RPF: here i am leaving you clues (Ben Bass/Missy Peregrym), Part 1/2
Title: here i am leaving you clues (Part 1/2)
Authors: threeguesses and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: RPF, Ben Bass/Missy Peregrym
Rating: R
Word Count: 11,800+
Summary: The one with the Olympics, and also all the sex.
Author's note: Aaaaaand we are the actual worst.
Ridiculously: it starts with the Fab fucking Five.
Laura’s crazy over the Olympics, swimming and running and especially gymnastics; for two weeks they sit on the couch eating microwave popcorn and watching, the cocker spaniel snoozing at his feet. Ben likes the cheerful, constant noise. And if he shoots MP the odd text while Laura’s in the kitchen refilling her wine glass and the judges are delivering their scores, it’s only for a little bit of context. Not because he likes the idea of her doing all the flips.
(Although, all right: possibly he's watched Stick It furtively on his laptop more than once. He has it password locked; it feels uncomfortably similar to watching porn).
Late Tuesday night and his phone keeps buzzing on the arm of the couch: my floor routine was totally better than that, she tells him, one of those little emoticon faces with the tongue sticking out. He hesitates for a second (his fucking wife is sitting right there, flipping back and forth between the games and a rerun of 30 Rock), but finally it's like his thumb moves all on its own:
yeah, probably that’s something i gotta see to believe.
you wish, Missy texts back. Which-- yes. Yes, he does.
So.
Ben doesn't reply (because jesus, danger, Will Robinson) and at first he thinks that's that. Filming doesn't start until the end of August so they won't actually be seeing each other for nearly a month, and a little flirting over text or whatever? Fine. That's fine. Ben can handle that.
Only then, the very same day as the women's gymnastics final, Missy sends him a video of herself doing the flips.
It's old tape, from oh-four or oh-five maybe--before the movie even, Ben's pretty sure. She looks very, very young. Laura's in Fresno visiting her sister but still he looks over his shoulder every two seconds the whole time he's watching it, shiny little leotard and that long body rocketing through the air.
(It is, fuck, it feels exactly like watching--
jesus.)
Ben breathes through his nose, nice and even. Keeps both hands planted on the desk.
He watches it twice, shuts his laptop. Walks around the house for awhile. Finally he picks up the phone.Impressive, he tells her, scratching at the back of his neck a bit. Then, because he's the stupidest man alive: the ensemble especially.
The reply comes almost immediately, like maybe she was waiting for him. Ben tries not to think about that too much. yeah well it was the most uncomfortable thing of life. ever heard of 'butt glue'?
Ben laughs out loud, the weird, heavy feeling that was spreading through his chest dissipating some. i can imagine, he tells her.
wedgies aren't sexy, Missy pronounces. Ben can practically see her goofy smile, the way she pokes her tongue out through her teeth a little. They're friends, Ben reminds himself, feeling more upbeat. Buddies or whatever. This is fine.
And then: they let me keep the leotard actually, cause it was custom. doubt it still fits.
Yeah.
Not buddies.
He waits a while on purpose before he answers--lets the dog out, makes a sandwich. Looks at his phone again while he's eating. ha, he types finally (and fuck, he loves his wife he loves his wife he loves his--). let me know how that works out for you.
I didn't say I was going to TRY it she zings back a minute later. Then, before he can even begin to think about a reply, a second chime: ok i probably would have. am in LA until mon. Though. far away from all my one of a kind spandex. :(
Ben just blinks for a second, the phone gone warm with the heat of his palm. There's no reason knowing she's in town should change the damn stakes here (knowing she's in town and didn't tell him, although he guesses telling him is exactly what she just did). On TV they've switched over to diving, that long climb and the rush of motion. LA huh? he asks her finally, hedging. what for?
just visiting vibrates onto his screen a second later. Which makes sense. She lived here, jesus, something Ben always forgets, how long she's technically been in the game. Missy always seems new for some reason, how excited she gets at cast parties.
He probably shouldn't reply. He should finish his damn grilled cheese and watch the synchro diving. NBC is doing a special interest bit on the US pair, something about their deep trusting bond.
It doesn't even matter, because after five minutes of stalling Missy texts back anyway. wanna get a drink while im here?
sure, he tells her, no hesitation. So apparently he's pretty much done playing it cool. u around tonight?
(Laura's back tomorrow, is the issue. And it's not that he's trying to get away with something here--he's emphatically not, all right--but he's also not going to kiss his wife hello and head out to drinks with his knockout of a costar, either. Ben's a lot of things, but he likes to think totally stupid isn't one of them.
They're, uh. They're not crazy about each other, Laura and Missy.)
miss me, do you? she shoots back a minute later. Then, rapid fire: tonight's good and the address.
Of her hotel.
Ben scrubs at his face, presses in with heels of his hands until starbursts explode behind his closed eyes. There's obviously a right and a wrong way to handle this.
Changing his shirt and taking a shower before he leaves? Wrong. Very very wrong.
