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idkthisisjustforfanfic · 9 months ago

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TEMPORARY THINGS, chapter 3

Your first few weeks on set go by in a blur of learning the ropes. You follow Briony around a lot and listen to her use words you’ve never heard, like striking and dolly grip. You learn the difference between a first assistant camera and second, though it doesn’t seem to make much sense when Maggie points around nonchalantly and gets interrupted by a joke coming from the walkie-talkie on her hip.

It was going well! Aside from whatever whirring now thumps in your chest when Brett comes up beside you. You’re still in good impression mode for another, like, 3 weeks.

“Hi,” he says, a smile and nod when you look up to see him. “Hopefully you’re liking this lot so far?”

“So far,” you nod, appreciative of his inquiry. “But I also heard it takes a few weeks for you all to turn into divas.”

He pulls a hand to his chest in mock offense. The jacket he’s wearing belongs to his character, but the color suits him well. “I usually wait until at least halfway through!”

“Hellooo,” Maggie sidles up and smiles at both of you. Jason’s right behind her and when the four of you stand in a make-shift circle, you’re acutely aware of the way Jason angles himself toward you.

“We’ve got a lot to get through today--wanted to have you hear all of this as well,” Jason says this to you in particular before Maggie launches into some sort of schedule. She’s listing numbers and tasks and referencing scenes by shorthand lingo that only makes half sense.

It’s weird, you realize, that while you’re here on set and working alongside them, your job is different in almost every way: it’s focused entirely on him. Which is maybe a bad thing, seeing as your stomach still does this little flip when you notice the dimple on his cheek that you remember from Day 1.

Lucky for you, though, most of your time on set is spent in Jason’s office. Scheduling his travel and handling his emails and pulling the strings behind the scenes so his actual job here was easier. You’re in constant contact with his manager, his nanny, even sometimes seeing messages from his ex or his friends come through before you pass them right up the ladder.

Briony pops in and out, often passing messages from Jason to you and then in return. She was the coffee kid, still young enough to be excited by that type of task and good enough to never mess up an order.

Poppy hurries by and after you commit the entire shooting schedule of the day to memory, you return to Jason’s office to actually get your work done. Today, primarily, was to be spent going through emails and calendars, plugging in meetings and finalizing his schedule for the next two weeks before filming really picked up.

But there’s a knock on the door that grabs your attention before your inbox is even open. Brendan’s there, a binder in hand and a hesitant smile when you both realize you’ve never been alone in a room together.

“Hi,” he says a bit awkwardly. “Y’know where Jason is?”

“He was with Paul and Jenna near Rebecca’s office,” you hoped you were getting the names right, blending real people with characters in the same way that didn’t trip up the rest of them. “Anything I can help with?”

He holds your gaze for a second, almost skeptical, but then decides he’ll at least give it a shot.

“I’m looking for a list of scenes we’re shooting today. Not the actual schedule that got sent out but the list of ones Jason wants to do if we can move more quickly than everyone thinks we can.”

You stand from your spot on the couch and nod thoughtfully, walking towards his desk as your eyes start to scan the piles of paper. You’ve learned his system bit by bit: the pile on the left is Lasso-related but not urgent. The pile on the right is more personal, with a higher level of urgency. Work-related urgent things get put on top of his laptop, or, if he seems to think it’s really important, sometimes he takes a picture of it and emails it to himself.

As of now you find it mostly adorable that a guy in his mid-forties is sending himself emails with picture attachments so he doesn’t forget stuff. You’ll have to give him a crash course in the reminders app at some point.

You locate the piece of paper you saw him scribbling on yesterday, the red ink of the pen he clips into his pocket smudged in the corner. Today’s scenes are listed out in the same shorthand code you’ve heard Maggie use, Jason’s chicken scratch is in the margins in red ink.

You hold it up before you look back towards Brendan. His brows are arched when you take a step over and deliver, what you assume, is exactly what he was looking for.

He scans it. Nods.

“Three extra scenes sounds ambitious to me,” you try to crack a joke, feeling weird about the fact that you’ve yet to bond with Brendan.

“You can read his handwriting?” He looks up at you again, more quickly this time, surprise on his face when you nod.

“Yes--yeah,” you stammer like this is an embarrassing admission. “Should I not be able to?”

“Jessie always complained,” he shrugs, eyes back down to the piece of paper you’d handed over.

“It’s messy as shit but I figured if I can’t read his handwriting then we’re all fucked.”

The corner of Brendan’s mouth flicks into a smile, a tiny laugh before he salutes you in farewell and his footsteps fade down the hallway.

