FIC: Radio Friendly Missing Scene 1-Ryan and Simon (PG)
Author: Clio
Title: Radio Friendly: Missing Scene 1-Ryan and Simon
Pairing: Ryan/Simon (American Idol)
Rating: PG
Summary: In which Paula sends Simon to make things right with Ryan.
Length: 2500 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Because Radio Friendly is really the story of Chris and Blake, and from one or another of their POV, there was no way to really pay off on Ryan and Simon's background angst. But I'd always known exactly what had happened, and I think I should give Paula her due. Takes place immediately after the end of chapter 7, when Taylor pitches Chris as a singer to the rest of Syco.
Thanks to lillijulianne and allysonsedai!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
February 19, 1963
Simon Cowell did not generally walk home from his office in midtown to his penthouse on Central Park West-he had a car, thank you-but with the failed pitch meeting and the talk with Ryan after he had a killer headache and needed the fresh air. He'd left the office soon after Ryan had stormed out (well, not stormed, more like resignedly shuffled, which was worse, really) and would home in plenty of time to watch Ryan's show. Simon wasn't sure if Ryan knew that he watched the show every day, that it was the only reason he had a television in his office, and that he'd had Cat put a permanent 4-5 meeting on his calendar which could not be rescheduled and from which he could not be disturbed. A few times, when he hadn't seen Ryan in a while, he'd even masturbated to it. Ryan didn't know that, of course; he'd never hear the end of it if Ryan ever found out that sometimes just the sound of his voice could make Simon hard as a rock.
Even eight months ago, he would have told you that he had a fantastic life. He'd built Syco into a top label with great people, he had a wife who kept him amused but didn't make him go to society events, and he had a boyfriend who was too much of a workaholic to ask him for more than he could give. But over the summer Ryan had settled into his schedule and had been making noises about wanting to see him more than once a week, and then at Christmas he'd seen the future, and he wasn't sure how he fit into it. He'd even pinned all his hopes on one young man, which wasn't like him at all; Simon was smart enough to have a finger in as many pies as possible. Really, why wouldn't he sign black and white artists and writers, when they both made him money? But desperation always leads to stupidity. Somehow, somewhere, he had to get some control back.
"Hey there Mr. Cowell," said the doorman. "Early day at work?"
"Long day, actually," he replied.
Once in the flat he headed straight for his den (the only room in their duplex where Paula allowed a television) and poured himself a scotch. God, he was off his game-he hadn't even had the energy to flirt with the elevator girl. He kicked off his shoes, threw his jacket on the couch, and turned on the telly before collapsing into his reading chair. Ryan's show hadn't started quite yet, so he had to endure the silly women's chat show on before him; Simon had heard that ABC was soon to launch a soap opera in this time slotand he couldn't wait, because anything had to be better than this.
He sensed someone's presence and looked up to see Paula standing in the doorway. She rarely snuck up on him, her presence always announced by those dogs, and he wondered where they were. "Drink?" he asked.
"Sure," she said, walking into the room and sitting in the club chair next to his.
He made Paula the bourbon and soda she preferred but would only drink in front of him; in public she ordered more "ladylike" gin and tonics. They sat for a moment, sipping and watching the chat show host attempting to make a French omelet while being coached by a very tall woman with a loud patrician voice who reminded Simon of his mother's friends at the Women's Institute. There was a news break (more missile talks with the Soviets, which was the news every day it seemed) and then Ryan came on the screen.
"Simon, what are we doing?" she asked.
"What?"
Paula sighed. "When's the last time you really looked at him?"
Simon was about to protest-he'd just seen Ryan a few hours before, hadn't he looked at him then? Suddenly he remembered talking to Richardson in his and Lewis's office, and not even noticing that Ryan was there. He stared at the screen.
Now, television made many look tired but Ryan, to anyone who knew him, looked like hell. Sure, he had the plastic smile, the perfectly coiffed hair, the sharp suit, the easy manner, but his eyes didn't sparkle. No one could fake enthusiasm better than Ryan, but Simon had never seen him have to fake it quite so much. And his suit, while sharp, hung off him a bit in the middle. When had this happened? Why hadn't he noticed? After all he slept with the man-well, come to think of it, he hadn't actually slept with Ryan since he'd come back from England. They'd had little trysts, but not much more, and often in the middle of the day. He didn't think they'd even had dinner since sometime in early January.