He drives, mostly because he doesn't want the option of having more than one drink. Missy's staying at a Sheraton near the airport that she probably picked out herself, no agents or bookers involved. By the time he pulls into underground parking Ben's feeling some kind of weird vertigo sensation, like being up really high without a net. Which is stupid, because he's completely had drinks with her before. He's been drunk with her before, jesus, which isn't even something he's planning on repeating tonight. It's just---they've always been drinking at work, is the thing, cast parties and read-throughs and a million other people around. This feels private.
here, he texts on his way up in the elevator, one hand rubbing hard at the back of his neck. He's got time to sit and order a beer before she shows.
Beer's safe, he figures, hedging. Beer's something you drink with another guy.
Then she strolls through the door of the bar.
"Oh hi," she calls as she crosses the hardwood, all smiles and a little black tank top with lace at the neckline, her hair up in a tidy little knot at the crown of her head. She holds her hand up like she's going to high-five him hello, then laces her fingers through his at the last second, squeezing. Half-presses a kiss against his cheek. "What's up?"
Ben grins, he can't help it. He hasn't seen her in person in a while. "Hey, MP."
(She looks less like herself like this, more like Andy. When her hair's down for some reason it's easier to draw a line.)
Missy sits down next to him, still smiling. "You saved my night," she tells him. "My ex-roommate completely bailed." She flags down the bartender and copies Ben's order, two beers and coworkers hanging out, nothing to see here. Ben exhales.
The Games are on behind the bar, highlights and medal counts. According to the graphic the US is back on top, Canada hovering somewhere around twelfth. "So how're you?" Ben asks, fiddling with his coaster. On screen, an interviewer asks Michael Phelps how it feels to be the best.
Missy grins, pretty as a picture. "Good." Then, without even bothering to toss the question back at him: "I can't believe you were watching the gymnastics." Her smirk is all Andy's.
Actually, Laura was watching them doesn't really feel like the best response. Ben wonders why that is, exactly, and doesn't like the answer at all. "It was Laura's idea," he says, mostly to prove he can. He takes a swig of beer.
Missy takes a long sip of hers too, eyes him over the rim of her glass. "Laura knows what's what," she says once she's swallowed, no particular intonation at all. Ben's real careful not to look at the muscles in her throat. "Where's she tonight?"
Ben hesitates, feeling caught--feeling like she's onto him, or something, although onto him for what he's not entirely certain. "Out of town," he admits, not particularly crazy about the way it sounds coming out his mouth. "Visiting family."
Missy nods, lets the information hang there. Ben gulps some more of his beer. The hair, the smile are Andy's, definitely, but that quiet, almost knowing look on her face--yeah. That's all her.
(It's a lie, he admits to himself finally. What he thinks she's probably onto, if she is in fact onto him--he's pretty sure what it is.)
"I can't believe you used to do that shit," he says to change the subject, jerking his head in the direction of the TV. His beer's almost empty already; when the bartender catches his eye Ben nods like a reflex before he remembers he was only going to have one. "Triple backflip pommel horse whatever."
"Horse is a men's event," Missy corrects him, and just like that they're pals again. "And what used to? I could do it right now if I had to."
Ben grins, relieved at the change of pace. Missy's got her elbows on the bar, planted wide and sturdy like a man. If Ben focuses enough he can almost ignore her long legs underneath, crossed towards him like they belong to a whole separate person. His beer arrives out of nowhere, condensation beading up the glass, and Ben decides two is fine. He can still drive after two.
He relaxes just enough to fuck it up: "Prove it."
So.
That's how, another drink and a whole lot of trash talk later, they end up riding the elevator in search for an empty stretch of hallway. "There's not enough space in my room," Missy explains, and Ben honestly doesn't know if the twisting in his stomach is relief or something else.
"This looks good," Missy calls, popping out on 11. Ben can't tell what distinguishes it from all the other floors they've seen--every single one has been deserted, it feels like, like there's no one else in the entire hotel--but Missy seems satisfied. He trails her out of the elevator, watching as she cracks her knuckles.
"Okay," she says, swinging her arms back and forth a bit like she's warming up, that crooked grin. "Prepare to have your mind blown."
Ben snorts. She's headed down the far end of the hall now, stretching out her shoulders; she toed her flats off a minute ago, nails a cherry red against the muted hotel carpet. He hasn't seen her barefoot much, not that that feels like a thing that should matter at all, that he's even noticed. On set she and the rest of the girls bang around in Uggs or fuzzy slippers. When they shoot in bed she always wears socks.
("Sorry," she told him once, under the covers all morning and her feet freezing cold against his ankles even through the cotton. "I know, I'm like a dead person."
Which--not really what Ben had been thinking at all.)
"Oh, I'm ready," he promises now, leaning against the windowsill in the hallway. The view's not bad from all the way up here, lights in the distance, one lonely plane blinking its way into a landing at LAX. Ben's got a love/hate thing for Southern California most days, although tonight it doesn't seem so terrible. "Quit stalling."
Missy flips him off, laughing. "Fuck you," she says cheerfully--and launches.
Well. She can certainly still do it, that's for sure. Ben takes an automatic step back as she spins her way towards him, a cartwheel into a flip into something Ben can't even recognize. Her shirt flies up a little, just a strip of tanned skin along her waistband.