April 2022

The end of March sputtered more rain onto the London streets than you’d ever seen in Los Angeles. Maggie promised it wouldn’t be like this the whole time, but now, on the third rainy Friday in a row, you were beginning to think your friend was a liar.

“It’s bad luck,” Jason comments as he looks out the window into his backyard, “not bad weather.”

Thunder booms overhead and the British Airways website logo keeps flickering on the page, please be patient while we locate your booking!

“You’re beginning to sound like a London apologist,” you look up at him from your laptop screen, eyebrows arched to challenge his statement. The backyard gets lit up again, the line of trees overhead is visible in the flash of lightning that cracks open the sky.

He smirks at your retort, “forgive me for not wanting you to hate the place you agreed to move.”

His hands are in his pockets but he moves to sit on the couch across from you. You showed up 20-minutes ago, laptop in tow after he heard you mention something on set about your travel plans to Amsterdam.

“London could have been on fire and I would still have come,” you think aloud as the page blinks back to life. “Okay, here,” you sit up. “Booking 1430-3925-098, business class to Schiphol.”

“Cancel it.”

“You’re sure?” You look up at him now, finger hovering over the trackpad.

“Positive,” he stands and nods. “Red or white?”

“Hmm?”

You click the button, Yes, I’m Sure!, but then notice he’s waiting for you to reply.

“Wine,” he laughs. “Red or white?”

You pause, is this a test? Is having a glass of wine with him on a Friday night in his living room crossing a line? No, you decide when he holds your gaze for a moment. If it wasn’t crossing a line with Kyle or Reese or any other boss you’ve had, it’s not crossing a line with him.

And besides, he’s not your boss, technically.

“Red.”

He smiles at your answer and makes his way towards the kitchen. “So why would a fiery London not be a deterrent?”

You set your laptop on the coffee table, a few steps over to stand in the doorway as he pursues his wine rack.

“Sorry?” You’re confused now, still watching when he scans the label of a bottle before he sets it on the Island.

It was a long week. You’d been on set every morning at 6:30am. Most days you left work around 4 or 5, and Jason was good about making sure you took lunch breaks and had enough coffee and knew all the good places to hide for five minutes of quiet when the set got too crowded.

“You said London could have been on fire and you would have moved here still,” he reminds you, his eyes watching for your reaction as you lean against the door frame.

You nod slowly and let your eyes flutter shut in embarrassment. What’s the most professional way to say: I got dumped and fired in the span of two weeks and my life felt like a living hell, so surely London ablaze would be manageable?

You decide there isn’t one, so you bend the truth as he searches for a wine opener. “I was in desperate need of a change of scenery.”

“Christmas in LA does suck,” he nods.

“Luckily I didn’t have to withstand that torture,” you walk over to the drawer on his right, the one that Jessie’s binder said had miscellaneous kitchen tools and utensils. You open it and pull out an opener and hand it over. “I was in New York for the holidays, left LA right after Thanksgiving.”

He opens the bottle and nods sympathetically. “Something about December in LA always feels��depressing.”

“Yeah,” you let out a breath at that word, one that circled and swirled in your brain for days and weeks before you figured out what the fuck you were going to do. Your parents were worried and your sister was three-seconds and a text message away from booking a flight out there to beat the shit of your ex, as she so kindly offered.

He pours the first glass, stealing a peek in your direction when he thinks you aren’t looking. You are.

“So--yeah, Los Angeles, change of scenery, back to New York. Now London.” He pours his own and then brings them both over, clinks his wine glass against yours before you both take a quiet sip in the kitchen. “What on earth made you take this job?”

You smirk, sure you can’t say what pops into your mind: a new city, a penchant for spontaneity after a crisis, the chance to work for your friend’s hot boss…

“Oh god,” he laughs, taking in your expression when your cheeks flush. “Did someone make you come here? Have you been kidnapped? Forced against your will?”

“No,” you roll your eyes at his playfulness and laugh. “I just--I really needed a job and a fresh start, I guess.”

He nods in understanding, takes another sip in the quiet. “Yeah, I get that.”

You’re not sure why it suddenly comes out, honest, blunt, a thud on the fancy tile of his kitchen.

“My boyfriend and I broke up--we lived together--then my job kind of exploded, well, Kyle’s life did too, so, Maggie took pity, I guess, when she realized my life was a shit show.”

He’s a little caught off guard by your confession, his eyebrows are slightly lifted and you can’t read: is it curiosity or concern? Like, did I hire a psychopath concern.

