I seem to have ficced.
And if I'm staying up way too late to write this and post it elsewhere, I might as well post it here. J2, _American Idol_-ish AU, preslash, pretty much PG-rated (if that). So, yeah, I hope this formatted correctly because I was supposed to go to bed two hours ago instead of writing this.
There were auditions clearly intended to land in the freak show known as the audition episodes, and there were auditions destined to remain only in the memories of those directly involved with them.
Jensen wasn't quite sure which category this one fell into.
Sure, the guy was not unpleasant to look at -- even Chris was poking his thigh in acknowledgement of the guy's hotness, and Chris was usually utterly oblivious to that -- and the singing was horrific enough to be a near-surefire Hall of Shame entry, but the look on the guy's face was of the sort that was typically only seen by one other person wearing a lot less clothing than even the recent college graduate that announced that she was a burlesque dancer who would perform her trademark song, an original tune entitled "Peel Me Like a Grape." And the dancing? Well, the guy did state up front that the choreography went with the song -- Adam Ant's "Strip." Which he did not ctually do, but, oh, the moves.
Even Elvis Presley would be scandalized. Hell, Jensen is pretty sure Jim Morrison would consider it inappropriate. At least the guy wasn't wearing leather pants.
Finally, mercifully, the screeching ended. Jensen (producer extraordinaire) and Chris (singer-songwriter) turned to Misha (no one really remembered what Misha had done to get his spot at the judges' table, but he was always entertaining, so no one really cared), always good for incoherent encouragement. "Dude, the way your voice just *nailed* that... What was it? A high note? Was that supposed to be a sharp? Wow, never heard anything like that before. Great noise. Just amazing." Misha's eyes weren't red, and he wasn't reeking of smoke, but his fingernails had traces of chocolate under them, so they were clearly in for an interesting afternoon of Misha encouraging the most astonishingly horrendous hopefuls to pursue a life of performance art. The most disturbing part was that he turned out to have a solid eye for what would actually be accepted in the avant garde art community. He had chased down more than one culled atrocity and turned them into highly sought-after entertainers.
Chris, on the other hand, had little to no use for that sort of approach. "Are you aware that you are auditioning for a singing show? We're not looking for a stripper." Jensen poked Chris under the table, but Chris merely poked him back and smirked. "You've got some interesting moves, though. Could I hire you for my wife's next birthday party?"
"Okay, moving on." Jensen cleared his throat. This guy was smoking, and Jensen almost felt bad about the blistering diatribe he was about to unleash, but, really, these kids have seen the show, so they knew what they were getting into. If they didn't, then they *really* deserved what they for. "I don't like I've seen such blatant disregard for a key signature since Roseanne sang the national anthem." And he was off. The sad part is that he had been doing this for so long that his brain went on autopilot when it came time for the insults. Chris poked him again, although this time, it was the "Dude, you're been going on *way* too long" poke rather than the "Dude, this kid is about ready to start crying" poke.
Now the guy blinked in the sudden silence. Strangely, he was unperturbed at being insulted for -- Jensen checked his watch -- five solid minutes. Funny how time flies when you're on a good rampage. The silence following said rampage can be a little unsettling, so it was no wonder the guy was a bit surprised, although Jensen had no clue why he wasn't upset at being mocked. "Um, are you done?"
Misha waved. "Go, man, get snacks. And bring me some fizzy lemonade and a bag of Fritos? Oh, and Twinkies, man. And a big bottle of water. Oh, and Swedish fish! Gotta have my Swedish fish."
Another blink. Misha waved a five dollar bill at him. "Seriously?" Misha looked at the bill in his hand, exchanged it for another bill out out of his pocket, and waved a twenty. Baffled, Jared took the money, and Misha sat back in his chair, grinning wilding and giving him two thumbs up. "Okay, seriously. I'll, uh, leave it with the security people?" And he walked out, utterly bewildered at being sent out for snacks.
Jensen sighed. *Misha* was the one who stunned the guy into silence by asking for munchies? He was losing his acid-tongued touch.