"You're gonna lose him," Paula was saying. "Maybe not to someone else, but he's slipping away."
Was everything to be taken from him at once? Simon sighed, slumping down further in his chair. He was tired, and he felt old, like he'd outlived his time. "Maybe he'd be better off with someone else," he said.
"Excuse me? The man I married wouldn't even let a saxophone player go without a fight." Paula put a hand on Simon's arm. "Whatever it is, we can figure it out. You don't need to do this alone. I know you like taking care of us but we want to take care of you, too."
Simon looked up. Since Paula had retired from singing and started decorating, he had let her wander off into what he thought was a fairly superficial world, and was happy that he could provide for her enough that she could do so without a care; he liked seeing her that way. But the determined little spitfire who'd appeared in his office, all those years ago, was still there underneath the frills. He wondered what else he hadn't seen lately, when he'd drifted off into complacency. He grabbed Paula's hand, kissed it, then stood and walked over to the hi-fi. "There's this new band I heard when I was in England," he began, pulling out a 45 …
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After the show, Ryan collapsed into his dressing room and lit up a Camel. He was too worn out to even make himself a drink. Watching Chris stand up to Simon today-he was firm, but so quiet about it-had started the wheels moving in his head. He knew that Simon was worried, even scared, knew that it was behind the entire Richardson mess, but his attempts to get Simon to talk to him about it other than just handing him some songs had all been failures. What was the point of any of this, when Simon wouldn't let him in when it counted?
Chris had become a good friend in the last year and seeing him with Blake, their relationship really so simple while his own was littered with more landmines than any of the fields Ryan had crossed in Korea made him jealous as all hell. It wasn't fair. He was a good guy, he'd served his country and worked hard and paid his taxes and was kind to his mother and had never kicked a dog and all he wanted was to find peace with the man he loved. Okay, fine, the gay thing, but wasn't that enough?
He didn't want to answer the knock on the door but sitting in this room pouting wasn't going to do him any good anyway. "Yes?" he called out.
"Message for you, Mr. Seacrest," said the PA, handing him a slip of paper.
"Thanks, Sam," he said, opening the envelope. A phone memo: I'm coming to your flat with dinner-Sheila. Ryan smiled at Simon's silly code name for himself; his own was Meg, though as he was usually leaving messages with Cat it didn't matter quite as much. He couldn't even remember the last time they'd had dinner together. Maybe the meeting had affected Simon, too? He didn't dare hope for anything more than dinner, given the way Simon had behaved lately. But he couldn't help whistling as he walked into the shower in his dressing room.
It was after six when he unlocked the door of his own apartment in the Village. "What smells so great?" he asked. "I'm starving."
Simon, who was sitting on the couch reading some papers, sprung up. "Beef Burgundy. And shrimp cocktail. Come here." He pulled Ryan in close, kissing him soundly. "Hello."
"Hello," Ryan replied, smiling. Simon turned and led him to his kitchen table, which sported a fancy tablecloth and dinnerware he was sure he didn't own. "What's the occasion? And where is this all from?"
"21 Club," Simon replied, pouring Ryan a glass of wine, "and the occasion is, I've been selfish and I'm sorry."
"Selfish?" Ryan asked, helping himself to a shrimp.
"Paula explained to me today that not letting the people who love you help you through a hard time is a kind of selfishness," Simon said. "Also I don't like the way you don't eat when you're upset."
"It's better than overeating."
"I don't know about that," Simon replied, "but have another shrimp. You need to fatten back up."
"I won't say no. So, what is it? Why did you say it will all be over soon because of those songs?"
"What did you think of them?" Simon asked.
Ryan cocked his head, as though listening to them again. "Really catchy pop. If they don't hit with this record, they will soon with something else."
"Right. What else?"
"Well, so they write their own songs, mostly, which is why you were so fired up about Chris."
"Yes. And look what's happening around the corner from this flat."
"The folk thing? But a lot of those people are singing traditional songs, or Pete Seeger stuff, or that new Dylan fella."
"Who has a record coming out in three months."
