"Seacrest, get out of my way," Simon snaps, pushing the door open to rescue her from having to form any coherent response.

"We were just talking about going out for a bite," Ryan says. "You in?"

"Do you want to go with them?" Simon asks her. She doesn't have to shake her head or even say no, he can see it in her eyes. "Sorry, maybe another time."

"Fine, guys," Ryan says, sort of huffy. "But Kara and Randy and I are going to be talking about you behind your backs if you don't come."

"So?" Simon says. "Go ahead."

Ryan leaves. Paula smiles at him.

"Maybe we can go out with them tomorrow," she offers. "It's just, I wanted to catch up with you!"

"Come on," Simon says. "If we leave now, maybe we can avoid talking to anyone else."

"What about press?" she asks. Surely there's bound to be some entertainment show that wants a sound bite but Simon rolls his eyes, totally unconcerned with that aspect of the show. A lot of the press falls on Paula's shoulders. At the start, they all did things together, but now she usually does the press junkets alone, the upfronts alone, and she hasn't done a late night talk show with any others in a while.

Simon hurries her out the door. They go out a side exit, one sure to be free of people, be it crew or fans. Simon takes her to a small restaurant, one not to crowded so early in the evening and one that caters to him. They are sat at a semi-private table and given more than one server to bring them all that they ask. The servers are good – the stay out of sight, but any time either of them wants something, a server appears seemingly out of nowhere.

When they rise to leave, Simon has to touch the edge of the table briefly to find his balance. Paula looks at the table, the empty glasses that sit in a row in front of Simon's plate. She counts five and knows that with Simon, three is usually his best limit. They'd sat there for a long time and when he'd ordered, she hadn't really thought anything of it. Now, she takes his arm while they exit and hangs on to him while the valet fetches the car. When the car pulls up, Paula doesn't let go.

"Simon, You should let me drive," she says, keeping her voice airy and sweet. He looks down at her; the expression on his face is usually reserved for when she says something particularly nonsensical. The valet comes out with the keys and Paula snatches them before Simon can. This only reinforces her point – a sober Simon would have had faster reflexes. Paula hands the valet a few bills from her purse.

"I don't think so," Simon says, reaching for the keys but she holds them out, away from him.

"I do think so," she says. "Come on, better safe than sorry, am I right? Someone could get hurt."

Simon looks over to where the valet was standing for some help but the valet has wisely disappeared into his booth.

"I..."

"Simon, honey, people are starting to take pictures. Get in the car," she says, evenly. He looks over to the few photographers and fans and gives them a wave and a grin. Then, he gets in the car.

Paula has to spend a moment scooting up the seat and adjusting the mirror.

"Can you even drive a manual?" he asks.

"Yes!" she says. "You know, contrary to popular belief, I do have some basic life skills."

"You have plenty of skills," he says, and pats her leg sloppily. She pulls away from the restaurant and with a rueful smile.

"You're very sneaky," she says. "I didn't even see you get drunk."

"I'm not drunk," he says. "I'm just happy!"

"Right," she says. "Hey, what's six times nine?"

"Heh, you said six and nine," he snorts.

"Simon! Answer the question!" she says, snapping her fingers. He frowns for a moment and then gets a triumphant look.

"47!" he says.

"No," she says.

"It is so!"

"It's 54," she says.

"Well who uses math anyway?" he mutters, rolling down the window and fishing out his cigarettes. She wrinkles her nose, but it's his car and arguing with him right now seems a fruitless use of her time. While he smokes, she hums along to the radio. Simon lives nearby and when she pulls into his driveway, he flicks the rest of the cigarette out the window.

"Princess, how are you going to get home?" he asks.

"Don't worry about me," she says, taking off her seatbelt and opening the door. "Let's get you some water."

"I'm not totally tanked!" he says, getting out and following her to the door. She unlocks it and lets them in. He finally manages to get the keys back and tucks them into his pocket. "Didn't you have a good time?"

"Of course I had a good time," she says.

"We're still having a good time," he says. "And you didn't crash my car!"

"I did not," she assures him. "I'm going to call a cab, all right?"

"No, no," he says. "Stay here with me."

"Simon, we need to work in the morning," she says. "I need to go home."

"Just give me an hour and I'll drive you," he promises. "Stay here."

She does feel like giving into him and so she nods. Pleased, he pulls her into his arms and takes her hand. He puts his other hand on her waist.

"Are you trying to dance with me?" she asks, shocked and delighted.

"You like to dance," he says. They sway for a moment in the front hall; the only noise is her heels on the floor as he turns her.

"There's no music," she points out after a moment.

"Details," he murmurs, resting his chin on the crown of her head. She let herself relax against him. They might have stayed there for some time if his phone hadn't started to buzz in his pocket, against her ribs. She stepped back while he fished it out and used the opportunity to get them both a bottle of water. Simon was a happy drunk, she knew from years of experience. He tended to get a little handsy but it was rare that they were alone while he was intoxicated. Usually they were at a party, surrounded by people and it was easy to avoid him. Now, he sneaked up behind her and grabbed her. She stepped back and thrust the bottle to him.

"Drink," she says.

"You don't like when I touch you?" he asks, pouting.

"I didn't say that," she says. "I just think you need some water."

"So you do like when I touch you?" he asks, grinning and taking the bottle.

"I adore you, you know that," she says diplomatically. He drinks the water and she looks away, slightly embarrassed.

"But we've never..." He leaves the end of the statement as an implication but she knows what he means.

"Nope," she says. "Because our friendship is too important."

"I'm friends with all my exes!" he says. "Why do women always think sex has anything to do with friendship?"

She rolls her eyes.

"Men," she mutters.

"Seriously, Paula," he says. "Have you ever thought about what it would be like?"

"Why are we talking about this?" she asks, desperately.

"I have," he says, continuing on like he never heard her.

"Simon, in the morning you're going to regret we ever had this conversation," she warns him.

"Am not," he says. "You're beautiful, what man wouldn't think about that with you?"

"Stop!" she says. "Right now."

"Sorry, sorry," he says. "I thought women liked to be told they were sexy."

"They do," she says. "We do, it's just... hard to take anything you say seriously."

"I'm serious," he says, and his face loses its goofy expression. He seems to sober with his words. "I'm always serious about that."

"Come on," she says. "Let's go sit down and watch TV."

She wants an activity to distract them, is desperate for a subject change. He follows her amiably into the living room and when the sit on the sofa, he takes the remote from her and makes it work when she can't. She doesn't care what they watch – he puts on one of the cable networks where a crime procedural is playing.

"I know you've had sex," Simon says, after a silence.

"God," she groans. "Like a dog with a bone."

He grins.

"Of course I've had sex," she consents. "I've been married."

"Because you only have sex with your husbands," he says, tauntingly. "Because you're a nun."

"That doesn't even make sense," she points out. "Who I have sex with is none of your business."

"It could be, though," he says. "We could make it my business."

"But we won't," she says. She turns back to the screen, trying to focus on the story. There's no point, she missed the first half of the episode and it's a show she doesn't even watch. Still, she looks on like it's the most fascinating thing ever.

"Fine, fine," he says. He slumps lower into the couch and when she looks at him again, his eyes are closed.

"Simon?" she says. She reaches out and pushes the spiky tuft of hair back from his forehead. Still, he doesn't move. Sighing, she shuts the TV off and stands. In the other room, she calls for a cab. She covers him with blanket and makes sure his water is close for when he wakes up.

He'll want it.

Slow News Day (Part One)

2009-03-05T01:06:06Z

Title: Slow News Day (Part One)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You can never depend on a slow news day.

"That time I accused the Speaker of welshing on committee assignments and had to apologize to the Welsh people... slow news day."
C.J. Cregg, The West Wing

oooo

Simon offers to drive Paula somewhere. When he does this, she stares at him, blinking, like she hasn't heard the words or doesn't understand them. She has just come out of the meeting with the producers – she has just received the news that a girl has killed herself because, in part, of her career.

"I have a car," Paula says, finally.

Simon has waited around for her to be finished. He had told her, as the producers pulled her away, "I'll be here when you get out."

It had struck her as odd at the time. Fuller just needed to tell her something, how long could it take that Simon wouldn't still be around? Or if it did take a while, who cares whether or not Simon was still in the studio. But his face had struck her – his expression was solemn and honest.

"Okay," she'd said. "Sure."

Now he follows her to her dressing room.

"I really think you should let me drive you," Simon says again. "I don't think you should go home tonight."

"But, it's my house," Paula says. "I have to go back eventually."

"And you will," he says. "But there's going to be photographers there, and the police, and I don't want you to face that right now."

"Oh," she says. "You're right."

She's oddly calm. He watches her closely as she packs up her things and slips on her jacket. He has to remind her to take some extra clothes and then he offers to carry the additional bag. She follows him wordlessly, bowing to every suggestion and not questioning anything. She's in shock, maybe. The stage and film crew they pass don't meet her eyes, send sympathetic glances over their shoulder. Everyone had known before Paula and Simon thinks that when she realizes this, she's going to be upset.

He opens the passenger door for her and she gets in his car. He drops her bag in the trunk and gets in. They sit in the dark cab for a moment.

"Where would you like to go?" he asks. She looks at him, confused.

"I don't know," she says. "Will you choose?"

"Yeah," he says, sliding the key into the ignition. "I can do that."

At her feet, Paula's big purse starts to vibrate. Her phone is ringing. The news has hit the Internet already and tomorrow, it will be all over the gossip shows. Even Ryan will have to report it. Paula looks at the bag, stricken.

"Don't answer it," Simon says quickly. "Don't talk to anyone, okay?"

"What if it's my publicist?" she asks.

"He can wait for a few hours," Simon assures her. "It's his job to handle it right now."

He starts the engine and pulls quickly out of the parking garage. The exit to the structure is swamped with media, trying to get a shot of her leaving.

"Put your head down," he says. She folds over, pressing her face into her lap. He puts a reassuring hand on her back and speeds through the crowed, causing more than one person to leap out of the way of his car. Once they get on to open road, she sits up.

When he'd offered to drive her, he'd planned on taking her to a hotel but after spending several minutes with her, he isn't sure he wants her to be by herself, so instead, he heads for his house. She doesn't seem to notice where he's headed and when he pulls up to his gates, she doesn't seem surprised by the location. She sits in the car until he comes around and opens her door and only then does she step out and follow him into the empty house.

Paula hasn't been to his house in a while, easily not since Terri had moved out. For the most part, things are the same, except it's always quiet when he gets home. Paula stands uneasily in the front room and looks around, unsure of what is supposed to happen next.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. She blinks and finally shrugs. "Are you tired?"

"Yes," she says. "I'm tired."

Maybe it's best if she does just sleep the news off and face the problem with fresh eyes. It's been an incredibly long day of shooting, after all. Simon is tired himself. So he leads her up the massive staircase and puts her in the guest room across the hall from his. The room is well stocked and she'll have anything she needs.

"Are you all right, darling?" he asks, peering into her eyes with concern. Usually he can read her like an open book, but right now he can't make heads or tails of her expression or behavior.

"Sure," she says. "I'm just going to get some sleep."

"If you need anything," he says. "Anything at all, come get me, okay?"

She offers a strained smile and closes the door.

Simon goes to the backyard to smoke a cigarette and to call Fuller.

"I have her," he says into the phone. "I need you to keep everyone out of her face for at least a day. I really don't think it's hit her yet."

Fuller agrees to speak to her people, to try to create some space and when Simon ends the call, he looks up at the lit window of the room where Paula is. The light is on, but he doesn't detect any movement behind the gauzy curtains. He goes inside and eats a bowl of cold cereal in the kitchen before deciding that maybe he was tired enough to go to sleep himself. It is going to be a long day tomorrow – that much is for sure.

Upstairs, he pauses outside Paula's closed door and considers knocking to make sure she's doing all right and doesn't need anything. He lets his hand hover at the door and then he hears it. The sharp, watery inhalation of breath and then a hiccupping, long sob.

Some instinct inside of him causes him to open the door. He feels the overwhelming urge to comfort and protect her. At first, he doesn't see her. The only light comes from the small lamp on the nightstand and the room is dark and shadowed. But then, he sees her, sitting in the narrow space between the bed and the wall. She has her knees drawn up to her chest and her head down. Simon rushes over to her and pulls on her arms. She rises to her feet and presses her face into his chest. He wraps his arms around her and allows her to cry into him.

And she is crying – it's not the tears of sadness or disappointment, it's obvious that she is completely devastated. She cannot hold in the loud, bone rattling sobs.

"It's all right," Simon says, in what he hopes is a soothing voice. "Just let it all out."

Several hours later, Paula and Simon are lying on the bed. She has finally stopped crying, but now her face is swollen and tender. Between them sits a box of tissues and she has several balled up in her hands. She has cried away her make-up and she's physically exhausted. They both stare up at the ceiling, waiting for what comes next.

"Did you know?" she asks, her voice hoarse and dry.

"No one knew this was going to happen," he assures her.

"No, I mean... you said to me... you told me you'd be there when I got out of my meeting. Did you know before me? Did everyone?"

"What good would have come of you knowing?" he asks. "It was too late to help her."