~~~~~~~
Finally. The day was over. After the judges' daily wrapup meeting in the penthouse suite, Jensen was ready to get out of the hotel for the evening. Maybe wander down to that restaurant that appeared on t-shirts of not one but ten different hopefuls, maybe just wander, period. He smiled at the six-year-old boy on the elevator with him. He adored children. He could never get enough of his own nephews. Then Jensen realized that the kid had punched every single floor button -- all twenty of them. He hated kids. Then he saw a mountain lumbering towards the elevator and trying not to trip over the hellion. Jensen's mother taught him well, and he reflexively held the door so the guy could join him, even though making him wait for the next car -- one that was not going to stop at every single floor on the way down -- would probably be the kinder thing to do.
"Hold it, please?"
Great. The guy was polite, but Jensen recognized the voice. He was fairly certain he would be forever traumatized by it. Stuck on a very long elevator ride with one of the worst performers they had seen all day. On the up side, at least the guy was hot. And smelled good. There had been an alarming number of gorgeous guys traipsing through the audition room that thought standard rules of hygiene didn't apply to them. Or, worse, hosed themselves down with that hideous Axe body spray. This guy smelled like... Jensen found himself edging closer to the guy -- Jared, he recalled -- in order to get a better sniff. Sugar cookies, lime, and bay rum. *How* did someone manage to smell like *that* combination? Then Jared spoke, causing Jensen to startle. First, berate the guy's singing and dancing, and then stand there and *sniff* him?
"Dude, I have to apologize for wasting your time today." Jensen jumped at the guy's voice. "I know I suck, but my buddy dared me, and, you know, a guy's pride was at stake." Jared paused. "Obviously, not *much* pride, but, still, the principle of the thing, right?"
Jensen stared. Wait. What? The guy was self-aware? And *apologizing*? He blinked. "Uh, no problem. Goes with the territory." He realized that the guy was shuffling his feet nervously. Great. Telling the guy on-camera that he sucks was one thing. Jensen's entire reputation was built on being the nasty one, and anyone walking in that room was aware that there was every likelihood that they would be torn apart. But reiterating that evaluation in the privacy of an elevator, where there were no cameras to record his harangue for an audience? Seemed beyond harsh. He decided to temper it a bit. "At least you looked good, right?"
"Um, yeah." Jared shuffled his feet. "And at least I won fifty bucks, right? Chad thought I might not go through with that part, but he thought it was more likely that I would, so he only put up fifty bucks."
"And what did you wager in return?" Jensen found himself drawn into the conversation against his will, but the guy *was* hot, and Jensen had found himself thinking about those dimples all afternoon.
"A week of laundry. That might not sound like a big deal, but if you had to live with him, you would know how traumatic *that* is."
"Ah." The elevator insisted on making its insanely slow journey down, stopping at every floor. Apparently, the hotel was entirely empty aside from the two of them already in the elevator because not one single person got on at any floor.
An inexplicably awkward silence descended, and Jared finally broke it with, "There was another part." He coughed. "If I do this, Chad pays my rent for the next three months. If I don't, it's laundry *and* kitchen duty for a month."
More silence ensued, broken only by Jared shifting from one foot to another and the soft "ding-ding!" of the elevator when it reached the next floor. Finally, Jensen cleared his throat and asked, "So what's the other part?"
The guy turned red and ducked his head. "Um. I think I can get away with just telling you what it is, so then you *know*, but you don't have to actually *say* no." Jared pulled out his cell phone, slid it open punched a few buttons, stood straight, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath before staring ahead at the door -- most definitely *not* directly at Jensen -- and launching into a rapid-fire speech. "The real reason he made me audition is because I think you're the hottest guy to ever show up on reality tv, or any other show, and then these auditions came to town, and then Chad found out, and I know I can't sing, and I don't really *want* to, but if I auditioned, then I could meet you, and then I could tell you how much I wanted to kiss you at sunset, and then we could go out to dinner, and maybe you could show me the view from your window, and then we could order room service, and you could make fun of me for eating so much for breakfast." In the silence that followed, Jared's shoulders drooped. "Yeah. So there's that."
Jensen was distracted by a voice shouting Jared's name and various obscenities from the phone's tiny speaker, so he took it out of Jared's hand and told it, "If this is Chad, I hope you have a solid bank account." Then he closed it and tapped it against his hand a few times before opening it again, punching a string of numbers into it, and sliding it into Jared's back pocket. "As for you, I hope you're not a vegetarian. I need bacon in the morning." The elevator finally reached the ground floor, and the doors opened. "Look, a sunset. Is Italian okay with you?" And at that, Jensen grabbed Jared's hand and realized that he had finally stunned the guy into silence. Jensen smirked. He still had it.