But that must not be it, because when you take a loud slurp of wine to drown out the awkward silence, he swallows and nods.

“Just because it feels like a shit show doesn’t mean it is,” he offers, a small smile before he continues. “My fiancé of a decade left me for someone 15 years younger a few years ago and then decided to give a fuck ton of interviews about it,” he smirks. “So--I get the whole shit show feeling.”

Your lips pull into a smile at his show of humanity, but then he gestures for you to follow him back to the living room. You’d known about his failed relationship, saw headlines and heard murmurs but didn’t pay much mind. You didn’t think in a few years time you’d be drinking wine on his couch on a rainy Friday.

“And now you’re single?” He asks over his shoulder, more of a follow up on your recent disclosure than the flirtation you wish it was. He sits down and you watch the way his knees knock together in khakis.

“First time in 6 years,” you say over the rim of your glass, returning to your spot on the sofa.

He’s watching you, like you’re throwing him off somehow or he’s intrigued. You realize you like it.

And then you remember why you’re here, tonight, in the first place: Amsterdam. The location shoot for the temp gig. Your temp gig job. Your job, him sitting across the room from you as not the man who writes your checks but still the one who generates them. Your laptop on the coffee table pulls you back to reality. You should probably not flirt with him.

“It’s canceled,” you nod towards the computer and then lift your Apple Watch as proof. “Confirmation email came through a few minutes ago.”

He shakes his head but smiles. “I can’t believe you thought I’d make you fly business class if I’m on a jet!”

You remember Maggie’s words from January, facetime a thousand miles away. Something along the lines of he’s amazing, Y/N, he’s so chill!

“You’d be really disappointed to hear what it’s like to work for Tom Cruise, then.”

He laughs, shifts on the couch and takes another sip. “I think it’s really shitty when people treat their EAs like regular assistants,” he shrugs. “Here’s this person who manages your whole life…arguably that means you’re more competent than I am,” he thinks aloud, a playful glance in your direction. A compliment? Maybe. Flirting? You hope.

Is that shitty? Is that weird and inappropriate or—worst of all—are you fully delusional?

“I’m going to pocket that for future reference,” you admit with a smirk.

He sips his wine and smiles, eyes you seriously from behind the glasses he puts on at the end of the day. “Just…know from here on out that you can book yourself as nice of a hotel room as you want, you know, within reason.”

You let your eyes bug out of your head. “Reason, like, the Presidential Suite at a Ritz Carlton, or?”

“Jesus,” a short laugh escapes, a comedic hint of suspicion is his eyes after he checks a text on his phone. “Maggie wasn’t kidding when she said you’ve been primarily A-list.”

“I would never,” you call back, a quick confession to make sure he knows you’re not that type of…employee? Temp? Whatever.

“Great, but still--we’re there for work, but you deserve to enjoy Amsterdam,” he gestures toward your laptop, like the British Airways website itself was a symbol of the upcoming business trip.

Maggie’s been excited for weeks. She babbled about it in the car on the way from Heathrow and Poppy’s been shouting out nightclubs and restaurants and places she wants to go most mornings in the makeup trailer.

You’ve never been to Amsterdam, but you’re excited nonetheless for a chance to see a new city in a new country. The last time you and Maggie were in Europe together was on your study abroad trip when you were both 21. Now it’s ten years later.

She bounces in one April morning to Poppy’s trailer while you’re sipping a hot coffee. One from the catering table because the one you sipped on your way here wasn’t enough.

“You’re exactly who I wanted to see,” her face lights up when she spots you in a chair beside Juno.

“Good morning,” you coo, grateful that Poppy’s trailer has become a bit of reprieve for you. You were right, a few weeks ago when you went out for your first Friday in London: Maggie and Poppy are tight, Juno and Briony and Hannah and the rest of the make up crew seem to be their own little friend group within the larger cast and crew. Ladies who stuck together.

Luckily, you were beginning to feel like a part of it.

“I’m thinking pubs and clubs,” she dumps a tote bag on the counter, contents spill out but Poppy doesn’t seem to mind.

“What?”

“We need to start planning for Amsterdam, babe.”

“It’s a work trip, babe,” you remind her with narrowed eyes, a quick glance around the room to see if anyone else was aware of Maggie’s scheming.

“Work trip, hah!” Juno pipes up from her chair. She’s got curlers in, eyes still sleepy since the sun’s just made it above the horizon. “Someone tell Y/N about Lasso work trips.”