"And that all means the Syco factory …"
"Is on the wane. Oh, it will go on for a while, but I've never liked being on the down slope of a trend."
"All right. If you could do anything now, what would it be?"
"I hadn't thought about it." Simon took a bite of shrimp. "I reckon I'd head over to London and scout those bands, try to give them a major American release. Lord knows Vee Jay is doing nothing for the Beatles now."
"So why don't you?"
"Well, but who would run Syco? Randy doesn't have time and the writers won't report to Hicks, nor should they."
"How much could you get for it?
"What, you mean sell the label?"
"You said yourself that it will go on for a while. What if they aren't seeing what you see? They're not signing the Beatles and half the reason Columbia didn't drop Dylan was that Johnny Cash made so much noise. Syco had five of the top twenty singles of 1962; it's a good prospect. Sell high. Sell high, and go back to scouting bands."
"And change my entire life with the stroke of a pen?"
"Well, not your entire life. I'll still be here."
Simon looked down at his plate. "Paula wants a divorce."
Ryan, who'd been reaching for his sixth shrimp, froze in place. "She-but I thought we were okay? It isn't because of me, is it?"
"No. Or, well, yes, but no. She er, she's done being married, she says. She wants to have fun. And she thinks it's time for me to leave the nest."
"Like she's your mother?"
Simon laughed, finally looking at Ryan. "Paula is nothing like my mother. No, she just, she thinks I should give this a go. She said you deserve that, and, well, I agree."
"Simon, what are you saying?"
"I'm saying," and he took Ryan's hand in his, "that I don't want you to be the other woman any more. However you want to arrange that. I can buy a place that we can share or not, or I don't know. I don't really know what to do next." He stood up. "But you've eaten all the shrimp, so it's time for beef in sauce."
Ryan twirled his spoon around his fingers as Simon pulled two covered plates out of the warm oven. "Of course I want to live with you," Ryan said. "I just don't know how."
"We have time. We can work that out," Simon said, setting the plates down before Ryan and himself. "In the meantime, I reckon I should do some scouting. You still have those two weeks off in March?"
"Yeah," Ryan said around a mouthful. "Why?"
"Well, if you still want to go to Europe, we could make it look like a business trip, you know, going out every night to see acts, maybe you could even do some interviews. I still know the good places to go."
Ryan stopped chewing. "Simon Cowell, I swear to God you'd better not be kidding. If you change your mind, I just-I don't think I could take it. This afternoon you said-"
"Never mind this afternoon," Simon said. "That wasn't me." He set down his fork. "Come to England with me, Ryan."
Ryan grinned, grinned so his cheeks ached, and wondered if that was because he hadn't really grinned in months. "Okay. Okay, I'll go. Wow. England. I'd kiss you-"
Simon waved it away. "Plenty of time for kissing later. Eat now, get some meat back on those bones. We've got some catching up to do. You'll be getting sick of me."
"Never," Ryan said. "It would take decades to get sick of you."
"Then decades you shall have," Simon said. "All this change is making me feel like a young man again. At this rate I'll never leave."
Ryan smiled. "That sounds just fine. So tomorrow morning, don't be surprised if I call you to ask if all this actually happened."
"No, don't call," Simon said.
Ryan nodded. Plus ça change … But Simon was still talking.
"I'll still be here," he added.
Ryan shook his head. "You'll still-you've never stayed here before."
Simon shrugged. "New life, Ryan. I can do anything."
"Maybe you should pinch me now, make sure I'm not dreaming," Ryan said.
"Nah," Simon said. "You're sitting on the good pinching part."
"You're a lech," Ryan said.
"Still sure about that decades business?"
"You bet."
Simon raised his glass. "Here's to us, then."
"Here's to us," Ryan said as he clinked his glass against Simon's. "I love you."
"I love you too, Ryan. Now eat before it gets cold."
Ryan looked down at his plate, spearing a carrot with his fork, but first he closed his eyes. Thank you, he thought. Thank you, whoever you are that looks after us. If I'm ever needed to lend a hand, just call on me. Thus satisfied with what he owed the universe, and realizing he was very hungry for the first time in a long time, he reached for another dinner roll, because if Simon was staying overnight, he was going to need all the stamina he could get.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And the rest of the story?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 8: So Round So Firm So Fully Packed.