"They didn't want to upset filming," she says. He can't argue. It wasn't fair, but it's how it went down.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

"No," she says, finally. "This girl has... had been obsessed with me for years. You saw her and... I knew I should have been more clear but... people..." she dissolves into tears again, unable to articulate her thought. "I didn't mean to kill her."

"You didn't," he assures her, grabbing her hand. "She was unstable and it wasn't your fault."

Paula doesn't respond; just mops her face with an already damp tissue.

"I'm going to get you some water," he says. In his room, he takes a clean glass from his cocktail set and fills it with water from the sink. From the bathroom, he also gets a white sleeping pill. She needs some rest and he's afraid this is the only way she'll get it. When he comes back, she has kicked off her shoes and curled into a small ball in the middle of the bed.

"Take this," he says, handing her the pill. She looks at it skeptically for a moment but ultimately decides that whatever it is can't make her feel any worse than she already does. She takes the pill and drinks the water. "Will you stay?" she asks.

"Of course," he promises.

The pill works quickly. Soon she is sleeping and he covers her with a blanket before shutting off the light and heading to bed.

He doesn't sleep late. He wakes up with the sun and showers and dresses. He checks in on Paula who is still sleeping before he goes down to start a pot of coffee. When it's done, he fixes her a cup. Simon likes his coffee black and bitter but he knows Paula will want cream and far too much sugar. He carries the mug upstairs and walks into her room. He sets the coffees both on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the mattress.

"Paula," he says. He rubs her back and she starts to wake up. She looks at him and he can see that she's confused to see him, to look around and see the unfamiliar room.

"What am I...?"

But then she remembers and the sentence dies on her lips.

"I brought you some coffee," he says, reaching over and handing her the mug. She sits up and takes the mug, wraps her fingers around it and lets the steam warm her.

"Thanks," she says, her voice dull.

"Why don't you shower," he says. "Then I'll take you home."

She doesn't want to go home, but she's got to and so she nods and sips at her coffee.

In the shower, Paula begins to cry again. The hot water helps to release some of the feelings she has bubbling up inside of her and the strong spray washes the tears away from her face as quickly as she can produce them. As much as she cries for herself, she cries for the dead girl. No one is worth killing yourself for, she thinks. Not your family, not your lovers and not, not some aging pop star.

She shuts off the tap when starts feeling a little woozy from dehydration and the heat of the water. She dresses slowly and methodically; she brushes out her hair hard and braids the length back, away from her face. She looks tired and she looks sad but there isn't much to be done about that. She has sunglasses in her purse and that will have to do.

Sometime in the night, she'd shut her phone off and now, she can't bring herself to turn the device back on.

Downstairs, Simon waits and gives her a patient nod as she descends the stairs.

"You want something to eat?" he asks as she hands him her empty mug.

"No," she says. She doesn't feel hungry, in fact, food sounds upsetting.

Simon shuttles her into his big SUV instead of one of the sports car. This way they sit high above the majority of the traffic and the windows are darkly tinted. As soon as he starts the engine, he reaches out to shut off the radio. He tries to be nonchalant about it but she can see right through him.

"What are they saying?" she asks.

"That it's a tragedy," he says. It's the truth, but he doesn't want her to hear any of the crueler commentary – the bloggers who say over and over that if they were super fans of Paula, they'd kill themselves too. It's mean spirited and untrue.

"Hey Simon?" she says.

"Yeah?" He puts his arm across her seat and backs out onto the road.

"Thank you – for being nice to me," she says. "You didn't have to."

"Paula, look at me," he says. "I know we don't always get along, but I am always, always on your side and if you ever need anything, I'm always here to give it, do you understand?"

"I understand," she repeats, nodding. "Ditto."

"Good," he says, accelerating down the street. "You're my match, you know?"

"Your match?" she says.

"Yep," he confirms. "You're the only person I've met, outside of my family, that I always want around."

"Now you're just trying to be nice," she says. But his expression is serious.

"Believe what you want," he says. "But I'm always going to be around."

The statement actually makes her feel better and she feels a tiny weight lift from her heart.

The crime scene is gone from her house when they arrive, but the media is still camped out and there is a police cruiser, trying to hold them back. Paula digs in her purse for the remote to open her gate and tries not to look out at the sea of people as the car creeps through and the gate closes behind them.

She can see that her staff is already there, waiting anxiously for her to appear.

"Oh, heaven help me," she says mostly to herself.

"I'll get your door," he says, and hops out to open it for her. Distantly, from the gates, he can hear the photographers shouting his name, and then hers as she exits the vehicle but he hurries her into the house and slams the door behind them. For the moment, they are safe.

People start spilling into the front room – Paula's assistants, office manager, and publicist all swoop down on them, speaking at once.

"Where have you been?"

"The phone has been ringing off the-"

"I couldn't get a hold of you for hours and I-"

"Are you okay? We were so worried!"

"ALL RIGHT," Simon bellows. "EVERYONE SHUT UP."

Everyone is quiet immediately and even Paula stares at him with wide eyes.

"Thank you," he says. "Okay, here is how this is going to go down. You all are going to back off and give her a little space. In an hour, you're going to release a statement to the press saying how sorry you are this has happened and sending out condolences to the family. You'll give Ryan the first interview and then, so help me God, we are going to put this all behind us."

"I am your publicist," Dave says, stepping forward. "I really think I should be making these decisions!"

"No," Paula says. "No, Simon is in charge. I just need a moment to... just give me 20 minutes."

They all watch her disappear up the stairs. Dave eyes the girls and they all scatter out into the house.

"We couldn't get a hold of her," Dave says, narrowing his eyes at Simon.

"She was a wreck, she was in no place to speak to anyone," Simon says. "Before she's a judge or a brand, she's a person and you'd do well to remember that."

"We've missed our chance to get ahead of the story," he says. "Telling everyone 'No Comment' has just made her appear heartless."

"She's not heartless," Simon says. "And people will know that."

When Paula comes back down, she has put on more comfortable clothes and carries with her a tiny dog. She smiles at Simon.

"You're still here?"

"Until you send me away," he promises. She looks thankful, but then frowns.

"Aren't you supposed to be going to London?" she asks.

"I can leave tomorrow," he says. "I can postpone it."

"No," she says, shaking her head. "That would just make me feel worse. You should go home and see your family, Simon. Please, I'll be fine."

"Are you certain?" he asks. She crooks a finger at him and they step into the foyer.

"Thank you," she says again. "I'll call you."

"Every day?" he demands.

"Well," she says. "Maybe every other."

"All right," he agrees. He's already in a world of trouble for postponing his flight but at the time it didn't seem to matter. He hugs her, the little dog trapped between them. She hugs him back, breathes deeply his smell like she wants to remember this good moment in the midst of a dark time.

He pulls away, but she hangs on and steps up on her toes, her lips puckering. They haven't done this in a while, this friendly display of affection, but he misses it. He kisses her, holding his lips to hers a little longer than normal.

"Bye," she says, when she steps away. "I'll miss you."

"I'll be back next month." He snaps his fingers and says, "It'll go by like that."

When he's gone, she takes a deep breath and turns around to face the reality of her life.

Stars That Shine (Part One)

2008-09-08T05:52:28Z

Title: Stars That Shine (Part One)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: R
Summary: Two sides to every coin, after all.
Author's Note: Thank You to hello12344 who reminded me that I should keep writing.

All italicized lyrics are from the awesome band The Weepies. Download everything they've ever produced immediately. It'll change your life.

What can I compare you to, a window the sun shines through?
Maybe the silver moon, a smile rising
The magic of the fading day, satellites on parade
A toast to the plans we've made to live like kings
Take It From Me – The Weepies

***

Three days after Nigel announces that he’s leaving Idol, Simon calls her.

“And good riddance, I say,” he says.

“This change, Simon, I’m not sure,” she says.

“Well you’d better get sure,” he says. “I want you to come to New York.”

“Oh God,” she says. “What’s next?”

“Come to New York. I’m staying at the Four Seasons. I’ll book you a suite too. Come for the weekend,” he says.

“I don’t know,” she hems.

“You always say you want to be more proactive. You and I are going to change Idol this year. You and I are going to make it better.”

Simon, had it not been for his uncontrollable mean streak, could have been a politician. When he really believed in something, he could make her believe in it too. He could speak with passion and confidence on any subject. If only he’d pointed that passion toward government instead of the music industry. But then, she wouldn’t know him.

Two sides to every coin, after all.

“Are you going to get me fired?” she asks.

“If I get you fired, I’m going down too,” he promises.

“All right. Book the room.” Any time Simon is willing to lose money is assurance enough for her.

In New York, Paula checks into her suite before she even calls him.

“Call me from the airport,” he’d said on the phone. But it’d been a long, bumpy flight and Paula wasn’t real fond of planes to begin with. She was sore from sitting upright, sore from the cab ride – the cabbie had careened through traffic yelling profanities for twenty-five minutes. On the other hand, he hadn’t seemed to recognize her and if he did, hadn’t seemed to care. Small miracles.

It is stuffy in New York, humid and sticky still. August has never been her favorite month, especially on the east coast. At least L.A. has predictable weather. She really wants to remove her scarf, which she does almost immediately once she enters the air-conditioned hotel suite. She sets down her suitcase and sighs. She has come alone – no assistants, no managers, no publicists.

In the mirror, she looks tired and sweaty. The hair around her temples is damp and curly where it touches her skin. With nimble fingers, she undoes the knot of the silk scarf and slides it carefully off. She doesn’t want it to snag on the flesh colored bandage underneath. Of course, it’s not her flesh tone – she is much tanner than the bandage so she hides it beneath scarves, turtlenecks, and artfully arranged blouses and jewelry.

Already she feels cooler. She uses the hair elastic on her wrist to secure the hair off of her neck and then reaches for the hotel phone. She can just dial his room number – he’s across the hall and a door down. But it rings and rings so she calls his cell phone from her BlackBerry.

“Your flight was delayed?” he answers. He’s not much for hellos, Simon.

“No, I’m at the hotel,” she says, falling into one of the softer looking chairs.

“What?” he exclaims. “I thought you were… I mean, I wanted to be there when you got in!”

“Oh,” she says. “That’s very sweet of you.”

“It would’ve been,” he mutters.

“Where are you?”

“Sony BMG let me use a spare office to work out of while I’m here,” he says.

“I thought 19 had offices in New York,” she says.

“Yeah, but I don’t much fancy seeing Nigel these days,” he says. “Look, just stay there. I’ll come back.”

“That was always my plan,” she says.

She brushes her teeth and then collapses on the bed. The doctor gave her Vicodin for the pain but she’s only taking extra strength Tylenol this close to filming. She doesn’t want to take any chances and it’s not like either work very well for her anyhow.

Resting feels nice. The room is nice too – the drapes have been drawn and without a view of the city, she can imagine that she’s anywhere in the world, completely alone. The idea of being untraceable and untouchable gets more appealing every year.

“I’m not crazy,” she says out loud to the empty room. But giving herself this verbal reassurance isn’t exactly compelling evidence.

She wakes up to knocking, pounding really, on the door. When she opens it, Simon stares at her with an exasperated expression.

“You sleep like the dead, woman,” he says and pushes his way inside the room. It’s a habit one picks up after enough time as a celebrity. No celebrity lingers in doorways. That’s just a tabloid shot waiting to happen, especially if one happens to be lingering in scandalous doorways.

“Sorry,” she says. “Come in.”

“I am in,” he says. “What happened to your neck?” She reaches her hand up to touch the bandage lightly.

“I had surgery,” she says. “It hit the news cycle yesterday. You didn’t hear?”

“First of all, I don’t read People Magazine,” he says. “Secondly, I didn’t know I had to find out about your life from the tabloids.”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” she says.

“Obviously you’re fine, you’re standing right here,” he says, walking past her and opening the mini-fridge. He pulls out two waters and tosses her one. She almost doesn’t catch it. “What did you get done?”

“Please don’t say that like it’s plastic surgery,” she scolds. “I had some discs in my neck replaced.”

“That’s rather serious,” he says, finally sounding slightly concerned. “They went in through the front?”

“Yes,” she says.

“They didn’t damage your vocal chords did they?” he asks.

“You’d like that,” she says.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he says. “I’m asking as a record executive, not as an asshole.”

“They’re fine. Thank you.”

“I’m glad,” he says. They’re standing in the room and finally he sighs like an impatient child. “I’d very much like to see it.”

“See what?”

“Your scar!” he says. “Can I see it?”

“Why don’t you have a seat,” she says.

“We have a lot to do,” Simon informs her as he settles down on the ivory sofa.

“I can’t say I know what you mean by that,” she says. “You’re all, come to New York, let’s change the world! But it was a two minute phone call and I’m not sure what you expect me to do, really… now that I’m here.”

“Do you feel a little better now? Got that out of your system?”

“Simon.”

“Yes, we’re going to get down to it but nothing is going to happen until I get a look at that scar,” he says.

“What is it with men and wounds?” she asks and moves to the mirror.

“It’s a wound?” he asks, excitedly.

“It’s not a scar until at least a week after surgery,” she says, wincing as the bandage pulls away from the tender skin. “It looks gross. It’s still sutured.”

