(no subject)
This was written for hackthis and betaed by her as well. We were discussing (and she made a poll to ask the people) who should be George's new boyfriend since we have banished Brad. This is the obvious conclusion we should have arrived at a long, long time ago.
*
Anderson Cooper met George Clooney in 2001, right after Anderson took the morning host job at CNN. They were at a bar, because everyone meets at a bar. Even the rich, powerful and gay have to conform to certain clichés.
Anderson had been having a drink, and George had just materialized, which Anderson would've found impressive if people hadn't been doing that around him his whole life. And Chelsea was the sort of place where random people randomly appeared for no reason at all.
“Reality TV?” George sipped a scotch; a plain white gold ring on his finger kept hitting the side of the glass with a loud clatter. His smile tried to tell Anderson something, but it could have been too many different things, and actors were just like that--on all the time.
“Remaking a Rat Pack movie?” Anderson drank red wine-Malbec-and watched George’s smile amp up three notches before he broke into a stuttery, deep laugh.
“Yeah, exactly,” George said, whapping Anderson on the arm with his free hand. His fingers settled between Anderson’s shoulder blades as he maneuvered around to stand next to him.
Anderson had no idea why he laughed along with George, or what the joke was, but he felt the sort of instant rapport he hadn’t since he was in college.
“You think the election was rigged?” George was all casual, slouching slightly, patting Anderson on the back with his fingers in a steady beat, glancing around the room with bright, dark eyes. Anderson rolled with the strange, personal bubble annihilation.
Anderson had a second to wonder if George's question was a test before he spontaneously answered truthfully-something a reporter learns early and hard never to do. “Are you joking? It was more obvious than the sacking of Rome.”
George gave him that multi-million dollar grin, and Anderson just raised an eyebrow slightly. Apparently, he'd passed the test and with a gold star and an A++.
*
The first time George called Anderson in the middle of the night, Anderson thought it was a prank call by one of his friends.
“Most openly closeted man in New York, huh?”
Anderson had fallen asleep on the couch watching Fox News-something he did to piss himself off and remember why he was in journalism to begin with.
The suits had moved him from sitting next to Paula and having to swallow his tongue rather than verbally bitch slapping her twenty times a day, but he still didn’t feel like he was doing anything really worthwhile. He wanted to be in the field. Maybe just him and a camera like they did it in Europe and Canada.
“Were you asleep?”
“Huh?” Anderson wittily responded.
There were soft noises on the other end of the line, like the phone being shifted ears.
The thing about that conversation was that Anderson didn’t really ever think it was a prank at all, but he pretended to himself he did. Because the fact that his sleepy mind melted into the sort of puddle that was close to adolescent hope and excitement embarrassed him. Even when no one knew but him. He was embarrassed for himself. And that was just the other side of utterly pathetic.
“You were asleep.” A pause filled with ice rattling in a glass and the volume on the television in the background going up. “I can not believe CNN isn’t reporting on the situation in the Cote d’Ivoire.”
Not Ivory Coast, but Cote d’Ivoire with a perfect accent, and Anderson was way too old to have ridiculous crushes on celebrities. Even ones who called him at one in the morning and breathed a little too loudly around their scotch.
“I’m not in charge of programming.” Anderson always felt a little defensive when people criticized the idiot programming decisions at CNN, even though he knew that they knew he had nothing to do with what went where. No matter how hard he tried to get his issues front and center in the dinner hour-fucking Lou Dobbs was always in the way.
“Do you want to be?” George’s voice implied seven things at once. Anderson wanted to pick the implication labeled sex, but he was pretty sure that one was just residual, since the promise of sex was what George was paid for.
“Considering a hostile take over of Time Warner?” On Anderson’s television, Ann Coulter spewed bile over images of Bill Clinton.
George’s laughter hit Anderson where he lived, starting on the back of his neck and traveling down into his pants. “You’re thinking a little too small, Andy.”
*
George mouthed off in public as a hobby. Sometimes Anderson laughed at the feeds, other times he analyzed the reality of such blasé behavior with a critical mind.
Anderson had been careful with his image, with his reputation, for most of his career. He had to be-with his pedigree people hated him before they ever knew more than his name, his mother’s name, his father’s name.
It was all academic, though, because Anderson knew George was the sort of straight guy that gay men loved. And that really was the root of the reason Anderson found himself in editing, with two of the girls from production, watching footage of George attacking Bill O’Reilly.
*
Anderson rarely went to movie screenings or openings or whatever bullshit get-seen events he was invited to. He preferred to sit in a bar with bad lighting drinking gin and discussing Russian politics, but he was pretty sure the earth would stop rotating if he declined a hand-written invitation from George Clooney.
He was slipping on his jacket when there was a knock on the door. His neighbor, Barry, was always coming over to “borrow” something at absolutely the worst moment; he had some kind of psychic ability to know when it would annoy Anderson the most.
Anderson flung the door open, ready to banish Barry back to the third circle of hell so fast the soles of his second-hand Japanese tennis shoes would melt onto the floorboards.
George Clooney was standing on the other side of the threshold rubbing a hand against his chin and looking sideways down the hallway. He was dressed in coal grey slacks, a white and grey pinstripe shirt, and had a jacket that matched the slacks dangling from two fingers.
“Door-to-door service?” Anderson had no idea what the hell he was supposed to say to George’s smile, tanned face and insouciant demeanor.
“Of course,” he flipped his jacket into the air, caught it and slid it on. “I thought you were going to stand me up, so I wasn’t going to give you the chance.”
George was only a hair taller than him, but he seemed to take up a lot of space. He had what Anderson’s mother called presence.
“Have you ever been stood up in your entire life?” Anderson stepped back to let George in the apartment, but George shot out a hand and yanked Anderson into the hallway.
“Do you have your keys?” George smelled like coffee and citrus and something spicy, nutmeg or allspice. His expression was teasing and his hand firm and tight on Anderson’s arm.
“In my pocket.” Anderson’s instinct was to move back, get some space, but George wasn’t letting him. He muscled Anderson around so they exchanged positions, reached into Anderson’s pocket with a wink, and slammed the front door to his apartment. He only let go of Anderson’s arm to slide the keys into the locks.
“Is this a date or an abduction?” The first part was a probe. Anderson was a reporter, and his curiosity sometimes drove him into embarrassing and compromising situations.
“Let’s start with the date, but if you want me to tie you up later we might be able to agree to a little role play.” George turned and tossed Anderson’s keys in the air before pocketing them.
“I want you to know that I’m making a huge sacrifice for you, George. I loathe Lars von Trier.” George’s hand settled between Anderson’s shoulders as they descended the steps.
“Shhhhhhhh. He’s an artist!” George laughed. “Don’t tell anyone, but I think he’s full of shit. It’s just an excuse to sit in the dark and make out.”
That was the first time Anderson realized that all of George’s jokes weren’t ever really jokes at all.