Title: Radio Friendly: Missing Scene 1-Ryan and Simon
Pairing: Ryan/Simon (American Idol)
Rating: PG
Summary: In which Paula sends Simon to make things right with Ryan.
Length: 2500 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Because Radio Friendly is really the story of Chris and Blake, and from one or another of their POV, there was no way to really pay off on Ryan and Simon's background angst. But I'd always known exactly what had happened, and I think I should give Paula her due. Takes place immediately after the end of chapter 7, when Taylor pitches Chris as a singer to the rest of Syco.
Thanks to lillijulianne and allysonsedai!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
February 19, 1963
Simon Cowell did not generally walk home from his office in midtown to his penthouse on Central Park West-he had a car, thank you-but with the failed pitch meeting and the talk with Ryan after he had a killer headache and needed the fresh air. He'd left the office soon after Ryan had stormed out (well, not stormed, more like resignedly shuffled, which was worse, really) and would home in plenty of time to watch Ryan's show. Simon wasn't sure if Ryan knew that he watched the show every day, that it was the only reason he had a television in his office, and that he'd had Cat put a permanent 4-5 meeting on his calendar which could not be rescheduled and from which he could not be disturbed. A few times, when he hadn't seen Ryan in a while, he'd even masturbated to it. Ryan didn't know that, of course; he'd never hear the end of it if Ryan ever found out that sometimes just the sound of his voice could make Simon hard as a rock.
Even eight months ago, he would have told you that he had a fantastic life. He'd built Syco into a top label with great people, he had a wife who kept him amused but didn't make him go to society events, and he had a boyfriend who was too much of a workaholic to ask him for more than he could give. But over the summer Ryan had settled into his schedule and had been making noises about wanting to see him more than once a week, and then at Christmas he'd seen the future, and he wasn't sure how he fit into it. He'd even pinned all his hopes on one young man, which wasn't like him at all; Simon was smart enough to have a finger in as many pies as possible. Really, why wouldn't he sign black and white artists and writers, when they both made him money? But desperation always leads to stupidity. Somehow, somewhere, he had to get some control back.
"Hey there Mr. Cowell," said the doorman. "Early day at work?"
"Long day, actually," he replied.
Once in the flat he headed straight for his den (the only room in their duplex where Paula allowed a television) and poured himself a scotch. God, he was off his game-he hadn't even had the energy to flirt with the elevator girl. He kicked off his shoes, threw his jacket on the couch, and turned on the telly before collapsing into his reading chair. Ryan's show hadn't started quite yet, so he had to endure the silly women's chat show on before him; Simon had heard that ABC was soon to launch a soap opera in this time slotand he couldn't wait, because anything had to be better than this.
He sensed someone's presence and looked up to see Paula standing in the doorway. She rarely snuck up on him, her presence always announced by those dogs, and he wondered where they were. "Drink?" he asked.
"Sure," she said, walking into the room and sitting in the club chair next to his.
He made Paula the bourbon and soda she preferred but would only drink in front of him; in public she ordered more "ladylike" gin and tonics. They sat for a moment, sipping and watching the chat show host attempting to make a French omelet while being coached by a very tall woman with a loud patrician voice who reminded Simon of his mother's friends at the Women's Institute. There was a news break (more missile talks with the Soviets, which was the news every day it seemed) and then Ryan came on the screen.
"Simon, what are we doing?" she asked.
"What?"
Paula sighed. "When's the last time you really looked at him?"
Simon was about to protest-he'd just seen Ryan a few hours before, hadn't he looked at him then? Suddenly he remembered talking to Richardson in his and Lewis's office, and not even noticing that Ryan was there. He stared at the screen.
Now, television made many look tired but Ryan, to anyone who knew him, looked like hell. Sure, he had the plastic smile, the perfectly coiffed hair, the sharp suit, the easy manner, but his eyes didn't sparkle. No one could fake enthusiasm better than Ryan, but Simon had never seen him have to fake it quite so much. And his suit, while sharp, hung off him a bit in the middle. When had this happened? Why hadn't he noticed? After all he slept with the man-well, come to think of it, he hadn't actually slept with Ryan since he'd come back from England. They'd had little trysts, but not much more, and often in the middle of the day. He didn't think they'd even had dinner since sometime in early January.