"Ta-da!" She more or less sticks the landing, this hard solid thud on both feet and a quick shift down into a crouch to hold it. Her arms come up and everything, flexed fingers.
"Holy crap," Ben says. It's sounds a lot more, uh. Impressed than he means it to (he meant to tease her about the arms). "You okay?"
Missy laughs. "Yep." She shifts her weight and Ben finds himself pulling her up before he knows what he's doing. Her hands are almost as big as his own.
"Not gonna lie," Missy pants, "I was a little worried I was gonna land on my face." She's flushed and close, practically standing on Ben's toes. From her face he's guessing she's supremely pleased with herself.
"Yeah, you and me both," Ben tells her, laughing a bit. She smells spicy and unfamiliar, perfume he doesn't remember ever smelling on her before. Laura wears something with flowers. "Thought we were going to wind up in the ER for sure."
Missy makes a face like he ought to have more faith in her, braces one hand on his shoulder to get her shoes back on. "Yeah, good luck explaining that to your wife," she says, still grinning. "Just a little hotel gymnastics injury, honey, no big deal."
Which--that's his cue, frankly. Ben feels a sudden surge of annoyance, at her and at himself equally. There's already no way to explain this, is the truth. "Yeah, well," he says, for lack of anything better. He should really go down and get his car.
Missy's smile fades. "Oh, don't look at me like that," she says, pouting at him a little. "I'm just teasing you."
He knows she is, really. She likes to flirt for recreation, Missy, preacher's daughter sitting on all the boys' laps during breaks from taping. She might not even mean it in a specific kind of way. Ben exhales. The air in the hallway is very dry and he thinks of being a kid and learning about electricity, rubbing your socks across the carpet for friction. Waiting for a spark.
Ben rubs at the back of his neck for a minute, opens his mouth to tell her he's gotta get up early in the morning. "Why didn't you tell me you were in town?" is what comes out.
Silence. Missy blinks at him. It's a great bit of wordless communication, honestly, a million different things on her face at once. If they were filming this would be the final take.
"Forget it." Ben pushes his hands out in front of him like he can unring the bell. "Never mind. I shouldn't have--"
"No, it's just." Missy heaves a long breath. She looks serious now, older maybe, and abruptly Ben knows they aren't going to pretend she's just been kicking his chair in homeroom. "It felt weird, okay? God. I didn't wanna make it weird."
Too late, Ben thinks. He should really leave it that, nicely wrapped up in enough double-talk that they can both go home and pretend this never happened. But. "Why would it be weird?"
Missy gapes at him. Then she laughs, one hand coming up to thread through the base of her neat bun. "God, are you for real?" She shakes her head. "Don't even. You are not making me say it."
(That's Ben's problem, probably. He wants her to say it.)
He's pissed all of a sudden, annoyance cycling over into something worse. Missy's blushing a bit now, smiling sheepishly like this is all just some kind of vaguely embarrassing joke, and Ben fucking can't with her. He can't.
"You're the one who brought it up," he says impatiently. If she won't spell it out then dammit, he will. "With your effing--" He waves a hand, one of Sam's tics. "All that what will you tell your wife? bullshit, Christ. What is that, MP?"
Oh, that pisses her off. "You're a dick," Missy informs him angrily. She looks like Andy again just then, sharp chin and eyes flashing, that bruised-looking mouth. "Seriously. This is why I didn't tell you I was in town, you know that? This right here. Screw you, 'I'm the one who brought it--'"
Down the hall the elevator dings open; abruptly, Missy snaps her jaw shut. A middle-aged couple gets out, glances at them once before disappearing down the other end of the hallway. It occurs to Ben that he should try and grab the doors before they close.
Missy's not finished with him, though: "You're the one who's married here, Ben!" she hisses once they're gone. "What are you gonna tell your wife, exactly? That is a legitimate question I have. The hell are you even doing literally watching me do backflips for your entertainment?" All at once the mad goes out of her, all that proud gymnast posture nowhere to be found. "Because I know why I'm doing them, honestly, and it pretty much sucks for me, so."
So.
There it is, he guesses.
Ben takes a deep breath and tries to remind himself that just because you think you want something (just because you've wanted it a long time now, because you've been practicing not wanting it, plowing it back into the work and waiting like hell for the not wanting to take, and it won't) doesn't mean you get to have it. Doesn't mean it's yours to want in the first place.
(Sam got what he wanted, Ben thinks suddenly. Desire's not always useful.)
"Okay," he says, just slow. Missy's looking at him like she wants to crawl inside herself and die. "MP, I--" He didn't want to hear it, is a truth that's starting to dawn. Feels one-hundred-percent worse for hearing it.
Feels like a prize jackass.
"Look," he starts again, only to find nothing following it. He hates the expression on her face, hates even more that he put it there. "I know it's not-- It's my fault too, I mean." He has the overwhelming urge to take some responsibility, sneak in an apology for his behaviour. He wants her to forgive him for asking (for flirting, for--). "When you work together like we do--" Jesus Christ, he sounds like every '90s sexual harassment tape ever.