“Awesome,” he says.

She holds aside the bandage. The skin underneath is red and inflamed and marred by purple stitches. The incision was larger than he expected, almost two inches across.

“Jesus Christ, Paula,” he breathes.

“I know,” she says.

“How badly will that scar over?”

“Couldn’t say,” she says. “It will fade over time. I can cover it with clothes, jewelry. Make-up for the show.” She shrugs. “I feel better.”

“Good,” he says. He can’t stop staring so she replaces the bandage. His eyes flicker back to her face and his expression is soft. Now he’s not a record executive or a reality show judge, he’s just Simon, her friend.

“Simon?”

“Hmm?”

“What am I doing here?” she says.

“We’re going to change the show.”

“What?”

“You and I,” he says. “You and me, Paula, are going to pick the fourth judge.”

“No,” she says.

“No?”

“No fourth judge,” she says firmly.

“It’s gonna happen,” he says.

“It doesn’t work!” she explodes. “We’ve tried it, damn it, and it doesn’t work! Mark McGrath? Gene Simmons? Jewel? Do you remember how awful?”

“We haven’t chose the right person is all,” he argues.

“Please don’t do this,” she pleads.

“I’m sorry,” he says though he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“Randy was right,” she mutters.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“When Nigel left he said it was just a matter of time before you turned Idol into the X-Factor and he was right. I defended you and he was right,” she says. “I shouldn’t have come.” She reaches for her scarf and slides it around her neck.

“You just got here,” he says. “Don’t go.”

“Clearly your mind is made up and you don’t need me,” she says.

“Don’t do this.”

“Who’s on your short list, Simon? The rest of Girls Aloud? Is Kylie free? What about Kelly Osbourne?”

“You know, you can blame me but I take orders too. This is Fuller’s idea,” he says standing and moving in front of the door.

“One you support, no doubt,” she snaps. “I bet mentoring is his idea too?”

“Why are you attacking me?” he asks.

“You don’t think I understand anything, do you?” she says. “Is this punishment for Dancing With The Stars?”

“You aren’t being punished,” he sighs.

“I’m being fired,” she says.

“No.”

“Maybe not today, but it’s going to be a slow death,” she says.

“No, you arrogant drama queen,” he says. “You have it ass backwards as usual.”

“How?” she asks.

“You’re not getting fired, you’re getting promoted,” he says. “Sort of. Fuller and I want your input. We want you to sit at the grown-ups table.”

“Really?” she asks.

“We’re getting another judge. Either I can pick someone and if you hate them you can shut the hell up about it or you can help me.”

“Okay,” she says, after a moment. “But for the record, I’m against a fourth judge.”

“There’s no record, we’re just two people in a hotel room,” he reminds her. “Are we done fighting?”

“Can’t see how,” she mutters.

“Here’s what we should do. Eat some food and compare our lists of candidates,” he says.

“I don’t have a list of candidates,” she says. “I’ve known about this for ten minutes.”

He tosses her a pen.

“Start thinking.”

They order in. He tries to get her to go out but when she points at her neck he agrees to order up to the suite. They move to his room across the hall. It’s where his alcohol is and he’s been in the suite for a few days already and the lived-in feeling helps brainstorming, or so he says.

Paula takes up the whole couch somehow.

“Aren’t you like three feet tall? How are you doing this? Scoot over,” he orders. She sticks out her tongue.

“Go away,” she mutters. “I’m still mildly angry with you.”

“Remember when we were friends?” he says nostalgically, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Not really.”

Despite her less than enthusiastic attitude, it’s Paula who first throws out the name Kara DioGuardi. They don’t talk about her for a couple hours, though. Simon is just writing down names – he asks how to spell it and jots her down between Latoya Jackson and Kristen Chenoweth.

It’s dark by the time they have a short list. Somehow they’ve switched places. Paula is lying horizontally across the bed, her toes just hanging off the mattress and Simon is covering the couch, looking at the list.

“How has Cyndi Lauper stayed on this list so long?” he asks through a mouthful of orange corn chips. The man eats like a twelve-year-old boy.

“She has experience on Canadian Idol,” Paula offers sleepily.

“Exactly,” Simon mutters and she can hear his pen on the paper; Cyndi is off the list.

“Who is left?” she asks. “Because we need to go to sleep.”

“We’re filming in a few days. We have to pick someone, convince them to join, and fly them out here. There’s no time for sleep,” he chastises. She sticks her tongue out at him, feeling a little pre-adolescent herself.

“I vote for Kara,” she says, letting her eyes drift close.

“Why again?”

“You know her,” Paula says, tired of the sound of her own voice, more tired of the sound of his.

“Humor me,”

“She’s inside the business,” Paula shrugs. “She knows how to write, to produce, to play and sing.”

“She’s the female Randy,” Simon says.

“What Randy was before anyone knew him anyway,” Paula says. “Now it’s all, dawg this and yo that.”

“My, my,” Simon says. “Is this how you speak about me when I’m not around?”

“Much worse, actually,” Paula admits and she says it like a joke but they both know it isn’t.

“No kidding,” Simon mutters. “All right. Let’s give her a call.”

They wait until morning because it’s nearly 3:00am in New York City and that’s still late in L.A. Paula falls asleep on Simon’s bed and when she wakes up a few hours later, she doesn’t remember where she is and she can’t hear Simon asleep on the sofa so she exhaustedly climbs under the covers to try to get warm. Her mouth feels dirty and dry but when she reaches blindly towards the nightstand for the bottle of water she sets there every night before bed, her hand only finds air.

In the morning, she wakes up the to the muffled sound of Simon’s voice. When she opens her eyes, she doesn’t see him at first. He’s on the balcony facing the busy street and she can make out his shape through the white curtains. He comes in windswept and reeking of cigarette smoke.

“I spoke to Fuller,” he says. “He’s going to make the call.”

“Why am I in your bed?” she asks, sleepily.

“Because that’s where you fell asleep,” he says, rather rationally.

“Where did you sleep?” she asks, sitting up a little. He nods his head towards the couch. There’s a blanket and a pillow on it, balled up and wrinkled. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he says.

“You know, I don’t say this a lot, but you’re a nice man, Simon,” she says.

“You don’t say that a lot,” he confirms. “You hungry?”

“Yeah,” she says.

“Go get dressed. Let’s go for a walk,” he says and then turns away while she puts on her shoes and tiptoes out of his room like something much more has happened.

Paula doesn’t usually take walks. She goes out in L.A. to Starbucks, to dinner, shopping but it isn’t a city built for pedestrians. She has a white Range Rover, less than a year old and plenty of people to drive her about when she feels the urge to sit in the back where the windows are tinted darkly.

But New York is a city meant for walking. The sidewalks are wide and the city is built on a grid so it’s easy to navigate. Celebrities walk the streets of New York all the time. Sometimes heads turn but mostly they don’t and Paula wants to walk by a lot of people and have them not care about her sometimes.

She doesn’t shower but she does put up her hair and redo her make-up and puts on a shirt with a collar high enough that she doesn’t need a scarf. She forgoes the heels for wedges that offer more support and when she leaves her room, he’s standing there wearing his sunglasses inside, leaning against the hallway.

“Come on,” he says and lets her take his arm.

They find a bagel store and sit in the corner. Simon licks cream cheese off his finger and she stirs cream into her cup of coffee. They are waiting for the phone to ring. Paula’s phone goes off first, but it’s just a text from Kara, not a call.

“What’s it say?” Simon inquires.

“She wants to know if I know anything about what’s happening,” Paula says. “Why Simon Fuller has asked her to come to New York.”

“What are you going to say?” he asks.

“I’ll just say that I’ll see her when she gets here,” Paula says and pauses to write the text. Simon sneaks a sip from her mug and wrinkles his nose. He adds sugar and sips it again. She doesn’t mind sharing with him.

“This is going to be a long week,” Simon warns her.

“Everyone is going to say that she is coming to replace me,” Paula says.

“And who is everyone, exactly?” he asks.

“Anyone with a pen or a keyboard, I’d imagine,” she says.

“You have some loyal fans,” he points out.

“Yeah,” she says, her face softening. “That’s true.”

He finishes her coffee and she eats some of his bagel and when he leans over to wipe cream cheese from the corner of her mouth, she has to resist the urge to turn her head and kiss his fingers. It’s a disconcerting urge, one she has repressed before but hasn’t felt in a long while.

“Come on,” he says.

They’re walking back to the hotel when Randy calls Simon to ask about what’s happening. He has been summoned to New York also. When Simon tells him, she knows he’s upset because she’d be upset if she were in Randy’s position. She usually is – left out.

“Was he hurt?” Paula asks when he hangs up.

“Probably,” Simon says. “Oh well.”

“Am I the only one you’re nice too?” she blurts. He looks at her for a moment.

“You and my mother,” he says, finally.

“Well, I hope you’re nicer to her than you are to me,” she says.

“I am,” he confirms. “But I am quite nice to you. Maybe not during broadcast, always, but when it counts.”

“And when is that?” she asks.

“When we’re alone,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

“She’ll be here later tonight then? Kara?” Paula says, changing the subject, suddenly a little uncomfortable.

“Yes,” he says. “What do you say we go back to the hotel and rest up? Fuller should arrive this evening. We can meet Kara for dinner.”

“I could use a rest,” Paula says, her fingers touching the tender place at her neck absently.

“Me too,” he says, softly.

Simon walks her to her door and she really does try to rest. She takes a bath. The doctor said no showers until the sutures come out so she’s been taking baths and being careful to keep the area as dry as possible. She is dressed and sitting at the vanity when there’s a knock at the door. She peers through the peephole and let’s Simon in.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Simon says smirking.

“I guess I’m a little anxious,” she admits, motioning him inside and shutting the door softly. She sat back down and resumed curling her hair. He watched for a moment before flopping on her bed and turning on the TV. It’s low enough so she can’t really make out what he’s watching. The steady drone makes her believe it’s the news.

She’s patient in doing her hair. She has a lot of it and wraps each piece carefully around the curling iron and counting to fifteen. It takes her a while to realize that even though he’s changed locations, he’s still watching her.

“What?” she says, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

“Don’t be anxious,” he says.

“That’s hard to control,” she says, pulling the plug of the iron from the wall and letting drop and coil onto the counter.

“It’s going to be fine,” he says.

“You don’t know that.”

“What’s the worst thing that could happen?” he asks.

“It could tank the show and we could all lose our jobs,” she says.

“Paula, darling,” he says. “If the ratings tank during auditions, she’ll be gone by Hollywood week. We both know that.”

“Darling?” she murmurs, mostly to herself, very cynically – enough for him to hear.

“Oh, don’t be that way,” he says. “You used to love when I called you pet names.”

“That was then,” she says firmly. “Things are different now.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because that was,” she sighs. “It was a long time ago.”

“A year,” he scoffs.

“And then two years before that. Then seven months before that,” she accuses.

“We deserve a fresh start, then,” he concludes.

“You say that EVERYTIME we break up!” she says.

“No,” he corrects. “I say that every time we get back together. Which we always do. I don’t know why you fight it.”

“Did you ever consider that we are not right for one another?” she asks.

“You know, I have,” he says conversationally. “But then I sort of miss you.”

“You sort of miss me?” she asks. “Oh, well, please let me drop everything and run into your arms.”

“Sarcasm is not attractive on a woman your age,” he snaps.

“You’re an ass,” she says and gets up to go find her shoes in the other room.

“You look nice,” he calls after her and she rolls her eyes, coming back in with a pair of navy heels.

“Do you even remember why we broke up the last time?” she asks.

“We can’t do this now, we have to be to dinner in 40 minutes.”

“40 minutes is plenty of time for you and me to fight,” she says.

“Why are we fighting? I say I want to be with you and you pick a fight with me. Why do I feel like I’m the one in trouble?” he asks.

“You don’t remember, do you?” she accuses.

“Sure I do,” he says. “You were mad about Terri.”

“I was mad?” she screeches. “You’d broken up with her and were still living with her!”

“She moved out!”

“Into a house you bought!” she says.

“This… this is an old fight,” he says.

“It’s the same fight,” she says. “We’ve been having the fight for 8 years!”

“And what fight is that?”

“You can’t commit! You don’t want anything permanent, Simon, anything meaningful,” she says. “And we can break up and get back together and break up but if that hasn’t changed in 8 years it’s not ever going to change.”

“That isn’t fair,” he says.

“Life isn’t fair,” she says, knowingly. “Maybe that’s what our fight is about.”

“Maybe,” he agrees.

At dinner, Kara’s face is glowing. She can’t believe what’s happening to her and her hand shakes as she signs the contract that Simon Fuller presents to her and slides across the dinner table. Fuller is full of promises and good cheer but Simon and Paula are both quiet. Paula clenches her teeth together and Simon drinks wine, which he only does when he’s in a foul mood. Randy knows exactly what’s happening. He’s been in the middle of this scene countless times before.

“You all right?” Randy asks Simon, speaking low while Kara and Fuller are deep in conversation about the future.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“And Paula?” Randy asks.

“Is totally psychotic as usual,” Simon says.

Randy laughs.