There were auditions clearly intended to land in the freak show known as the audition episodes, and there were auditions destined to remain only in the memories of those directly involved with them.
Jensen wasn't quite sure which category this one fell into.
Sure, the guy was not unpleasant to look at -- even Chris was poking his thigh in acknowledgement of the guy's hotness, and Chris was usually utterly oblivious to that -- and the singing was horrific enough to be a near-surefire Hall of Shame entry, but the look on the guy's face was of the sort that was typically only seen by one other person wearing a lot less clothing than even the recent college graduate that announced that she was a burlesque dancer who would perform her trademark song, an original tune entitled "Peel Me Like a Grape." And the dancing? Well, the guy did state up front that the choreography went with the song -- Adam Ant's "Strip." Which he did not ctually do, but, oh, the moves.
Even Elvis Presley would be scandalized. Hell, Jensen is pretty sure Jim Morrison would consider it inappropriate. At least the guy wasn't wearing leather pants.
Finally, mercifully, the screeching ended. Jensen (producer extraordinaire) and Chris (singer-songwriter) turned to Misha (no one really remembered what Misha had done to get his spot at the judges' table, but he was always entertaining, so no one really cared), always good for incoherent encouragement. "Dude, the way your voice just *nailed* that... What was it? A high note? Was that supposed to be a sharp? Wow, never heard anything like that before. Great noise. Just amazing." Misha's eyes weren't red, and he wasn't reeking of smoke, but his fingernails had traces of chocolate under them, so they were clearly in for an interesting afternoon of Misha encouraging the most astonishingly horrendous hopefuls to pursue a life of performance art. The most disturbing part was that he turned out to have a solid eye for what would actually be accepted in the avant garde art community. He had chased down more than one culled atrocity and turned them into highly sought-after entertainers.
Chris, on the other hand, had little to no use for that sort of approach. "Are you aware that you are auditioning for a singing show? We're not looking for a stripper." Jensen poked Chris under the table, but Chris merely poked him back and smirked. "You've got some interesting moves, though. Could I hire you for my wife's next birthday party?"
"Okay, moving on." Jensen cleared his throat. This guy was smoking, and Jensen almost felt bad about the blistering diatribe he was about to unleash, but, really, these kids have seen the show, so they knew what they were getting into. If they didn't, then they *really* deserved what they for. "I don't like I've seen such blatant disregard for a key signature since Roseanne sang the national anthem." And he was off. The sad part is that he had been doing this for so long that his brain went on autopilot when it came time for the insults. Chris poked him again, although this time, it was the "Dude, you're been going on *way* too long" poke rather than the "Dude, this kid is about ready to start crying" poke.
Now the guy blinked in the sudden silence. Strangely, he was unperturbed at being insulted for -- Jensen checked his watch -- five solid minutes. Funny how time flies when you're on a good rampage. The silence following said rampage can be a little unsettling, so it was no wonder the guy was a bit surprised, although Jensen had no clue why he wasn't upset at being mocked. "Um, are you done?"
Misha waved. "Go, man, get snacks. And bring me some fizzy lemonade and a bag of Fritos? Oh, and Twinkies, man. And a big bottle of water. Oh, and Swedish fish! Gotta have my Swedish fish."
Another blink. Misha waved a five dollar bill at him. "Seriously?" Misha looked at the bill in his hand, exchanged it for another bill out out of his pocket, and waved a twenty. Baffled, Jared took the money, and Misha sat back in his chair, grinning wilding and giving him two thumbs up. "Okay, seriously. I'll, uh, leave it with the security people?" And he walked out, utterly bewildered at being sent out for snacks.
Jensen sighed. *Misha* was the one who stunned the guy into silence by asking for munchies? He was losing his acid-tongued touch.
~~~~~~~
Finally. The day was over. After the judges' daily wrapup meeting in the penthouse suite, Jensen was ready to get out of the hotel for the evening. Maybe wander down to that restaurant that appeared on t-shirts of not one but ten different hopefuls, maybe just wander, period. He smiled at the six-year-old boy on the elevator with him. He adored children. He could never get enough of his own nephews. Then Jensen realized that the kid had punched every single floor button -- all twenty of them. He hated kids. Then he saw a mountain lumbering towards the elevator and trying not to trip over the hellion. Jensen's mother taught him well, and he reflexively held the door so the guy could join him, even though making him wait for the next car -- one that was not going to stop at every single floor on the way down -- would probably be the kinder thing to do.