Missy's having none of it. "Yeah, no. I'm a big girl, thanks." She folds her arms, closing-off her expression until she's nothing but a Missy-shaped space. "Totally capable of owning my feelings. Mea culpa." She doesn't sound sorry at all.
It's an out. Ben stays silent, feeling like the world's worst coward.
Which, of course, is as good as taking it. Missy sighs, looking away. "Let's just quit while we're behind, okay?" she says flatly, turning back towards the elevators. "You should go."
"I know why." It stutters out of Ben like a machine gun burst. He can't, he just-- her face. "Why I'm here watching you, I mean. Jesus, MP, look at me." He spins her around so they're facing each other again. "I know why."
Missy's got her jaw set hard and moody, gaze fixed somewhere in the neighborhood of his right ear. It's a trick Ben taught her himself, actually, some late-night location shoot their first season out and her with a ridiculous case of the giggles; it looks like eye-contact from the outside, helps sometimes if you're overtired and freezing cold and trying not to laugh.
(Or--
and fuck, he's an asshole, he's the most unforgivable schmuck in the world--
cry.)
She holds it together in the end, though; she's tougher than she looks, MP, soft heart and a ribcage made out of titanium. Ben thinks she's a hell of a lot braver than him. "Yeah, I know too," she says, wrenching her arm out of his grip, and just like that she's totally closed for business: she smiles at him and it's nothing like her actual smile, cold and sarcastic. "That plus twenty-five bucks will pay for your valet parking."
That makes him mad all over again, honestly, how flip and snotty it is, like she wants the last word and thought that sounded clever (embarrassed too, underneath it, how obvious it means he's probably been). Ben feels his eyes narrow in reply. "What do you want from me?" he fires back immediately, though it sounds a lot more helpless that he's necessarily comfortable with. "Seriously, MP, what the fuck am I supposed to do here?"
For another second Missy just looks at him, miserable. He wants to kiss her in the worst, stupidest way. "Nothing," she says finally, shrugging. "Not one fucking thing." She shakes her head. "I'll see you in Toronto, yeah?" she asks faux-brightly, not waiting for his answer before she heads down the hall--toward the staircase, Ben guesses, like she wants to get away from him too badly to wait for the elevator.
He follows her. He's the stupidest asshole in the world, and he follows her.
"Fuck off," Missy tells him, not even bothering to turn around. The line of her back is tall and angry. There's something in her voice, though, something that makes Ben wonder if she lost her battle with tears.
"MP, jesus." He can't leave it like this. "Let's just-- god, can we talk for a sec? We're friends and--"
Missy wheels and fuck, she is definitely crying now. Ben hates himself. "Are we though?" she hisses. "Like, for real here. You and me may have a fucked up thing going on, sure, but forgive me, because I really don't think it's friendship." She practically spits out the word.
They've stopped their headlong dash toward the staircase at least. Right outside a door, actually. Ben doesn't get it and doesn't get it until Missy pulls out a key.
"This is your floor?"
Missy just looks at him calmly. "Yeah." Her face is red and blotchy. "I'm not proud of myself," she promises.
That makes him laugh, bizarrely, full of this hopeless impossible affection for her, itchy as a wool sweater in the middle of July. He knocks his head against the doorjamb, a quiet thud. "Fuck, MP."
"Whatever." Missy rolls her eyes through her tears, takes a breath to get herself under control. "Not the slickest thing I've ever done, all right?"
"Kind of crafty," Ben admits. Suddenly it feels like everything has taken on a weird air of inevitability, like the way things have always been between them this was bound to happen sooner or later (except not, because that's a cop out, that's--).
"Crafty how?" she asks. Her bun is coming unpinned by now, baby-fine hair wisping down around the sides of her face. "You're a grown-ass man, Ben, it's not like I was going to--"
"MP," he interrupts quietly, and god, there's a choice here, of course there's still a fucking choice. It feels like he swallowed two lungs full of chalk dust when he wasn't paying attention. "Open the door."
Missy opens her mouth instead. Closes it. Looks at Ben.
She gets the keycard in one try.
It smells like her inside the room, that same strange perfume Ben noticed down at the bar. Both of them hover in the cramped entryway, frozen. All of a sudden it's like the end of every first date Ben's ever been, all awkward expectancy. It isn't even a wanting, really--Ben's too scared and confused to want it--but more the overwhelming certainly that it's about to happen, fait accompli with a side of nausea.
"This is a bad idea," Missy murmurs. Neither of them moves.
Ben looks past her into the room, trying to make himself base up (because she's right, he's the one who's married, so really--). Missy's suitcase is spilling open onto the floor, two bras discarded beside the mirror like maybe she got ready in a rush.
Like maybe she stood there and thought about--
Missy sees where he's looking and rolls her eyes again. "God," she murmurs under her breath, finally breaking their stalemate to kick off her flats. Then: "I went with black, in case you were wondering. Figured it was a classic."
Jesus. "MP--"
"It matches too." She gestures vaguely between her top and bottom. Her face is blurry with smudged makeup, upper lip shiny with tears or snot or both. "Oh, plus I shaved my legs. And, you know, everything else. Because I am the world's most pathetic--"
Ben kisses her. He can't hear anymore, so he just-- kissing her just seems like the more bearable option.
on to part 2
Authors: threeguesses and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: RPF, Ben Bass/Missy Peregrym
Rating: R
Word Count: 11,800+
Summary: The one with the Olympics, and also all the sex.