“She turned you down, huh?” he says. Suddenly Paula leans across Simon into Randy’s space.

“I can hear you two, you know and I am not the crazy one!” she hisses. There is silence at the table and when she looks up, everyone is staring at her. She clears her throat. “Sorry. Will you excuse me?” She needs some air and only Randy half way stands when she pushes back her chair and heads for the exit.

Paula smoked for a year in her teens and wishes now for the filthy habit back so she had something to do with her hands. Instead she is just frustrated and alone, standing in front of a restaurant. It doesn’t take long for Randy to come out.

“Hey Beauty Queen,” he says. “You all right?”

“Fine,” she says. “I’m just tired.”

“They’re paying the bill,” he says. “I’ll walk you back to the hotel.”

“All right,” she agrees. It’s only a few blocks. They link arms and walk in companionable silence for a while. “How is your family?” she says after a while.

“Good,” he says. “Yours?”

“Fine,” she says. “Just fine.”

They lapsed back into silence again.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, finally.

“What’s there to talk about?” she says, sadly. “You know what the definition of insanity is right?”

“Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results,” he offers.

“I’m tired of failing at this, Randy. It doesn’t work and nothing we do changes that,” she says.

“You two had some good times,” Randy offers.

“Do you mean when we were cheating on his girlfriend or when we were fighting everyday or when he made me cry on camera?” Paula offers.

“Okay, it isn’t the healthiest relationship I’ve ever seen, but I believe you truly care for one another,” he says. “I’ve seen you happy.”

“Oh Randy,” she says. “What do you think I should do?”

He doesn’t have an answer for her.

“So you and Simon got to pick the new judge, huh?” he says in lieu of an answer.

“I didn’t know,” she says automatically, a defensive response. “I mean, he called me out here and didn’t tell me until I was already here.”

“I see,” he says.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah,” he says. At the lobby of the hotel, he takes her hand. “You want to hear what I think?”

“Please,” she says.

“Simon loves you,” Randy says. “He may not know how to do any of the other stuff right, but his love is genuine.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I thought that would be enough too, once.”

She goes to bed thinking that Simon might knock on her door but when she wakes up, it’s morning and she’s still alone.

Five Years Paula Spends Without Simon (And One She Does) (1/1)

2008-07-08T19:27:54Z

Title: Five Years Paula Spends Without Simon (And One She Does)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: PG
Summary: 30 years in the life of Paula Abdul.

2000
Paula gets a very bizarre phone call one morning, a little on the early side.

“It’s a producer in England,” her assistant says. “Something about song rights?”

Most calls Paula gets from producers tend to be about using her songs in a film. Sometimes she gets asked to choreograph for films. She just did American Beauty and a couple years before, Jerry Maguire. It keeps her in the loop in Hollywood, anyway. She’s not completely gone even though her name looks awfully small in the bottom half of film credits, even on a big screen. After seeing her name in lights, after headlining her own tour, well. But she never says no. So she takes the phone now.

“This is Paula,” she says. She’s in bed, again. Recovering from surgery, again. She’s entering the second week of bed rest, which she submits to only because she has no other choice. Standing up hurts too much. She goes to the bathroom and that’s about it. There’s a chair in her shower so that she doesn’t have to stand for so long.

“You’re strong,” her doctor tells her. “And if you heal properly, you’ll be stronger.”

So, she stays in bed. She has a TV, she has books, and she has an assistant to bring her anything she requests. She holds the phone to her ear with some effort.

“Paula Abdul? My name is Simon Fuller.”

“Hello, Mr. Fuller,” she says. “What can I do for you?”

“I produce a show called Pop Idol. Have you heard of it?”

“No,” she says. “Am I to understand this is about a copyright issue?”

“Let me tell you about the show. It’s an interactive talent competition in which young men and women audition to become Great Britain’s next pop sensation,” Fuller says.

“So it’s Star Search,” Paula says.

“No, it’s much more than that. The audience, the viewers decide who stays and who goes,” Fuller says, clearly trying to sell something.

“So it’s Star Search Karaoke,” she says.

“No, it’s…”

“What is it that you need from me, Mr. Fuller?” she asks. Her neck hurts and it’s never the right time for transatlantic phone calls from strangers.

“The kids are singing your song, Miss Abdul,” he says. “In order for us to air it, we need your consent.”

“This is a conversation for my lawyer, Mr. Fuller. Please feel free to get the contact information from my assistant,” she says.

“I will thank you. There was one more thing. The show is going to be a smash hit. We’d love to get you out here to do a guest spot,”

“Oh?” she says.

“My associate, Simon Cowell, can contact you about that. Expect his call?” Fuller says.

“Sure,” she says.

She remembers the name for a few days, tells her assistant to watch out for the call.

The call never comes.

2010
There is much fanfare and tooting of horns when American Idol finally comes to an end. They do what they always said they would, they go out on top. They find a good winner, they throw an insanely expensive and entertaining finale and they hug and cry and Ryan says goodnight from the stage for the last time. But at the end of it all, it’s just a custodian sweeping up confetti and Paula is once again out of a job.

The next day Simon kisses her cheek. He’s leaving for the airport to fly to London.

He says, “See you later sweetheart.” She waves goodbye and it’s not until he’s already gone that she realizes she isn’t sure when that’s going to be.

Turns out, it’s about fourteen months.

There are phone calls at first, for a while. Terri says hi and I saw you in People and I heard that you got that award but as time passed, those tapered off. Once in a while she’d e-mail him but it was a shoddy way of communication because he wasn’t a computer person.

And then it is a year. It is May again, her first May without a finale in almost ten years and she wants to call him but there is so much space and time between them that she doesn’t. She never thought this would happen but it has. Life without Simon is commonplace and even though she can’t seem to call him, she hopes he’ll call her but he doesn’t.

2015
It’s not an affair, exactly, because they weren’t dating other people, but once you’re in your fifties, anything that doesn’t end in marriage just feels a little sordid. Plus, they never actually told anyone so it was sordid and secret.

Seven months isn’t a long time but it feels like seven months and ten years and Simon only came back to L.A. to do press on the new film he was producing not to stay through the winter.

He didn’t call, the bastard. He never did. He just appeared at her house. She’d sold the old one and was living in a one story sprawling mansion in Calabasas now. The stairs were just hell on her back and this was all tile and hardwood floors, much better. The pool was bigger and the dogs loved the yard. She’d made a mint on the sale of the old house, too.

He knocked on the door like a salesman and she answered because her staff was small and part time now.

“Simon?” she’d said.

“Nice house,” he’d said. He was holding tulips, clearly from the hothouse because it was not at all the season for tulips. They were pink, blush really and she hadn’t known that tulips came in that color.

“What are you doing here?” she’d asked.

Twenty-five minutes later he was kissing her. Forty minutes later they were in bed.

Maybe she should have asked why. Maybe they should have talked about their relationship – even acknowledged that it was a relationship. Instead, they just mostly slept together. They never went out. She didn’t tell her sister or her dad. He went back to London for a week at a time and then flew back. He worked out of his L.A. office and told the press it was because he missed the sunshine.

And then, after seven months, something didn’t work quite right anymore. He snapped at her and she began to cry and they fought and then he left and didn’t come back and she didn’t go after him and that was that.

As the months pass, she thinks about calling him but they both know how it ends.

2016
The tide of missing him is starting to overwhelm the tide of hating him. Well, the truth is she doesn’t hate him but she did, for a while, hate herself for letting him get to her.

Ryan calls.

“Maybe no one else knew but I did,” he says. “Why don’t you just call him?”

“I’m old, Ryan. I don’t have another fight in me,” she says. “Some things just don’t work.”

“Do you want my advice?” Ryan asks.

“Not really,” she said, rubbing her forehead.

“You did the whole love affair thing. You did the boyfriend thing and the marriage thing and everything in between. Why don’t you just be with the person who makes you happy now?”

“In this little bit of advice that you’re doling out here, am I to assume you think Simon is the one who makes me happy?” Paula asks.

“Um,” Ryan says. “Yes?”

Paula hangs up the phone.

2017
Paula has a dream that Simon comes back and when she wakes up alone in her bed, she begins to cry.

It’s the morning of her 55th birthday.

In only hours her family will descend on her house. She no longer goes out for elaborate and expensive dinners. She’s been off TV for years now and though her album did moderately well, especially on the dance charts, she never did tour and she doesn’t have another album in her. Maybe she could do it, but for the first time she doesn’t want to. She just wants to… be 55 and play with Austin’s new baby girl and go to the occasional charity ball when she feels the need to wear something sparkly.

Her mom and dad always play nice for her birthday. They are both extremely old. Her mother is in a wheelchair now and her father comes over mostly to nap in her easy chair. No one has the energy for snippiness. Austin’s wife, Lauren, is only 25 and makes Paula feel even older. She’s tired and trying to pretend she’s not while the baby is wailing in her arms.

“I’ll take her, honey,” Paula says. Lauren allows Paula to take the baby in her arms and then collapses into a chair in the quietest place in the house – the front hall. The baby is only four months and mostly just sleeps and cries and eats. Austin appears with a bottle.

“You don’t have to, it’s your birthday,” Austin says.

“This is all I want to do,” Paula assures him. The baby quiets with a bottle in her mouth and Paula keeps moving, always humming and walking, making a lazy loop through the open rooms of her house. She takes off her shoes before she enters the front room so her heels don’t wake Lauren. The baby lets the bottle fall from her lips – she is sleeping. Paula sets it on a round table next to a blue vase filled with roses. They are from Alex who moved last year to New York, who never manages to get away. She is proud of him anyway.

The knock on the door wakes the baby only for a minute and doesn’t even penetrate the fog Lauren is under. Paula is hushing and cooing when she pulls open the door. Outside is hot and bright but even with the backlight Simon’s silhouette is painfully recognizable.

“Happy birthday,” he says, softly.

“Thank you,” she says, after a beat. She doesn’t know what to say and so she falls back on etiquette.

“I know we haven’t been speaking very much but you having a baby doesn’t merit a phone call?” he says, trying his hand at a joke to ease the tension.

“This is Abbey, my grand-niece,” Paula says. “Would you like to come in?”

“Paula I didn’t just drop by to say happy 54.”

“55,” she corrects. “Then why are you here?”

“I am here to come back,” he says.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” she says.

“If I come in right now, I’m not leaving again,” he says. “Do you want me to come in?” In her arms the baby hiccups and starts to cry. Lauren comes to her side, out of her chair in a flash at the sound of her daughter’s voice in distress. She looks at Simon but says nothing, just takes the baby from Paula’s arms.

“Lauren, this is Simon Cowell,” Paula says.

“Hello,” Simon says from the porch.

“Lauren is Austin’s wife,” Paula says.

“Pleasure,” Lauren says.

“Lauren, Simon wants to know if he can come inside. What do you think?” Paula asks. Lauren pats the baby’s back in soft little circles.

“I thought you wanted a family only party,” Lauren says.

“I am family,” Simon pipes in and Paula gives him a look for interrupting.

“I used to watch you on TV,” Lauren says. “When I was a teenager. Before I met Austin.”

“You and every other 14-year-old,” Simon says. Lauren narrows her eyes. “I am family, right?”

“Yes,” Paula says. “In a way.”

“You know, I think Abigail needs a change so I’m just going to…” Lauren excuses herself, fleeing the situation. Paula sighs and squints at him.

“In a way?” he asks softly.

“I don’t know, Simon. What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say yes!” he says.

“You broke my heart,” she admits. “It’s still broken. It can’t handle another blow.”

“I didn’t come back to hurt you,” he says.

“Swear?” she says.

“I promise,” he says. “I swear.”

“Okay,” she says. “Come inside.”

She thinks that they’ll pick up right where they left off but it’s completely different. He’s open and he’s confident and they go out with friends and he moves into her house. He comes back in June and by May she has a ring on her finger. It’s her third marriage and his first. She marries him an ivory suit in her backyard and they’re happy and it’s wonderful in a way she never thought it could be.

2030
She loses Simon in the spring even though she’s the one fighting cancer. She goes to the doctor at least once a week and usually he drives her but this morning he felt tired and she drove herself. When she comes home, she’s tired and she just wants to lie down for a while.

“Simon?” she calls. “Honey?” It’s strange that he doesn’t answer, stranger still that he isn’t downstairs to greet her the moment her key slides in the door.

She goes back to the master suite to see if he’s there and she finds him still in bed.

“Baby?” she says. His eyes are closed, his shoes are on and when she touches him to shake him awake, his skin is cold and clammy.

He’s alive when they put him in the ambulance but he doesn’t make it to the hospital. The doctor tells her he had a massive heart attack. Years of smoking and drinking; a high stress life style and a serious love of red meat.

“What do I do now?” Paula asks the doctor who only looks at her with sad but final eyes.

So Paula continues to do what she always does but now, she does it alone. Both her parents have long since passed and she lost Wendy two years ago in October from the same cancer that Paula herself is losing the battle to.

The thing of it is, since their marriage, they never spent a night apart and now she climbs into bed and can’t fall asleep. And when she does, she wakes up and reaches for her husband but he isn’t there.

It’s a long year and she finally decides to decline any more chemotherapy radiation. When she lost her husband, she lost herself. She can’t find herself anymore and what’s the point of that?