"You're gonna lose him," Paula was saying. "Maybe not to someone else, but he's slipping away."
Was everything to be taken from him at once? Simon sighed, slumping down further in his chair. He was tired, and he felt old, like he'd outlived his time. "Maybe he'd be better off with someone else," he said.
"Excuse me? The man I married wouldn't even let a saxophone player go without a fight." Paula put a hand on Simon's arm. "Whatever it is, we can figure it out. You don't need to do this alone. I know you like taking care of us but we want to take care of you, too."
Simon looked up. Since Paula had retired from singing and started decorating, he had let her wander off into what he thought was a fairly superficial world, and was happy that he could provide for her enough that she could do so without a care; he liked seeing her that way. But the determined little spitfire who'd appeared in his office, all those years ago, was still there underneath the frills. He wondered what else he hadn't seen lately, when he'd drifted off into complacency. He grabbed Paula's hand, kissed it, then stood and walked over to the hi-fi. "There's this new band I heard when I was in England," he began, pulling out a 45 …
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After the show, Ryan collapsed into his dressing room and lit up a Camel. He was too worn out to even make himself a drink. Watching Chris stand up to Simon today-he was firm, but so quiet about it-had started the wheels moving in his head. He knew that Simon was worried, even scared, knew that it was behind the entire Richardson mess, but his attempts to get Simon to talk to him about it other than just handing him some songs had all been failures. What was the point of any of this, when Simon wouldn't let him in when it counted?
Chris had become a good friend in the last year and seeing him with Blake, their relationship really so simple while his own was littered with more landmines than any of the fields Ryan had crossed in Korea made him jealous as all hell. It wasn't fair. He was a good guy, he'd served his country and worked hard and paid his taxes and was kind to his mother and had never kicked a dog and all he wanted was to find peace with the man he loved. Okay, fine, the gay thing, but wasn't that enough?
He didn't want to answer the knock on the door but sitting in this room pouting wasn't going to do him any good anyway. "Yes?" he called out.
"Message for you, Mr. Seacrest," said the PA, handing him a slip of paper.
"Thanks, Sam," he said, opening the envelope. A phone memo: I'm coming to your flat with dinner-Sheila. Ryan smiled at Simon's silly code name for himself; his own was Meg, though as he was usually leaving messages with Cat it didn't matter quite as much. He couldn't even remember the last time they'd had dinner together. Maybe the meeting had affected Simon, too? He didn't dare hope for anything more than dinner, given the way Simon had behaved lately. But he couldn't help whistling as he walked into the shower in his dressing room.
It was after six when he unlocked the door of his own apartment in the Village. "What smells so great?" he asked. "I'm starving."
Simon, who was sitting on the couch reading some papers, sprung up. "Beef Burgundy. And shrimp cocktail. Come here." He pulled Ryan in close, kissing him soundly. "Hello."
"Hello," Ryan replied, smiling. Simon turned and led him to his kitchen table, which sported a fancy tablecloth and dinnerware he was sure he didn't own. "What's the occasion? And where is this all from?"
"21 Club," Simon replied, pouring Ryan a glass of wine, "and the occasion is, I've been selfish and I'm sorry."
"Selfish?" Ryan asked, helping himself to a shrimp.
"Paula explained to me today that not letting the people who love you help you through a hard time is a kind of selfishness," Simon said. "Also I don't like the way you don't eat when you're upset."
"It's better than overeating."
"I don't know about that," Simon replied, "but have another shrimp. You need to fatten back up."
"I won't say no. So, what is it? Why did you say it will all be over soon because of those songs?"
"What did you think of them?" Simon asked.
Ryan cocked his head, as though listening to them again. "Really catchy pop. If they don't hit with this record, they will soon with something else."
"Right. What else?"
"Well, so they write their own songs, mostly, which is why you were so fired up about Chris."
"Yes. And look what's happening around the corner from this flat."
"The folk thing? But a lot of those people are singing traditional songs, or Pete Seeger stuff, or that new Dylan fella."
"Who has a record coming out in three months."
"And that all means the Syco factory …"
"Is on the wane. Oh, it will go on for a while, but I've never liked being on the down slope of a trend."