Author's note: Aaaaaand we are the actual worst.
Ridiculously: it starts with the Fab fucking Five.
Laura’s crazy over the Olympics, swimming and running and especially gymnastics; for two weeks they sit on the couch eating microwave popcorn and watching, the cocker spaniel snoozing at his feet. Ben likes the cheerful, constant noise. And if he shoots MP the odd text while Laura’s in the kitchen refilling her wine glass and the judges are delivering their scores, it’s only for a little bit of context. Not because he likes the idea of her doing all the flips.
(Although, all right: possibly he's watched Stick It furtively on his laptop more than once. He has it password locked; it feels uncomfortably similar to watching porn).
Late Tuesday night and his phone keeps buzzing on the arm of the couch: my floor routine was totally better than that, she tells him, one of those little emoticon faces with the tongue sticking out. He hesitates for a second (his fucking wife is sitting right there, flipping back and forth between the games and a rerun of 30 Rock), but finally it's like his thumb moves all on its own:
yeah, probably that’s something i gotta see to believe.
you wish, Missy texts back. Which-- yes. Yes, he does.
So.
Ben doesn't reply (because jesus, danger, Will Robinson) and at first he thinks that's that. Filming doesn't start until the end of August so they won't actually be seeing each other for nearly a month, and a little flirting over text or whatever? Fine. That's fine. Ben can handle that.
Only then, the very same day as the women's gymnastics final, Missy sends him a video of herself doing the flips.
It's old tape, from oh-four or oh-five maybe--before the movie even, Ben's pretty sure. She looks very, very young. Laura's in Fresno visiting her sister but still he looks over his shoulder every two seconds the whole time he's watching it, shiny little leotard and that long body rocketing through the air.
(It is, fuck, it feels exactly like watching--
jesus.)
Ben breathes through his nose, nice and even. Keeps both hands planted on the desk.
He watches it twice, shuts his laptop. Walks around the house for awhile. Finally he picks up the phone.Impressive, he tells her, scratching at the back of his neck a bit. Then, because he's the stupidest man alive: the ensemble especially.
The reply comes almost immediately, like maybe she was waiting for him. Ben tries not to think about that too much. yeah well it was the most uncomfortable thing of life. ever heard of 'butt glue'?
Ben laughs out loud, the weird, heavy feeling that was spreading through his chest dissipating some. i can imagine, he tells her.
wedgies aren't sexy, Missy pronounces. Ben can practically see her goofy smile, the way she pokes her tongue out through her teeth a little. They're friends, Ben reminds himself, feeling more upbeat. Buddies or whatever. This is fine.
And then: they let me keep the leotard actually, cause it was custom. doubt it still fits.
Yeah.
Not buddies.
He waits a while on purpose before he answers--lets the dog out, makes a sandwich. Looks at his phone again while he's eating. ha, he types finally (and fuck, he loves his wife he loves his wife he loves his--). let me know how that works out for you.
I didn't say I was going to TRY it she zings back a minute later. Then, before he can even begin to think about a reply, a second chime: ok i probably would have. am in LA until mon. Though. far away from all my one of a kind spandex. :(
Ben just blinks for a second, the phone gone warm with the heat of his palm. There's no reason knowing she's in town should change the damn stakes here (knowing she's in town and didn't tell him, although he guesses telling him is exactly what she just did). On TV they've switched over to diving, that long climb and the rush of motion. LA huh? he asks her finally, hedging. what for?
just visiting vibrates onto his screen a second later. Which makes sense. She lived here, jesus, something Ben always forgets, how long she's technically been in the game. Missy always seems new for some reason, how excited she gets at cast parties.
He probably shouldn't reply. He should finish his damn grilled cheese and watch the synchro diving. NBC is doing a special interest bit on the US pair, something about their deep trusting bond.
It doesn't even matter, because after five minutes of stalling Missy texts back anyway. wanna get a drink while im here?
sure, he tells her, no hesitation. So apparently he's pretty much done playing it cool. u around tonight?
(Laura's back tomorrow, is the issue. And it's not that he's trying to get away with something here--he's emphatically not, all right--but he's also not going to kiss his wife hello and head out to drinks with his knockout of a costar, either. Ben's a lot of things, but he likes to think totally stupid isn't one of them.
They're, uh. They're not crazy about each other, Laura and Missy.)
miss me, do you? she shoots back a minute later. Then, rapid fire: tonight's good and the address.
Of her hotel.
Ben scrubs at his face, presses in with heels of his hands until starbursts explode behind his closed eyes. There's obviously a right and a wrong way to handle this.
Changing his shirt and taking a shower before he leaves? Wrong. Very very wrong.