Sometimes, when the agony becomes too much, she calls Simon. She continues to pay for his cell phone service just for the ability to call his phone and hear his voice on the answering service.

“Simon,” she says, at the beep. “I miss you.”

But of course, he never calls back.

The Game (Part Eight)

2008-07-07T06:39:37Z

Title: The Game (Part Eight)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: By season seven things were beginning to get out of hand.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author's Note: This is the last chapter. Thank you to everyone who read loyally and to those who believe in what can be, in what is, and in all that is in between.

In San Francisco, Paula wanted to go outside. She watched the people on the sidewalks, safely ensconced in her long, black car. Outside looked beautiful – sunny and breezy. July had been hot in L.A. but San Francisco was some how sunny and still refreshingly cool. The water wasn’t far and all the tall buildings created a wind tunnel that kept the heat off the sidewalks.

“I wish I could walk,” Paula said. She was alone in the car excluding the driver – mostly she was talking to herself.

“I’ll pull over if you want, Miss Abdul, but you should know that the Cow Palace is actually in Daly City, not San Francisco proper and it’d be a long walk,” the driver said.

“I remember,” she said. “Just wishful thinking.” She was happy there wasn't a Los Angeles audition this year. It always felt so incestuous.

When they arrived at the venue, the butterflies in her stomach started beating themselves against her ribcage. She was an odd mixture of nerves and excitement but she wasn’t sure which one was in the majority. She was compulsively smoothing out her skirt, fluffing her hair and checking her make-up in her compact.

She wasn’t late but she wasn’t exactly on time. She had enough time to enter through the back and slide into her seat. After seven years of the show, there wasn’t much more to discuss. They all had it down pretty pat. A production assistant wearing a yellow shirt led her through the corridors to the audition room. The girl was young and familiar only in the most vague way. Maybe because she’d worked on the American Idol crew the year before or maybe because most of the production assistants were young, twenty something film gofers with pale skin and blue eyes. She held open the door for Paula – Paula held her breath.

But Simon’s chair was empty. Randy was in his, he was almost always the first to arrive. His back was to her and he held his phone to his ear. He was plugging his other ear with one finger while more yellow shirted kids lugged around equipment and tinkered with lighting. Across the room through the double doors she could hear the buzzing noise of conversation and above that, Ryan working the early crowd. A few people looked up when she entered but no one did more than nod or smile. She would sit in her seat and wait for make-up touch ups and then, when Simon arrived, they would begin. Same song, same dance, new season.

The wings in her torso beat unrelentingly along. Randy didn’t hang up but he did bump her with his chair in greeting. Paula smiled with some effort and re-smoothed her skirt. The same girl who led her back to the room set a cup of Diet Coke down on the table in front of her and handed her a paper straw without a word.

“What’s your name?” Paula asked. The girl looked at her for a few more beats before responding.

“Amelia,” she said, finally.

“Was I supposed to know that already?” Paula asked. “Is that why you paused?”

“No,” Amelia said. “If you were supposed to know our names, we’d wear nametags.”

“Well,” Paula said. “Thank you for the straw.”

“You’re welcome, Ma’am.”

“Do you know if Simon has arrived yet?” Paula asked. Randy ended his conversation to listen to the answer with new interest. She wasn’t sure if he was interested in Simon’s arrival or Paula’s interest. Amelia tapped her headset.

“His car just arrived. I’m going down to escort him now,” she said. “Anything else?”

“No,” Paula said. Amelia left through the doors that Paula entered through.

“How’re you?” Randy asked Paula.

“Fine,” she said. Her make-up touch up girl had just arrived and was walking intently toward Paula with brush in hand. “You?”

“Fine,” he said. “Another day, another dollar.”

“Another year, you mean,” she said as the girl started dabbing at her face earnestly.

“I try not to think like that,” Randy said. “You thinking of pulling the plug?”

“Huh?” she said. “No.”

“Good. I do not think Cowell would be able to stand it. You heard about Sharon, right?” Randy said, lowering his voice.

“I was there,” Paula said.

“What?” Randy asked. Paula winced and the make-up artist tapped her chin lightly – a gentle admonishment to remain still. “I thought all that stuff in the Daily Mirror was made-up. You actually went to London?”

“For a week or so,” Paula said. “Just to get out of L.A.”

“With Simon?” Randy asked.

“No big deal,” Paula said. “We went to a museum, I went home.”

“Hmm.”

“Can we not talk about it with fourteen cameras pointed at us, please?” Paula said.

“We aren’t rolling,” Randy said.

“We’re always rolling,” she muttered, unwrapping her straw and dropping it into her cup. The make-up artist let her be. Simon must’ve been close.

And he was. The door opened and he walked through holding his phone and his keys and his cigarettes and she didn’t mean to stand up but suddenly she was on her feet. She smiled at him and he smiled and opened his arms and when he hugged her, her foot popped a little.

“Hi,” he said. It wasn’t like she hadn’t spoken with him in their time apart but there was something about being in the same room that made everything a little brighter.

“Hi,” she said, pressing her face into his chest. She could almost hear the make-up girl stomp impatiently.

“Hi,” he said again.

“Lord,” Nigel said. “We need to start.”

“Don’t you have a pirouette to go judge?” Simon called over the crown of her head.

“Jealousy is unattractive on a man your age,” Nigel called back. “Asses in seats, please.”

It was like riding a bicycle. Simon’s arm shifted the weight of her chair and the smell of his cologne was distracting just enough. The kids filed through the door – they took a ticket or were denied one. Most were bad. Sometimes, someone hit a note so pure that her breath caught in her throat and even Simon said yes without hemming and hawing.

At the lunch break she sat next to him at a round table without a tablecloth. Randy didn’t sit with them. He handled the fighting better than much else – when they were on extremely good terms, which was rare, he couldn’t face it at all. Ryan popped his head in and out. He liked to mingle with those in the holding room but always watched the judges when the cameras were off rather closely. Paula could tell Ryan thought something was going to happen. He watched her with radio eyes, like he was just waiting to file a news story.

Simon ate fleetingly, like an after thought, and touched his foot to hers.

“Are you happy to see me?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said.

“Because you left me and I wasn’t sure.”

“I didn’t leave you Simon,” she said. “I just went home.”

“Semantics.”

“We’re here together now,” she pointed out, ever the optimist.

“So we are.”

“I wish you would trust me,” she said. “What can I do?”

“I’ve been thinking about that very thing,” he said. “I think we should play one more round of the game.”

“You want to end the game?” she asked, her voice high. A wave of nostalgia was all ready to wash over her.

“I want to make the final bet. If you agree, you win. If you decline, I win,” he said.

“And winning entails?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It depends on the answer, I suppose. Winner’s choice?” he offered.

“Okay,” she said. “When?”

“Now.”

“Okay,” she said. She knew she was giving him the power, giving him the last bet but Simon also didn’t relish change and to have him suggest the end of a seven year game meant something big, she was sure.

“You ready?” he asked, lowering his voice and leaning into her.

“You bet,” she said, taking a deep breath.

“Paula Abdul, I bet you’ll leave me,” he said. She sat up, her eyes wide. This was quite the challenge. He was asking her for a long time. He was asking her to trust him, to stay with him, to believe in something she wasn’t sure she believed in. This was as good as him telling her that he loved her and now he was waiting to see if she was going to say it back.

Did she love him?

Well, yes, she supposed. But was that enough?

“Back in five,” a production assistant shouted. “On set in five.”

“Paula,” he said. The waiting was agony for an impatient man.

“No,” she said, finally. She felt sound in her decision.

“No,” he said and all the air seemed to leave his body and deflate him. “All right.”

“I mean no,” she said. “I won’t ever leave you.” He breathed in again.

“You win,” he said, smiling gleefully. She smiled back.

“I know.”

The End

The Game (Part Seven)

2008-07-03T17:56:28Z

Title: The Game (Part Seven)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: By season seven things were beginning to get out of hand.
Disclaimer: Not mine.

On Paula’s last night, Simon acted far clingier than she’d ever seen him. They’d shared every meal together during the day and after dinner she’d excused herself to the guestroom to finish her packing. She was sitting on the floor, folding clothes to re-pack when Simon knocked on the door.

“Did you need something else?” she asked. He stepped hesitantly into the room and when Paula didn’t protest he walked more confidently toward her and sat on the floor next to her.

“Need help?” he asked.

“Simon, if you help me pack you’ll see all my unmentionables,” she protested.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before, darling,” he said but he kept his hands to himself and just watched.

“Well you haven’t seen mine,” she said, setting a pile of blouses on top of a pile of underwear imperiously.

“Are you sure you want to go?” he asked. He’d held the question at bay for several days now but now, in the eleventh hour, he had to be sure.

“I already booked the ticket,” she said. He’d offered her the use of his jet but she didn’t feel right using it without him so she’d decided to go commercial. The truth was, as much as she wanted to leave, she wanted to stay. Simon was a fine host and after just a few hiccups, they’d been getting along surprisingly well. He’d made sure she’d had plenty of time to relax and she actually had started to feel better. She’d been eating regularly and sleeping full nights. Even her bruise was fading – her ribs not quite so sore.

“I can buy you another ticket, one later,” Simon said.

“I don’t need you to buy me things,” she said. He was in the bad habit of dating women who needed more than they gave and Paula wasn’t like that. His money didn’t mean anything to her and she had to remind him that often. “You’ll be back for auditions.”

“This was our summer,” he said wistfully. “We were going to spend more time together.”

“Clearly, you need to be on less TV shows and then you could see me a lot more,” she said, sliding a pair of black pumps into an inside pouch of her suitcase.

“I won’t always be this busy,” he said vaguely. “But I thought you might at least stay until your birthday.”

“Don’t remind me,” she groaned.

“What?” he asked. “You love your birthday.”

“46 seems awfully harsh for some reason,” she said. “I just want to go out to dinner and wait for it to be over.” Simon looked down into the suitcase and studied intently a skirt with intricate embroidery. The gold threat seemed to shimmer against the dark fabric and Simon reached out to touch it. She eyed him warily and he pulled his hand away.

“I’m older than you, you know,” he said. “Every time you call yourself old you call me old.”

“You are old,” she said. He whimpered and clutched at his heart. “You’re much more grey haired than when I met you,” she pointed out.

“You’re still very dyed,” he said.

“Fair enough,” she admitted. “But even I’m not that grey.”

“A likely story,” he scoffed.

“You know, Simon, my plane leaves at 6:00am,” she says.

“Oh,” he said. “You want to go to bed?”

“I should go to bed,” she corrected.

“I’ll go,” he said.

“I didn’t say you had to go.” She reached up and grabbed his wrist, stopping him from standing. Instead, he tugged her to her feet as well.

“Are you propositioning me?” he asked, tugging her against him.

“We’ve slept in the same bed several times without…” she struggled to find the right word. “Propositioning.” He chuckled.

“Is that a challenge?” he asked.

“No,” she said. She slid her arms up his until their hands met. He realized that she’d placed them in dancing form.

“I don’t dance,” he said.

“It’s my last night,” she whined.

“There isn’t any even music,” he said. Her face brightened and she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket.

“I have music on here,” she said, tapping at the screen.

“Your music,” he said. But when the tinny music started to filter out of the small speakers it was a song he knew very well. She slid the phone back into her pocket and resumed their position. “Is that Leona?”

“The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face; my favorite version,” she said. “Not stop talking over the song and dance with me.”

“How do I…?” He wasn’t much of a dancer, not even socially with beautiful women. He was stiff and awkward.

“It’s easy,” she assured him. “It’s just like, oh, I don’t know, putting a puzzle together. See here?” She moved her hand down to his hip. “See how our bodies fit together here? When your hip moves, mine follows.”

“Oh,” he breathed.

“Dancing is easiest when the bodies are close together,” Paula continued, well into her choreographer/teacher mode. “It becomes more instinctual. Every little movement can be met and matched by my body without my brain getting in the way.”

“I can’t…” he was moving stiffly, in jerky movements that she was working hard to smooth out.

“Just close your eyes,” she instructed. “Listen to the music. It tells you what to do.” He did as she said and closed his eyes, trying to relax his muscles. He felt her rest her head against his chest and hum softly along to the song. They swayed and when he felt slightly more comfortable, he shuffled his feet a bit.

When the music finally stopped, neither let go for a moment. Finally, she lifted her head to look up at him.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “That was dancing. Not so bad, right?”

“No,” he acquiesced. “Though I prefer watching you dance rather than participating.”

“Even when we’re all snuggly like this?” she asked, surprised.

“When you put it that way,” he murmured and leaned down to kiss the corner of her mouth. She allowed it, even turned into it slightly.

“Simon,” she whispered.

“You’re the one who never wanted to stop kissing me,” he said. “That’s my paraphrasing, of course.”

“Yes, but,” she sighed. “Usually there are months and months between kisses.”

“Because of your boyfriend or because of my girlfriend,” he said. “Both of which no longer exist.”

“Are you saying to want to kiss me on the regular?” she asked, surprised.

“I always want to kiss you,” he admitted. “And please do not say ‘on the regular.’”