"Hold it, please?"
Great. The guy was polite, but Jensen recognized the voice. He was fairly certain he would be forever traumatized by it. Stuck on a very long elevator ride with one of the worst performers they had seen all day. On the up side, at least the guy was hot. And smelled good. There had been an alarming number of gorgeous guys traipsing through the audition room that thought standard rules of hygiene didn't apply to them. Or, worse, hosed themselves down with that hideous Axe body spray. This guy smelled like... Jensen found himself edging closer to the guy -- Jared, he recalled -- in order to get a better sniff. Sugar cookies, lime, and bay rum. *How* did someone manage to smell like *that* combination? Then Jared spoke, causing Jensen to startle. First, berate the guy's singing and dancing, and then stand there and *sniff* him?
"Dude, I have to apologize for wasting your time today." Jensen jumped at the guy's voice. "I know I suck, but my buddy dared me, and, you know, a guy's pride was at stake." Jared paused. "Obviously, not *much* pride, but, still, the principle of the thing, right?"
Jensen stared. Wait. What? The guy was self-aware? And *apologizing*? He blinked. "Uh, no problem. Goes with the territory." He realized that the guy was shuffling his feet nervously. Great. Telling the guy on-camera that he sucks was one thing. Jensen's entire reputation was built on being the nasty one, and anyone walking in that room was aware that there was every likelihood that they would be torn apart. But reiterating that evaluation in the privacy of an elevator, where there were no cameras to record his harangue for an audience? Seemed beyond harsh. He decided to temper it a bit. "At least you looked good, right?"
"Um, yeah." Jared shuffled his feet. "And at least I won fifty bucks, right? Chad thought I might not go through with that part, but he thought it was more likely that I would, so he only put up fifty bucks."
"And what did you wager in return?" Jensen found himself drawn into the conversation against his will, but the guy *was* hot, and Jensen had found himself thinking about those dimples all afternoon.
"A week of laundry. That might not sound like a big deal, but if you had to live with him, you would know how traumatic *that* is."
"Ah." The elevator insisted on making its insanely slow journey down, stopping at every floor. Apparently, the hotel was entirely empty aside from the two of them already in the elevator because not one single person got on at any floor.
An inexplicably awkward silence descended, and Jared finally broke it with, "There was another part." He coughed. "If I do this, Chad pays my rent for the next three months. If I don't, it's laundry *and* kitchen duty for a month."
More silence ensued, broken only by Jared shifting from one foot to another and the soft "ding-ding!" of the elevator when it reached the next floor. Finally, Jensen cleared his throat and asked, "So what's the other part?"
The guy turned red and ducked his head. "Um. I think I can get away with just telling you what it is, so then you *know*, but you don't have to actually *say* no." Jared pulled out his cell phone, slid it open punched a few buttons, stood straight, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath before staring ahead at the door -- most definitely *not* directly at Jensen -- and launching into a rapid-fire speech. "The real reason he made me audition is because I think you're the hottest guy to ever show up on reality tv, or any other show, and then these auditions came to town, and then Chad found out, and I know I can't sing, and I don't really *want* to, but if I auditioned, then I could meet you, and then I could tell you how much I wanted to kiss you at sunset, and then we could go out to dinner, and maybe you could show me the view from your window, and then we could order room service, and you could make fun of me for eating so much for breakfast." In the silence that followed, Jared's shoulders drooped. "Yeah. So there's that."
Jensen was distracted by a voice shouting Jared's name and various obscenities from the phone's tiny speaker, so he took it out of Jared's hand and told it, "If this is Chad, I hope you have a solid bank account." Then he closed it and tapped it against his hand a few times before opening it again, punching a string of numbers into it, and sliding it into Jared's back pocket. "As for you, I hope you're not a vegetarian. I need bacon in the morning." The elevator finally reached the ground floor, and the doors opened. "Look, a sunset. Is Italian okay with you?" And at that, Jensen grabbed Jared's hand and realized that he had finally stunned the guy into silence. Jensen smirked. He still had it.