He drives, mostly because he doesn't want the option of having more than one drink. Missy's staying at a Sheraton near the airport that she probably picked out herself, no agents or bookers involved. By the time he pulls into underground parking Ben's feeling some kind of weird vertigo sensation, like being up really high without a net. Which is stupid, because he's completely had drinks with her before. He's been drunk with her before, jesus, which isn't even something he's planning on repeating tonight. It's just---they've always been drinking at work, is the thing, cast parties and read-throughs and a million other people around. This feels private.
here, he texts on his way up in the elevator, one hand rubbing hard at the back of his neck. He's got time to sit and order a beer before she shows.
Beer's safe, he figures, hedging. Beer's something you drink with another guy.
Then she strolls through the door of the bar.
"Oh hi," she calls as she crosses the hardwood, all smiles and a little black tank top with lace at the neckline, her hair up in a tidy little knot at the crown of her head. She holds her hand up like she's going to high-five him hello, then laces her fingers through his at the last second, squeezing. Half-presses a kiss against his cheek. "What's up?"
Ben grins, he can't help it. He hasn't seen her in person in a while. "Hey, MP."
(She looks less like herself like this, more like Andy. When her hair's down for some reason it's easier to draw a line.)
Missy sits down next to him, still smiling. "You saved my night," she tells him. "My ex-roommate completely bailed." She flags down the bartender and copies Ben's order, two beers and coworkers hanging out, nothing to see here. Ben exhales.
The Games are on behind the bar, highlights and medal counts. According to the graphic the US is back on top, Canada hovering somewhere around twelfth. "So how're you?" Ben asks, fiddling with his coaster. On screen, an interviewer asks Michael Phelps how it feels to be the best.
Missy grins, pretty as a picture. "Good." Then, without even bothering to toss the question back at him: "I can't believe you were watching the gymnastics." Her smirk is all Andy's.
Actually, Laura was watching them doesn't really feel like the best response. Ben wonders why that is, exactly, and doesn't like the answer at all. "It was Laura's idea," he says, mostly to prove he can. He takes a swig of beer.
Missy takes a long sip of hers too, eyes him over the rim of her glass. "Laura knows what's what," she says once she's swallowed, no particular intonation at all. Ben's real careful not to look at the muscles in her throat. "Where's she tonight?"
Ben hesitates, feeling caught--feeling like she's onto him, or something, although onto him for what he's not entirely certain. "Out of town," he admits, not particularly crazy about the way it sounds coming out his mouth. "Visiting family."
Missy nods, lets the information hang there. Ben gulps some more of his beer. The hair, the smile are Andy's, definitely, but that quiet, almost knowing look on her face--yeah. That's all her.
(It's a lie, he admits to himself finally. What he thinks she's probably onto, if she is in fact onto him--he's pretty sure what it is.)
"I can't believe you used to do that shit," he says to change the subject, jerking his head in the direction of the TV. His beer's almost empty already; when the bartender catches his eye Ben nods like a reflex before he remembers he was only going to have one. "Triple backflip pommel horse whatever."
"Horse is a men's event," Missy corrects him, and just like that they're pals again. "And what used to? I could do it right now if I had to."
Ben grins, relieved at the change of pace. Missy's got her elbows on the bar, planted wide and sturdy like a man. If Ben focuses enough he can almost ignore her long legs underneath, crossed towards him like they belong to a whole separate person. His beer arrives out of nowhere, condensation beading up the glass, and Ben decides two is fine. He can still drive after two.
He relaxes just enough to fuck it up: "Prove it."
So.
That's how, another drink and a whole lot of trash talk later, they end up riding the elevator in search for an empty stretch of hallway. "There's not enough space in my room," Missy explains, and Ben honestly doesn't know if the twisting in his stomach is relief or something else.
"This looks good," Missy calls, popping out on 11. Ben can't tell what distinguishes it from all the other floors they've seen--every single one has been deserted, it feels like, like there's no one else in the entire hotel--but Missy seems satisfied. He trails her out of the elevator, watching as she cracks her knuckles.
"Okay," she says, swinging her arms back and forth a bit like she's warming up, that crooked grin. "Prepare to have your mind blown."
Ben snorts. She's headed down the far end of the hall now, stretching out her shoulders; she toed her flats off a minute ago, nails a cherry red against the muted hotel carpet. He hasn't seen her barefoot much, not that that feels like a thing that should matter at all, that he's even noticed. On set she and the rest of the girls bang around in Uggs or fuzzy slippers. When they shoot in bed she always wears socks.
("Sorry," she told him once, under the covers all morning and her feet freezing cold against his ankles even through the cotton. "I know, I'm like a dead person."
Which--not really what Ben had been thinking at all.)
"Oh, I'm ready," he promises now, leaning against the windowsill in the hallway. The view's not bad from all the way up here, lights in the distance, one lonely plane blinking its way into a landing at LAX. Ben's got a love/hate thing for Southern California most days, although tonight it doesn't seem so terrible. "Quit stalling."
Missy flips him off, laughing. "Fuck you," she says cheerfully--and launches.
Well. She can certainly still do it, that's for sure. Ben takes an automatic step back as she spins her way towards him, a cartwheel into a flip into something Ben can't even recognize. Her shirt flies up a little, just a strip of tanned skin along her waistband.