“I don’t know,” Paula said.

“No, trust me, it makes you sound like…”

“I meant about kissing,” she snapped. “We always had boundaries and now we don’t.”

“That makes it better,” he explained, slowly like she was a small child. She stepped back and he let his arms fall down to his sides.

“I should go to sleep,” she said. “Really.”

“It’s only about a month,” Simon said, but he wasn’t sure if the statement is meant to comfort her or him self.

“What?”

“Until I fly back for Idol auditions,” he clarifies.

“Seems to get earlier every year,” she commented. They were reaching for normalcy with long and grasping fingers.

“Well,” he said. “Goodnight.” But when he said this, it jolted something inside of her and she stepped back into him, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Goodnight,” she whispered. He rubbed her back, touching each bump of her spine. He imagined the smoothness of the skin beneath her shirt, the scars at the base of her spine, the tiny mole to the left of her shoulder blade that he’d noticed when she wore backless dresses.

“I bet you won’t come sleep in my bed tonight,” he said. He’d been thinking it, but it came out of his mouth too, for some reason. She stepped back with a genuinely shocked expression.

“Simon,” she said. “Why did you do that?”

“I… want you there,” he said. He should have told her that he had spoken before he’d thought but didn’t want to give her the upper hand.

“I’m not going to have sex with you,” she said.

“We’ve shared a bed lots of times,” he reminded her.

“I know.”

“So does that mean yes?” he asked.

“Not a lot of room for discussion,” she sighed. “I’m going to finish packing. I’ll be down in a bit.” This was a very clear dismissal so he didn’t stall. He went down stairs, took a quick shower, brushed his teeth and thought about shaving but ended up not. He didn’t want to send the wrong message, after all. He was in bed watching television when she appeared.

She didn’t look mad, exactly. She didn’t even look disappointed or surprised. Mostly, she looked resigned. She was wearing one of those fuzzy running suits that seemed to be all over California and could serve as pajamas or something for running errands – in public. When she saw him in bed, she gave a smile with some effort and unzipped her jacket to reveal a black tank top below.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “But I always have trouble sleeping before a flight.”

“Why?” he asked, turning down a corner of the covers in an invitation.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I’m nervous I won’t wake up and I’ll miss the flight. Or I know that I’ll be tired and grumpy.”

“Well, I’ll be here,” he said. “I won’t let you oversleep. And if you’re tired, you can sleep on the way to the airport and then sleep on the flight.”

“I suppose,” she said.

“Or you could just stay!” he said. “And we could go back to the States together in July.”

“I thought we agreed,” she said.

“We did,” he said. “It doesn’t change my preference.”

She got into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin and sighing. She made sure there were several inches of space between them. He reached up and turned out the light. He knew he should apologize and take the bet back, let her go sleep in her own bed but he felt selfish and didn’t want her to go.

But she wasn’t kidding. She tossed and turned. She fluffed her pillow, she rolled over, she sighed and kicked down the blankets and then pulled them back up.

“Paula,” he said.

“Sorry, but I warned you,” she snapped, clearly frustrated with herself more than anything else.

“I just wanted to know if there’s anything I can do to help?” he said.

“You could come with me,” she blurted.

“What?” he asked.

“I hate London,” she seethed. “It’s cold and electrically unstable and driving makes me nervous!”

“Electrically unstable?” he laughed.

“We’re happier in L.A., both of us,” she argued.

“I have to stay for the show,” he said. “You know that. It’s my show.”

“I know,” she said, her voice sounding awfully small in the dark. “But if you could…”

“The only reason I prefer L.A. is because you’re there. When you’re in London, I prefer it here,” he said.

“That’s sweet but do you mean it?” she asked.

“I think I do,” he said. “Don’t make me say it to the press or anything.”

“Yeah, yeah. Mean old Simon,” she said.

“Now can you sleep? Do you need some warm milk or something?”

“Ew,” she said. “Why in the world would I want that?”

“It’s supposed to be soothing or something,” he chuckled.

“You want to be soothing, rub my back,” she said, and rolled away from him. It wasn’t exactly a bet but she said it in such a way that he didn’t think he could decline. He slid his hand beneath her tank top and rubbed her back the way his mother had rubbed his when he was small – soothing circles. When he encountered the back of her bra, he merely lifted his hand and moved above it.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to sleep in one of those,” he said.

“Modesty,” she murmured, already sounding sleepier. He understood what she meant – keeping her modesty intact though it wasn’t like he was going to pounce on her or something. Not unless expressly invited.

He heard the moment her breath hitched for the last time before falling into a deeper sleeping pattern. He pulled his hand away and rolled over. When he put his hand to his face, he could smell her on his skin.

The alarm came awfully soon. They both sat up, unwilling to prolong the inevitable. Paula left the room to change into the outfit she’d laid out the night before and then returned to shove her pajamas into the little bit of space left in her suitcase. Simon shaved in the mirror, nicking himself more than once due to bleary, sleep filled eyes. When Paula came into find him, she tsked and tore off a square of toilet paper to press to the blood spreading in the water on his neck.

“You should be careful,” she said. They were the first words either of them had spoken since they’d woken up.

“Sorry,” he said, automatically. She pulled the paper away and tossed it into the trash before leaving him alone in the bathroom to wait downstairs.

She let him load the suitcase into the car and he waited while she did a final walk through of the house looking for any forgotten belongings. She came back with an earring in one hand and a sock in the other.

“Can I keep this?” Simon asked taking the earring she’d held up to show him.

“What? Why?” she asked.

“Just until I see you again,” he said. “I’ll give it back in San Francisco, okay?”

“Sure,” she said. He could tell she thought it was weird. She’d never seen him be sentimental before, perhaps.

The drive to the airport was quiet. Neither wanted to be apart and neither was going to change their minds.

“I’m always sad when we have to be in different countries,” Paula said.

“You don’t have to be,” he pointed out.

“No, I do. But I’m sad about it,” she promised.

At the airport, he kissed her on both cheeks and made sure she got her luggage checked. He wanted to wait in the security line with her but she wouldn’t let him.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’ll see you in a few weeks?”

“You will,” he said. He leaned down and gave her a light kiss on the lips. “Fly safe.”

“Thanks for the ride,” she said. He made himself not look back as he made his way to the car.

On the plane, Paula wanted to sleep but she couldn’t. It was a full flight and even in first class, she sat next to someone. It was a businessman, maybe in his sixties and, from what he said to the flight attendant, and American. They didn’t bother to make introductions or small talk and she was grateful. Either he didn’t know who she was or didn’t care and she hung on to the small bit of normality offered.

It was a long flight, even with the comfort of luxury. She had plenty of time to sit and think about the last couple weeks. She’d never known anyone like Simon before. Someone that cruelty came naturally to and yet, at the same time, dropped everything in the name of kindness. Simon could dissolve some pop star wannabe into tears with three words but for Paula, where she was concerned, he was practically a saint.

“Are you married?” Paula asked, clearly startling the man next to her. They were three hours in and still had a long ways to go. The man glanced down at his left hand briefly before answering.

“Twenty-five years,” he answered. When she didn’t respond he swallowed. “And you?”

“No,” she said, absently. “Not anymore.”

“Ah,” he said and looked back down at the newspaper he was reading.

“Your wife,” Paula said after a few moments. “How often do you fight?”

“I’m not sure…”

“I know it’s none of my business,” she said. “Sorry.” The look on his face was confused.

“When we first got married,” he said, slowly. “We fought all the time.”

“And yet you stayed married for so long?” she asked.

“Actually, I really miss the fighting,” he admitted. “That was the fun part.”

“Hmm,” she said.

“I’m not usually so candid with strangers,” he said and then tilted his head, looking closely at her. “Say, there’s something very familiar about you.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I get that a lot.”

The Game (Part Six)

2008-06-24T01:17:54Z

Title: The Game (Part Six)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: By season seven things were beginning to get out of hand.
Disclaimer: Not mine.

“I bet you won’t hurry up.”

Simon’s impatience no longer served as a threat to Paula. She was moving a little more slowly this morning than most but that was to be expected. Still, he couldn’t stand it. He went into the room to see what was taking so long only to find Paula dabbing foundation onto the large, discolored bruise on her abdoman. She’d tucked the hem of her shirt into her bra and was using a triangular sponge he was pretty sure was meant for her face to cover up the evidence of her injury.

“This is fast,” she mumbled, checking her work in the mirror with a critical eye.

“What on Earth are you doing?” he exclaimed. “That’s insane.”

“It’s not,” she said.

“No one sees under your shirt,” he argued.

“It makes me feel better,” she said. “Would you deny me that?”

“Yes!”

“Cruelty, thy name is Simon.”

London, he thought, was getting to her. Maybe it was all the old buildings. Maybe it was the quaint accents or the fact that they were, in theory, going to the National Gallery today to look at very old art. But she was definitely acting more prissy and pompous than usual. He decided to take it with a grain of salt.

“You’re the most irrational person I know,” he said. A very small grain of salt, at any rate.

“Just let me be a little crazy today, okay?” she asked. “I’m feeling vulnerable.”

“Why?” he asked. “You’re beautiful and famous and with an extremely wealthy man.”

“People are going to take my picture. What if my shirt rides up?” she asked.

“Then people will think I beat the crap out of you and I’ll get the bad press,” he said. “Paula. The car is waiting for us. The National Gallery is waiting for us.”

“All right,” she said, tugging her shirt into place. “I’m sorry, let’s go.”

Paula was used to riding in the back of cars. Even in her own cars, she rarely drove anymore. She preferred the anonymity of the backseat, being shielded by thick tinting on the windows. In the back of Simon’s car, there was grey upholstery and the seats dipped low enough that her feet only touched the floor because her heels were high. Simon waited patiently for her to buckle her seatbelt before motioning for the driver to start the engine. It wasn’t a limo – limousines were ostentatious and the whole goal of today was to have fun without having to worry about pushy and ruthless photographers. They would enter the gallery through a private entrance – they would have a discreet guide who led them through the cool rooms on a path diverted of other patrons.

Though the press surely knew where they were going today, they would be hard pressed to make a story out of it.

“I just want to stand in the presence of great beauty today,” Paula said, looking dreamily out her window. The rain had stopped, for now, but everything still looked damp and the light was sorrowful at best. It was not the summer vacation she’d expected, at any rate. Still, Simon was next to her, his sunglasses doing a poor job of hiding his expression.

“A hall of mirrors, then?” he asked.

“I never know if you’re mocking me or complimenting me,” she complained.

“You’re a half glass full kind of woman,” he said. “Take it as a good thing.”

The gallery was a cool relief to the weather outside. It was colder but the air was dry and felt a little more like home than anything else she’d found in England, except for Simon. She imagined she could be standing anywhere on Earth and feel at home as long as Simon was there, though she’d never admit this to him. His ego was large enough.

Simon clipped his VIP badge to the bottom hem of his sweater and then pinned hers to the lapel of her jacket without asking if she needed help. Bending was still hard for her, even though things had felt better after several hours of sleep. He didn’t want her to have to struggle in front of the curator.

They met their guide but no real introductions were made. The guide wore a nametag, Leslie, and it was just assumed that she knew who they were – definitely Simon if not Paula.

Simon didn’t care about exhibitions – he didn’t care about Alison Watt in the Sunley room or Van Gogh’s shapeless and hunched sunflowers hanging against a white wall. He didn’t care for the Manet painting of the month – blurry men with guns – or Botticelli’s Venus and Mars.

But Paula, for some reason, cared a lot. She cooed over every painting, standing an appropriate and respectful distance back but looking like she was just itching to run her finger over every lump of dried paint and every corner or each polished frame. Simon didn’t go to Paula’s house all that often, but he did manage to remember that there was art on the wall there – dark and looming paintings filled with milky white figures moving restlessly. Simon figured either you appreciated art or you didn’t and that was fine. But Simon did appreciate beauty – he was standing next to Paula, after all.

“Did you know that Botticelli went to Rome to paint wall frescoes in the Sistine Chapel? It was the only work he did out of Florence,” Paula said. “Isn’t that fascinating? That such a great talent would be such a homebody?”

“Guess you can’t say no to the pope,” Simon murmured. She gave him a look that clearly meant no more or less than “Oh, Simon.”

“Your grasp of history is lacking,” she murmured moving on to the next painting. He stood next to her, checked his watch and shuffled his weight from foot to foot. Finally, she sighed and looked at him. “We can go.”

“I didn’t say I want to go,” he defended.

“Not with your mouth,” she said. “Anyway, I could stand to get off my feet and you’re probably hungry.”

This was something Paula did. She wasn’t one to complain or demand that her needs be met. She would project instead, telling the people around her that they must be cold, hungry, or tired. He’d actually overheard her telling Jeff that his voice must be tired when she didn’t want to take calls anymore, once. He’d laughed at the time, when he didn’t know how to read her needs. When he didn’t understand that Paula would work herself to the bone, given the opportunity.

“Yes, let’s eat,” he said. Their guide had the uncanny ability to disappear when she wasn’t needed and then reappear the moment they’d made a choice about where to go next. As soon as it was decided to leave, Leslie was there with a bland smile, offering to arrange for their car to come around back and to let them know that they could wait in the administrative wing in the mean time.