"All right. If you could do anything now, what would it be?"
"I hadn't thought about it." Simon took a bite of shrimp. "I reckon I'd head over to London and scout those bands, try to give them a major American release. Lord knows Vee Jay is doing nothing for the Beatles now."
"So why don't you?"
"Well, but who would run Syco? Randy doesn't have time and the writers won't report to Hicks, nor should they."
"How much could you get for it?
"What, you mean sell the label?"
"You said yourself that it will go on for a while. What if they aren't seeing what you see? They're not signing the Beatles and half the reason Columbia didn't drop Dylan was that Johnny Cash made so much noise. Syco had five of the top twenty singles of 1962; it's a good prospect. Sell high. Sell high, and go back to scouting bands."
"And change my entire life with the stroke of a pen?"
"Well, not your entire life. I'll still be here."
Simon looked down at his plate. "Paula wants a divorce."
Ryan, who'd been reaching for his sixth shrimp, froze in place. "She-but I thought we were okay? It isn't because of me, is it?"
"No. Or, well, yes, but no. She er, she's done being married, she says. She wants to have fun. And she thinks it's time for me to leave the nest."
"Like she's your mother?"
Simon laughed, finally looking at Ryan. "Paula is nothing like my mother. No, she just, she thinks I should give this a go. She said you deserve that, and, well, I agree."
"Simon, what are you saying?"
"I'm saying," and he took Ryan's hand in his, "that I don't want you to be the other woman any more. However you want to arrange that. I can buy a place that we can share or not, or I don't know. I don't really know what to do next." He stood up. "But you've eaten all the shrimp, so it's time for beef in sauce."
Ryan twirled his spoon around his fingers as Simon pulled two covered plates out of the warm oven. "Of course I want to live with you," Ryan said. "I just don't know how."
"We have time. We can work that out," Simon said, setting the plates down before Ryan and himself. "In the meantime, I reckon I should do some scouting. You still have those two weeks off in March?"
"Yeah," Ryan said around a mouthful. "Why?"
"Well, if you still want to go to Europe, we could make it look like a business trip, you know, going out every night to see acts, maybe you could even do some interviews. I still know the good places to go."
Ryan stopped chewing. "Simon Cowell, I swear to God you'd better not be kidding. If you change your mind, I just-I don't think I could take it. This afternoon you said-"
"Never mind this afternoon," Simon said. "That wasn't me." He set down his fork. "Come to England with me, Ryan."
Ryan grinned, grinned so his cheeks ached, and wondered if that was because he hadn't really grinned in months. "Okay. Okay, I'll go. Wow. England. I'd kiss you-"
Simon waved it away. "Plenty of time for kissing later. Eat now, get some meat back on those bones. We've got some catching up to do. You'll be getting sick of me."
"Never," Ryan said. "It would take decades to get sick of you."
"Then decades you shall have," Simon said. "All this change is making me feel like a young man again. At this rate I'll never leave."
Ryan smiled. "That sounds just fine. So tomorrow morning, don't be surprised if I call you to ask if all this actually happened."
"No, don't call," Simon said.
Ryan nodded. Plus ça change … But Simon was still talking.
"I'll still be here," he added.
Ryan shook his head. "You'll still-you've never stayed here before."
Simon shrugged. "New life, Ryan. I can do anything."
"Maybe you should pinch me now, make sure I'm not dreaming," Ryan said.
"Nah," Simon said. "You're sitting on the good pinching part."
"You're a lech," Ryan said.
"Still sure about that decades business?"
"You bet."
Simon raised his glass. "Here's to us, then."
"Here's to us," Ryan said as he clinked his glass against Simon's. "I love you."
"I love you too, Ryan. Now eat before it gets cold."
Ryan looked down at his plate, spearing a carrot with his fork, but first he closed his eyes. Thank you, he thought. Thank you, whoever you are that looks after us. If I'm ever needed to lend a hand, just call on me. Thus satisfied with what he owed the universe, and realizing he was very hungry for the first time in a long time, he reached for another dinner roll, because if Simon was staying overnight, he was going to need all the stamina he could get.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And the rest of the story?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 8: So Round So Firm So Fully Packed.