"Ta-da!" She more or less sticks the landing, this hard solid thud on both feet and a quick shift down into a crouch to hold it. Her arms come up and everything, flexed fingers.
"Holy crap," Ben says. It's sounds a lot more, uh. Impressed than he means it to (he meant to tease her about the arms). "You okay?"
Missy laughs. "Yep." She shifts her weight and Ben finds himself pulling her up before he knows what he's doing. Her hands are almost as big as his own.
"Not gonna lie," Missy pants, "I was a little worried I was gonna land on my face." She's flushed and close, practically standing on Ben's toes. From her face he's guessing she's supremely pleased with herself.
"Yeah, you and me both," Ben tells her, laughing a bit. She smells spicy and unfamiliar, perfume he doesn't remember ever smelling on her before. Laura wears something with flowers. "Thought we were going to wind up in the ER for sure."
Missy makes a face like he ought to have more faith in her, braces one hand on his shoulder to get her shoes back on. "Yeah, good luck explaining that to your wife," she says, still grinning. "Just a little hotel gymnastics injury, honey, no big deal."
Which--that's his cue, frankly. Ben feels a sudden surge of annoyance, at her and at himself equally. There's already no way to explain this, is the truth. "Yeah, well," he says, for lack of anything better. He should really go down and get his car.
Missy's smile fades. "Oh, don't look at me like that," she says, pouting at him a little. "I'm just teasing you."
He knows she is, really. She likes to flirt for recreation, Missy, preacher's daughter sitting on all the boys' laps during breaks from taping. She might not even mean it in a specific kind of way. Ben exhales. The air in the hallway is very dry and he thinks of being a kid and learning about electricity, rubbing your socks across the carpet for friction. Waiting for a spark.
Ben rubs at the back of his neck for a minute, opens his mouth to tell her he's gotta get up early in the morning. "Why didn't you tell me you were in town?" is what comes out.
Silence. Missy blinks at him. It's a great bit of wordless communication, honestly, a million different things on her face at once. If they were filming this would be the final take.
"Forget it." Ben pushes his hands out in front of him like he can unring the bell. "Never mind. I shouldn't have--"
"No, it's just." Missy heaves a long breath. She looks serious now, older maybe, and abruptly Ben knows they aren't going to pretend she's just been kicking his chair in homeroom. "It felt weird, okay? God. I didn't wanna make it weird."
Too late, Ben thinks. He should really leave it that, nicely wrapped up in enough double-talk that they can both go home and pretend this never happened. But. "Why would it be weird?"
Missy gapes at him. Then she laughs, one hand coming up to thread through the base of her neat bun. "God, are you for real?" She shakes her head. "Don't even. You are not making me say it."
(That's Ben's problem, probably. He wants her to say it.)
He's pissed all of a sudden, annoyance cycling over into something worse. Missy's blushing a bit now, smiling sheepishly like this is all just some kind of vaguely embarrassing joke, and Ben fucking can't with her. He can't.
"You're the one who brought it up," he says impatiently. If she won't spell it out then dammit, he will. "With your effing--" He waves a hand, one of Sam's tics. "All that what will you tell your wife? bullshit, Christ. What is that, MP?"
Oh, that pisses her off. "You're a dick," Missy informs him angrily. She looks like Andy again just then, sharp chin and eyes flashing, that bruised-looking mouth. "Seriously. This is why I didn't tell you I was in town, you know that? This right here. Screw you, 'I'm the one who brought it--'"
Down the hall the elevator dings open; abruptly, Missy snaps her jaw shut. A middle-aged couple gets out, glances at them once before disappearing down the other end of the hallway. It occurs to Ben that he should try and grab the doors before they close.
Missy's not finished with him, though: "You're the one who's married here, Ben!" she hisses once they're gone. "What are you gonna tell your wife, exactly? That is a legitimate question I have. The hell are you even doing literally watching me do backflips for your entertainment?" All at once the mad goes out of her, all that proud gymnast posture nowhere to be found. "Because I know why I'm doing them, honestly, and it pretty much sucks for me, so."
So.
There it is, he guesses.
Ben takes a deep breath and tries to remind himself that just because you think you want something (just because you've wanted it a long time now, because you've been practicing not wanting it, plowing it back into the work and waiting like hell for the not wanting to take, and it won't) doesn't mean you get to have it. Doesn't mean it's yours to want in the first place.
(Sam got what he wanted, Ben thinks suddenly. Desire's not always useful.)
"Okay," he says, just slow. Missy's looking at him like she wants to crawl inside herself and die. "MP, I--" He didn't want to hear it, is a truth that's starting to dawn. Feels one-hundred-percent worse for hearing it.
Feels like a prize jackass.
"Look," he starts again, only to find nothing following it. He hates the expression on her face, hates even more that he put it there. "I know it's not-- It's my fault too, I mean." He has the overwhelming urge to take some responsibility, sneak in an apology for his behaviour. He wants her to forgive him for asking (for flirting, for--). "When you work together like we do--" Jesus Christ, he sounds like every '90s sexual harassment tape ever.
Missy's having none of it. "Yeah, no. I'm a big girl, thanks." She folds her arms, closing-off her expression until she's nothing but a Missy-shaped space. "Totally capable of owning my feelings. Mea culpa." She doesn't sound sorry at all.