Paula hid behind large sunglasses even when it was grey inside and, sometimes, even when they were inside a dark office.

“Did you have fun?” Simon asked, if only to fill the silence.

“Oh yes,” Paula said, slinking closer to the landscape that was hung on the curator’s wall, sliding her glasses down her nose so she could view the painting more closely. She always got this vacant expression – her lips parted just slightly and she was miles away.

Simon wanted to kiss her but her lipstick was dark today, somewhere between pink and red and to kiss her now would leave evidence on them both.

“I don’t know this artist,” she said, finally. There was no placard to go along with the painting like on the viewing floor. Perhaps it was in the curator’s personal collection. “I wonder if he’d let me buy it.”

“No, I’m sorry,” the curator said smoothly, entering the room almost without noise. “That one is not for sale.”

“Who is the artist?” Paula inquired politely.

“My daughter,” he said. “Sentimental for me, you see.”

“Tell her I think she’s wonderful, would you?” Paula said.

“Yes Ma’am, I will. Your car is here.”

In the car, she let Simon speak with the driver while she rested her head against the seat and let her eyes drift closed. As they wound through the city, he let his hand slide across the seat and touched hers. She opened her eyes just enough to glance at him.

“Are you being nice to me because I said we couldn’t get along for more then a couple days?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Just checking.”

“Since when are you the cynical one?” he asked, pulling his hand away. “What happened to sunshine and roses and colored auras?”

“I’m more than what you see on TV,” she said. He huffed and crossed his arms, turning away from her. She felt bad, though. He was trying and she kept giving him a hard time, kept pushing him away. She scooted across the seat until she was next to him, their legs touching. “Simon?”

“You should really wear your seatbelt,” he snapped. She put her head on his shoulder. He made a growling sound in the back of his throat – a warning.

“I bet you won’t let me buy you lunch,” she said.

“Fine,” he said. “But I don’t need your money.”

“It’s a gesture,” she said. “Rest easy knowing your bank account dwarfs mine.” This did make him feel better so he lifted his arm and fit it snugly over her shoulders. She relaxed into his body. They would both need, it seemed, to learn to be a little nicer to one another.

They ate food at some restaurant that Simon liked and then went back to the house. Most of the ride home Simon was on the phone and when they got into the house, he disappeared to yell at the unfortunate soul on the other end of the line in peace. Paula was, once again, left to her own devices. This was why she didn’t vacation – two days and she was bored out of her mind. What did people do? It was hard for her to do the tourist thing while being so recognizable and just sitting in the house was numbing. If the weather were nicer they could find a pool or a beach but the grey weather persisted, always damp if not wet.

Her phone rang and it was Jeff and though she was tempted to ignore it, the professional in her demanded that she answer. She owed him at least one conversation.

“Hi Jeff,” she said.

“Paula,” he said, a very formal tone in his voice. It was one that, in her experience, generally preceded her getting totally bitched out.

“Just say what you want to say,” she sighed.

“Oh no,” Jeff said primly. “If you want to totally derail your career by taking off in the middle of the night to God knows where that’s your choice.”

“I left you a message telling you exactly where I was going,” she said.

“At Bumfuck O’clock in the morning!” he cried.

“Don’t speak to me that way,” she said. “I know you’re frustrated, but I do sign your paycheck.”

“Is that a threat?” he screeched.

“No, but asking for respect isn’t out of the question, I think.”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “Sorry. I was just… upset.”

“Was there something specific?” she sighed, rubbing the back of her neck gently, hoping the shooting pain she felt there wasn’t the prequel to a migraine. Migraines were Simon’s gig, not hers.

“I want to know if you’ll be back for the concert.”

“What concert?” she asked. She didn’t remember purchasing tickets for anything.

“YOUR CONCERT!” he yelled before reigning himself back in quickly. “Sorry. Your concert for the Today show? The kick-off for your new single?”

“Right,” she said. “I don’t…”

“We already moved the date once,” he reminded her. “If you cancel they’re not going to book you again.”

“I’m not sure. Give me another day to decide,” she said.

“Fine,” he said, tersely.

“Jeff, I need you to understand that I need this time,” she said.

“I…”

“Jeff!” she said. “This isn’t about derailing my career, it’s about keeping my life on track. I haven’t been… well and I need to take a little time to right things, especially if the next year is going to be spent promoting an album, touring, and dealing with press. I have to be healthy to do that. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” he said, sounding much more benevolent than he had 30 seconds ago. “You just… do what you need to do and we’ll take care of it on this end.”

“Thank you.”

“What should I say to the press?” he asked. “I’m already fielding calls. They know you’re out of the country and they know you’re with Simon.”

“Tell them… I don’t know.”

“Tell them you’re helping me with a family emergency,” Simon said from behind her where he was standing in the doorway. “Tell them I requested your help.”

“Did you hear that?” Paula asked softly.

“Yeah,” Jeff said. Paula hung up without saying goodbye.

“It’s almost the truth,” Simon said.

“Not really,” she said.

“No,” he said. “Not really at all.”

“How was your phone call?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said. “Paula, you know that it’s okay, right?”

“What’s okay?” she asked.

“Your being… unwell,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Humans… they’re not meant to have as much attention as we get, I think. It makes us all a little crazy.”

“You think I’m crazy?” she asked.

“I think you’re tired,” he said. “Which is okay.”

“I used to be tired better,” she said, setting her phone down on the coffee table. He came to sit beside her on the leather loveseat. The leather squeaked when he sat. The cold brads that held the leather in place were digging into her thighs so she pulled her legs up underneath her.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I know you think that my career was kind of a joke but…”

“Paula, I don’t think…”

“Just. I know. But I used to be better. I lived on a bus for two years, touring. A bus! With like, eight other people living in hotels on off days and eating crappy food and catching the same cold over and over again and playing shows almost every night. Do you know how many music videos I’ve made? That’s 16-hour shooting days listening to the same song on repeat the whole time. Plus promoting everything. Not to mention recording tracks. Spending months at a time in the studio, singing and trying not to let the fact that you’ve sung your voice completely out show on the recording. Drinking disgusting concoctions trying to save your vocal chords.”

She sighed, rubbed her face with her hands and smudged her make-up.

“People think being famous is all parties and awards shows and free clothes but it’s the hardest job in the world.”

“Well,” Simon said. “You were twenty-five then.”

“I know,” she whispered. “And now, it’s like I’m starting all over and I don’t know if I have it in me.”

“Of course you do,” he said. “Of any of us, you do.”

“And if I don’t?” she asked miserably. “And if I disappoint you?”

“Oh,” he said. “You could break my heart. You could kick my puppy or crash my car or quit my show or lose me money but you could never disappoint me.”

“I’m beginning to suspect that you’re a better person than I am,” she said, only partly joking.

“I’ve known it all along,” he said. She smacked him. “You want to know what I think?”

“I do.”

“I think we’ve gone about this vacation thing all wrong,” he said.

“How so? I mean besides the fact that it started with me almost dying and then you kidnapping me and then we lost power and then I bruised a rib…”

“Stop,” he said. “You aren’t helping.”

“Sorry,” she said.

“We’ve been wallowing here. Moping about the house in crummy weather. We need to go to somewhere nice, somewhere sunny and warm, somewhere like…”

“Barbados!” she exclaimed. “But you have the X-Factor in just a few days.”

“That call?” he said, looking down at his phone. “Sharon walked.”

“WHAT?” she exclaimed. He winced and pointed to his ear.

“Ouch,” he said. “There was a contract dispute. She threatens it every year you know, but this time it’s going to stick.”

“Well who is going to replace her?” she asked. “At such short notice?”

He stared at her.

“Oh, no,” she said. “No, no, no. Nope. No way.”

“Come on,” he said. “It’s perfect! We do the audition rounds together. Working and having fun and then we go to the Caribbean when that phase is finished.”

“Simon,” she said. “You don’t want that.”

“I want you by my side,” he said. “I do. You know we make good TV.”

“We make good American Idol,” she said. “But you know I can’t just stay in England indefinitely this summer!”

“Why not?” he asked. “We have recording studios here. You could work on your album. We have dance studios and record producers and fancy clothes.”

“I’m from L.A. and that’s where I work best,” she said. “If I work on another show with you it is just going to… be too much.”

“Too much?” he asked.

“Right now, what we have is new and old and perfect and comfortable and exciting all at once and I love how we are and if we throw a wrench in it we may never get back to this place,” she argued. “Think of it as a producer and not as Simon, my friend.”

“You tested so well for your guest spot,” he argued.

“But I think you ought to find someone British,” she said. “I don’t think it should be me.”

“You’re saying no,” he said.

“I am,” she said.

“I could make you,” he threatened. “I could bet you. What would you do?”

“Would you?” she asked, shocked. “Isn’t that against the spirit of the game?”

“I am just curious what you’d do,” he said.

“I’d do it,” she admitted. “Because using the game that way would show that you really wanted me to stay, but it would also be underhanded and it would be hurtful and I would have to think deep and hard about what kind of friend you are for me.”

“I didn’t know there was a spirit to our game,” he said, changing tactics.

“It’s supposed to be fun,” she said.

“Not at first. Remember that time you bet me I couldn’t use a toilet all day? I had to be very creative,” he said.

“You aren’t going to make me do the show, are you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“No. You’re the mean one,” he pointed out.

“I am not!” she exclaimed.

“A little bit,” he said. “But that’s okay. I like the naughty half of you.”

“So where does that leave us?” she asked.

“I guess that’s up to you,” Simon said.

“I think…” She shrugged. “I think we stick with plan A. I stay until you start filming The X-Factor and then I go home.”

“Home?” he asked. “What happened to shopping in Paris? What happened to Germany? Rome?”

“Who was a I kidding with that,” she said dryly. “One week and I’m going crazy. I just need to get back to L.A.”

“All right,” he said. “Plan A it is.”

They shook on it.

The Game (Part Five)

2008-06-20T06:51:20Z

Title: The Game (Part Five)
Author: emily_waters
Fandom: American Idol (Paula & Simon)
Rating: PG-13 (some swearing in this chapter)
Summary: By season seven, things were beginning to get out of hand.
Disclaimer: not mine.

London, it turned out, was never warm. Paula had packed warm clothes, but not enough. When they stayed in the house, she wore his socks and his sweaters. She had to roll up the sleeves in order to free her hands and he liked the way the neck slipped down over one shoulder, giving him a little peek of golden skin and sometimes a bra strap or the opaque lace of a camisole. The first day in London, they stayed in. They ate food in his kitchen and she checked her e-mails and called her dad and her sister. Every so often, the calendar in her phone would beep.

“Right now I should be meeting Kylie for a wardrobe fitting,” she would say. Another beep.

“Right now I should be having lunch with Jimmy. Hope he checked his e-mail and saw that I’m not coming,” she said, wistfully. On the third beep he held up his hand.

“The only thing you ought to be doing is sitting here with me,” he ordered. The phone rang too, of course, but she was strangely reluctant to answer. She would let it ring through or sometimes sent it quickly to voicemail and then would stare at the device waiting for the message to come. When it did, she’d listen to it silently, her straight white teeth worrying her bottom lip absently. She never told him what she heard and called no one back that first day.

She’d let her hair dry in the damp air and it curled rather wildly around her face. He’d forgotten how curly it was – she almost always blew it out and then tamed it with a curling iron. He was having trouble keeping his hands out of it. He never saw her when she wasn’t well put together and excessively coiffed. He wanted to savor this time.

“Surely you have work to do as well?” she asked, finally, after they finished lunch.

“Nothing that can’t be put off until tomorrow,” he promised. “I’m sorry it’s raining, though. Makes a day off rather dreary instead of a relief.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, walking to one of the windows that faced the enclosed backyard. She pushed the drapery aside and peered out through the wet glass. “It seems appropriate.”

“Yes, well, as a resident of this city, let me assure you that the novelty wears off,” he said.

“I don’t disagree with that,” she murmured, letting the cloth cover the window once more. She turned to him and forced a smile. “Let’s do something.”

“What would you like to do?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Go to a museum? Visit a park? Ride the Eye?”

“I am not riding that bloody wheel of death,” he said. “And it’s a little wet outside for a park.”

“Don’t you like art?” she asked, noting that his walls were pretty barren. There were a few photographs and some generic prints but nothing original, nothing exceptional or breathtaking.

“As much as the next bloke, I guess,” he said, uneasily.

“I love art,” Paula said, finally settling down onto the sofa next to him. He was relieved; when he could get her talking, keep her mind occupied, her body finally settled into one place. “Emilio used to love art too. We spent way too much money on art.” She made a face. “Actually I always felt pretty bad that he practically went bankrupt while American Idol was making me a millionaire several times over.”

“So cut him a check,” Simon said.

“Simon!” she exclaimed. “That would be so… insulting!”

“There is no dignity in being poor,” he said.

“There’s plenty of dignity in being poor,” she snapped. “Which you ought to know. Neither of us came from money.”

“Which is why I know how horrifying poverty is.”

“Horrifying and undignified or not the same thing,” she argued. “There is plenty of dignity in working hard and making ends meet. There is plenty of dignity giving up a high paying job to do something you love like write a screenplay.”

“Paula,” he said.

“We sit behind a glass table with monitors and microphones. My wardrobe budget for a single season is one million dollars and if I go over that no one says a goddamn thing. Once a year we take one day or one week to go look at real poverty with a camcorder and a private jet and by the next week we’re back on set, trying to pretend that Ford cars are important and that America can’t live without Coca-Cola!”

He stared at her surprised that such an impassioned and well articulated rant was coming through her lips.

“We’re the ones without dignity, Simon,” she said, sadly.

“I’ll take you to the National Gallery tomorrow,” he said, his voice even and calm. “Have you been?”

“Not for years,” she said, allowing him to change the subject. She wanted to let her disappointment and anger from the last few moments go. She wanted the only Simon and Paula back, the giggling and flirting friends, high off their wealthy escape to a foreign town. Reality had come awfully close to ruining their vacation.

“I’ll make a call,” he said. “Get us the V.I.P. tour and keep us out of sight of the population. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” she said. “Though we won’t get through Trafalgar Square without attracting some attention.”

“Is it that you don’t want the press to know you’re in London or that you don’t want them to know you’re with me?” he asked. She rolled her eyes.

“I just happen to know that the Mirror isn’t exactly truthful in their reporting. If I read we went to a museum, fine, but if I read we’re having a love child and naming it Trafalgar, it isn’t okay!”

“Why are you so feisty right now?” he asked.

“Why are you so complacent?” she shot back.

“I didn’t know being happy to spend time with you in public was complacency!”

“Ugh,” Paula said, standing up. “I always forget that 36 hours is our breaking point.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you ever noticed that? We’ve never gone more than 36 hours together without it ending in some huge fight,” she said. “I don’t know why I thought we could do this. Already it’s failing.”

“Failing?” he laughed. “This isn’t an argument, it’s a discussion.”

“A loud one,” she muttered but he heard her quite clearly.

“Did you know,” he started conversationally, as if about to start an anecdote about something trivial, “that Terri and I never fought?”

“We’re talking about Terri now?” she asked.

“We almost never argued,” he said. “Not once. Any time I even started to raise my voice, she just gave in. She said she hated to fight. She was so non-confrontational.”

“Must’ve been nice,” Paula said.

“Nice?” he exclaimed. “It drove me absolutely mad!”

“Why?”

“After six years, I can tell you I’m itching for a good fight. Nothing makes your blood run like fighting.”

“I don’t understand how someone can like fighting,” she said.

“It’s not the fighting I like – well,” he amended. “It’s not the best part. It’s the making up that’s so great.”

She stared at him blankly.

“You’ve never had hot make-up sex?” he asked bluntly.

“W-well, of course I have but I don’t see what that has to do with you or me.”

“I enjoy fighting with you,” he said as diplomatically as he could. “It’s part of the fun. Can you just humor me and fight back instead of running away?”

“We do have fun,” she conceded after a bit.

“Good,” he said. Had they been lovers, she might have leaned over to kiss him; might have learned what hot make-up sex with Simon was all about but instead she patted his hand. “Lord, your fingers are like ice,” he exclaimed.

“It’s cold.”

“It’s 50 degrees.”

“That’s cold,” she assured him.

“You ought to be happy it’s raining other wise it’d be even colder,” he said. “But I’ll turn on the heat.”

Simon’s house was big. It wasn’t the sprawling mansions that people got away with in Los Angeles but for London it was decadent. There was a backyard, a two-car garage, and three stories. The tall windows let in the light and gave it an airy feel even though it was narrow. While Simon was setting the heat, his phone rang. She heard him get lost in the conversation, his voice becoming distant as he went down the hall to his office and even harder to hear when the door closed.

She’d been to his house before, of course, but never for an extended stay and never without Terri. She’d seen the common areas and the guest room but if Simon closed the door, he was probably going to be a while. She decided to poke around a bit. Up the stairs, it didn’t take long to find exactly what was going to keep her occupied on such a rainy, endless afternoon.

The weight room. There were weights, of course, as well as her personal favorite, the treadmill. She tiptoed to her room to change her clothes and then went back to the weight room, running her hand lovingly along the black, gleaming handle.

“Hello, Lover,” she whispered. She’d changed into her heavy-duty sports bra and a pair of sweats. It was still cold, shirtless but she knew she’d warm up once she started running. She heard the heater kick on and she smiled. Warm and sweaty, that’s what she needed. She knew Simon would find her eventually and she thought about putting on a shirt but she realized she’d worn less on national television so a modest sports bra would have to do.

She’d been running only fifteen minutes when he found her, frowning, his mobile still in his hand.

“I turn my back for five minutes and look how you repay me,” he said.

“Five minutes?” she said, her voice coming out hard and breathless.

“Okay, you know what I mean.”

“I was bored,” she said.

“You’re an exercise junkie,” he accused.

“Drat,” she said sarcastically. “Guess I’ll go back to heroin.”

She hadn’t bothered to turn on the light. There was light coming in from the tall windows, but it was grey and patchy so he reached over and flipped the switch for the florescent lights above.

There was a loud bang and then the lights failed complete.

“Umph.” Paula had been running hard when the treadmill stopped and had run right into the front of the machine, the metal and plastic panel catching her right in the ribs. “Ow,” she gasped, trying to jump off the machine and hold her torso and not fall all at the same time. “Son of a bitch.”

“Are you okay?” Simon asked, coming over to her. She just groaned.

“What happened?” she asked after a bit. She stood up experimentally, straightened her spine and winced. She would be sore.

“Sounded like I blew a transformer,” he said. The lights flickered for a moment, struggling to come on but then gave up the flight. “Probably the heating system,” he reasoned. “That’s given me trouble since the day this place was built.”

“So this is my fault,” she said.

“Hey,” he said. “I turned on the light that pushed it over.”

“I think I bruised a rib,” she said, twisting slightly and whimpering.

“Is that your medical opinion?” he asked.

“I’m a dancer, you jackass. You think I don’t know what a bruised rib feels like?”

“Sorry,” he held up a hand. “Come on.”

They went downstairs and he peered out the window. The rain had driven the majority of the photographers away though there were still a few intrepid souls in slickers with plastic over their cameras. What a crazy world he lived in.

“I’m going to go out and see what happened,” he said. “Stay here.” A part of her wanted to balk at him ordering her to do anything but she wasn’t going to go out into the rain where her picture would be taken in a sports bra, sweaty, make-up free, with a bruised rib so she stayed put. He went out and came back in a few minutes later.

“Well?” she asked.

“Yep,” he said. “The box is smoking. The neighbors lost power too, we share the box.”

“Maybe it was there fault,” she suggested.

“That’s the spirit,” he said. “I’m sure the power company is already on their way.”

“Maybe you ought to call just in case,” she suggested. He looked at her critically, the way she was leaning against the way, favoring her side.

“Maybe we ought to take you to hospital,” he said.

“No,” she said. “I just need a Tylenol and to lie down.”

“You sure?” he said.

“Yeah. Maybe some ice,” she says.

“You can lay in my bed,” he says decidedly.

“Um, okay?” she said.

“It’s downstairs,” he said. “No stairs.” His sweetness was novel so she followed him into the master suite and watched him fluff the pillows and pull aside the comforter.

“I’m all sweaty,” she said. “I can’t lay in your bed.”

“I have more sheets,” he promised and so she got in and it did feel a little better, just being able to relax into the mattress. He disappeared to get her an ice pack and she wrapped it in a corner of the top sheet before pressing it gingerly into the side.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“It’s going to get dark soon,” he said.

“It’s what happens when the Earth revolves around the sun,” she said.

“I mean… what I’m trying to say is, we could go across town.”

“What?”

“I have another house,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. You lived there before you had this one built. I guess we could rough it,” she said, making air quotes to show just how tough having a second house could be. For Simon, it was one of many, many properties. His taxes must’ve been astronomical every year.

“It’s not… I mean….” He stalled.

“I’m sorry, are you trying to tell me something?” she asked. “Just spit it out like you always do.”

“When Terri left, I let her move into the house,” he said, finally. “Until she found a more suitable place here.”

“Oh,” Paula said. “You gave her a house in London and bought her a house in L.A.”

“So?”

“So that is some serious guilt fueled gift giving,” she said.

“I did lust after you for the majority of our relationship,” Simon admitted, his eyebrows waggling. “I had to give her something.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“Terri is a close friend, no matter what happened in the past. I like helping her,” he said, more seriously.

“You’re a good man,” she said. “But do I want to go stay at Terri’s even know she won’t be there? No.”

“We could rent a hotel suite,” he offered.

“We could just stay here,” she said. “The lights will come on at some point in the night probably. I’m tired and sore. This is fine.”

“All right, if you insist,” he said.

“Maybe find some flashlights and candles before you lose the light?” she suggested.

“Their called torches here,” he corrected before disappearing to do just that.

He was gone for a long time. Long enough that she took the ice pack off and left it on the rug by the bed so it didn’t warp the wooden nightstand. Long enough that she pulled the blankets up over her, the warmth from exertion gone. Long enough for the light to wane. Long enough that she closed her eyes, willed her self to relax and was nearly asleep.

She heard him come in. Heard him set down a glass of water for her on the nightstand with a soft ‘thunk.’ She heard the flick of his lighter as he lit the candles he’d brought back with him and placed them.

“Are you sleeping?” he asked, quietly enough so that if she were, he wouldn’t have woken her up.

“Only a little,” she said. She heard him chuckle. She opened her eyes and breathed in, surprised. He’d set up a row of candles against the mirror over the dresser. The light reflected in the mirror and spread out across the room, overtaking the potential darkness.

“Will this do?” he asked.

“We can’t leave the room. If you were gone for that long and all you came back with was six candles…”

“I’m not a candle person,” he said. “Sorry.”

“It’s perfect,” she said.

“I brought you six candles and some pain killers,” he said. “Take some.”

She sat up with some effort and managed to take the two pills and down them with water. She didn’t bother mentioning to him that she was so immune to pain killers that she might as well have chucked them out the window for all the good they were going to do her but it was sweet that he’d brought them. She was the one who suggested taking them, if only to get him off her case. Nothing to do but wait out a bruised rib, after all.

“Thanks,” she said.

“I’m going out to get dinner,” he said. “Any requests?”

“Curry,” she said, dreamily. “You can’t get a decent curry outside of India or England.”

“Any particular kind?” he asked, tucking his keys into his pocket.

“You know what I like,” she said. He winked and left her alone again. But while he was gone, she grew restless. She stood, gingerly, to use his bathroom. Off the master suite, the bathroom was small compared to her bathroom in L.A. but it was impeccably clean. There was a narrow tub with a shower head and a clear shower curtain. Simon would be the type to want to be on display while he showered. The sink was pristinely white. She tugged open his drawer and found his razor, a tube of toothpaste, and a single toothbrush.

She felt relief wash over her and it took her a moment to realize why. One toothbrush equaled one occupant. Terri and Simon had both been honest about the break-up and it had been months since it had happened but this was proof. It was real. Simon was a single man. And being with Single Simon was like being with a new person. He was still Simon, her friend and co-worker and number one aggravator, but he was also much more chivalrous and flirty, which for Simon was saying something. He treated her how he wanted to without having to consider the feelings of another woman first.

She took a candle with her and braved the stairs. In the guestroom were her computer and her ipod. The batteries would last for a while, at least. Upstairs, she set the candle down and bent over to go through her suitcase but bending hurt and she winced. And then, standing up, she groaned and crawled to the bed.

When Simon found her, he was holding the bag of food in one hand and his lighter in the other.

“Bugger,” he said, the flame burning his thumb and disappearing.

“Simon?”

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said, walking over to her and picking up the candle she’d set down so carelessly far from where she’d landed. “What are you doing up here?”

“I thought I could… you know.”

“I don’t know.”

“I came to get my ipod and then I couldn’t…” she rolled her eyes. “I’ve been in chronic pain for ten years. I can’t believe a bruised rib and am bedridden.”

“You push yourself too hard,” he said. “It’s all right to rest. This is supposed to be a vacation.”

“I know.”

“Let me see your stomach,” he ordered. She pulled up the t-shirt she’d slipped on and he held the candle up to her. There was an angry bruise – purple with splotchy red around the outside. “You hit yourself pretty good.”

“How attractive on me,” she said.

“Can you come back downstairs?” he asked.

“For a nice curry, I can do anything,” she said. He helped her up and they went downstairs. Paula would have never let Simon eat dripping curry in her bed but he simply handed her a fork. They ate quietly, talked about inane things, and eventually ended up lying next to one another, staring at the ceiling, waiting to be tired enough to sleep.

“Somehow I always end up in bed with you,” she joked.

“And yet, never in the way one might think,” he said. “I can go to another room if you aren’t comfortable.”

“Why bother?” she said. “Just stay.”

So he did. They dozed until the melted wax put out the flame of each candle, one by one and they were in total darkness. And when, in the dead of night, all the lights came back on it didn’t wake her. Simon got up and turned everything off before coming back to bed and falling asleep to the sound of her steady breathing, the heat of her beneath the covers seeping into his skin.