It's an out. Ben stays silent, feeling like the world's worst coward.
Which, of course, is as good as taking it. Missy sighs, looking away. "Let's just quit while we're behind, okay?" she says flatly, turning back towards the elevators. "You should go."
"I know why." It stutters out of Ben like a machine gun burst. He can't, he just-- her face. "Why I'm here watching you, I mean. Jesus, MP, look at me." He spins her around so they're facing each other again. "I know why."
Missy's got her jaw set hard and moody, gaze fixed somewhere in the neighborhood of his right ear. It's a trick Ben taught her himself, actually, some late-night location shoot their first season out and her with a ridiculous case of the giggles; it looks like eye-contact from the outside, helps sometimes if you're overtired and freezing cold and trying not to laugh.
(Or--
and fuck, he's an asshole, he's the most unforgivable schmuck in the world--
cry.)
She holds it together in the end, though; she's tougher than she looks, MP, soft heart and a ribcage made out of titanium. Ben thinks she's a hell of a lot braver than him. "Yeah, I know too," she says, wrenching her arm out of his grip, and just like that she's totally closed for business: she smiles at him and it's nothing like her actual smile, cold and sarcastic. "That plus twenty-five bucks will pay for your valet parking."
That makes him mad all over again, honestly, how flip and snotty it is, like she wants the last word and thought that sounded clever (embarrassed too, underneath it, how obvious it means he's probably been). Ben feels his eyes narrow in reply. "What do you want from me?" he fires back immediately, though it sounds a lot more helpless that he's necessarily comfortable with. "Seriously, MP, what the fuck am I supposed to do here?"
For another second Missy just looks at him, miserable. He wants to kiss her in the worst, stupidest way. "Nothing," she says finally, shrugging. "Not one fucking thing." She shakes her head. "I'll see you in Toronto, yeah?" she asks faux-brightly, not waiting for his answer before she heads down the hall--toward the staircase, Ben guesses, like she wants to get away from him too badly to wait for the elevator.
He follows her. He's the stupidest asshole in the world, and he follows her.
"Fuck off," Missy tells him, not even bothering to turn around. The line of her back is tall and angry. There's something in her voice, though, something that makes Ben wonder if she lost her battle with tears.
"MP, jesus." He can't leave it like this. "Let's just-- god, can we talk for a sec? We're friends and--"
Missy wheels and fuck, she is definitely crying now. Ben hates himself. "Are we though?" she hisses. "Like, for real here. You and me may have a fucked up thing going on, sure, but forgive me, because I really don't think it's friendship." She practically spits out the word.
They've stopped their headlong dash toward the staircase at least. Right outside a door, actually. Ben doesn't get it and doesn't get it until Missy pulls out a key.
"This is your floor?"
Missy just looks at him calmly. "Yeah." Her face is red and blotchy. "I'm not proud of myself," she promises.
That makes him laugh, bizarrely, full of this hopeless impossible affection for her, itchy as a wool sweater in the middle of July. He knocks his head against the doorjamb, a quiet thud. "Fuck, MP."
"Whatever." Missy rolls her eyes through her tears, takes a breath to get herself under control. "Not the slickest thing I've ever done, all right?"
"Kind of crafty," Ben admits. Suddenly it feels like everything has taken on a weird air of inevitability, like the way things have always been between them this was bound to happen sooner or later (except not, because that's a cop out, that's--).
"Crafty how?" she asks. Her bun is coming unpinned by now, baby-fine hair wisping down around the sides of her face. "You're a grown-ass man, Ben, it's not like I was going to--"
"MP," he interrupts quietly, and god, there's a choice here, of course there's still a fucking choice. It feels like he swallowed two lungs full of chalk dust when he wasn't paying attention. "Open the door."
Missy opens her mouth instead. Closes it. Looks at Ben.
She gets the keycard in one try.
It smells like her inside the room, that same strange perfume Ben noticed down at the bar. Both of them hover in the cramped entryway, frozen. All of a sudden it's like the end of every first date Ben's ever been, all awkward expectancy. It isn't even a wanting, really--Ben's too scared and confused to want it--but more the overwhelming certainly that it's about to happen, fait accompli with a side of nausea.
"This is a bad idea," Missy murmurs. Neither of them moves.
Ben looks past her into the room, trying to make himself base up (because she's right, he's the one who's married, so really--). Missy's suitcase is spilling open onto the floor, two bras discarded beside the mirror like maybe she got ready in a rush.
Like maybe she stood there and thought about--
Missy sees where he's looking and rolls her eyes again. "God," she murmurs under her breath, finally breaking their stalemate to kick off her flats. Then: "I went with black, in case you were wondering. Figured it was a classic."
Jesus. "MP--"
"It matches too." She gestures vaguely between her top and bottom. Her face is blurry with smudged makeup, upper lip shiny with tears or snot or both. "Oh, plus I shaved my legs. And, you know, everything else. Because I am the world's most pathetic--"
Ben kisses her. He can't hear anymore, so he just-- kissing her just seems like the more bearable option.
on to part 2