“Work trips,” Poppy turns to see you--she’s getting a palette ready for Juno, all of her brushes and tubes of lip gloss are organized sociopathically by color, size, and brand. “Are only half work.”

A woman after your own heart, though the results of your organizing episodes usually only last a few weeks.

“Half work? How does that…work?” You ask, thankful that you don’t have to get mascara swiped on your lashes before your eyes are fully open.

“We shoot long days and we’re busy,” Maggie nods honestly, she’s strapping her walkie-talkie onto her waist, snaking the wire of her headset up and behind her ear. “But when work is over, it’s playtime.”

You watch your oldest friend closely. “Sounds oddly sexual,” you comment around another slurp of coffee.

“It can be sexual if you want it to be,” Maggie wiggles her eyebrows now. “If you’re feeling up for getting down and dirty!”

Oh boy. You blink at her a few times, memories of your last trip to Europe come flooding back. Maggie writing your number on the bathroom stall of a club in Rome, encouragement at every hour of the day to get loose and get laid. Unfortunately for you, this trip might be oddly reminiscent.

“Yeah?” This pique’s Juno’s interest. “Someone in need of a little hanky-panky?”

They all giggle, you choke down more coffee but wipe your mouth when there’s a knock on the door. It opens, the whole trailer goes quiet when Jason’s on the other side.

“Morning,” he nods, a few steps in before he slinks down to the chair next to Poppy with an amused smile. “You know the gossip’s good when it goes completely silent.”

“Not gossip,” Maggie locks eyes with you in the mirror and smirks. “Just some chatter about Y/N’s lack of a love life,” she smiles, an apologetic but excited one.

“I work more than I sleep,” you defend loud enough for the whole trailer to hear—-all six of you in there.

True. Until, about, six months ago.

“Lack?” Jason’s eyebrows are arched in the mirror.

You hope Maggie doesn’t see the way your cheeks flush, a moment where his eyes find yours in the reflection above Poppy’s drawers and drawers of makeup. You wish you could vanish into thin air.

How—in only a few weeks—does it feel like you and Jason are in on your own little secret?

“This is only my second cup of coffee so why don’t we talk about Maggie’s childhood obsession with webkinz?” You propose, a loud slurp and a ghoulish look in her direction to show her you mean business.

You had just as many years of ammunition as she did. If embarrassing each other was the goal, you could at least play the game.

“Weren’t you a bit old for that, babe?” Poppy asks with a teasing smile, fingers focused on the curlers in Juno’s hair.

“I didn’t give a shit that I was 16 and still into it,” Maggie defends, a dismissive eye roll when she picks up her phone from the counter. “The heart wants what it wants.”

A dodged bullet, for sure. You’re able to excuse yourself shortly thereafter to make sure Jason’s got what he needs for the day. Briony did the check of his office, grabbed breakfast and delivered a bagel to the makeup trailer. Which means you’re free to move about in search of the people you need today.

Joan from the location department, Tom from Post-Production—Maggie said he’d be easy to find because he always wears hats but is impeccably bald.

You get the write-up you need from Joan and that’s when Briony falls into step beside you. She shows you the way down the maze of halls and through the lot to an office where Tom sits at a desk. Once you’ve got what you need from him (a firm answer to a question of Jason’s he’s been dodging all week), Briony sits with you on the sidelines of a scene in the locker room.

Jason, Phil, Brendan, and Brett are shooting, the set’s loud before someone calls for quiet.

Briony silently breaks her granola bar in half and offers you some, Greg--who works in sound--offers you both a warning glare: I better not hear rubbish.

So you munch quietly side by side, feeling somewhat mesmerized by the way that when the camera’s rolling, Jason and his scene partners feel like the only people in the room. The scripted jokes they’re cracking are so good, it makes you regret never finishing season 1.

You don’t remember finding him nearly as attractive back then as you do now, sitting behind the cameras and the boom, a walkie-talkie on your own hip and a pit in your stomach when you realize this isn’t even a thought you should be having.

But you can’t help that warmth pools in your belly when he rolls up his sleeves or laughs from across the room. Okay, so, maybe this isn’t just jet lag.

CUT!--the room buzzes back into motion, Maggie’s zipping around the set and shouts to Greg, can we start again at line 47? Poppy goes to powder Brendan’s forehead, Briony’s on her feet and then the whole thing starts again.

That happens another three times before there’s actually a break. Props weren’t delivered on time and so a different scene is getting staged but it doesn’t mean much to you. You’ve checked your own inbox eight times today and Jason’s twelve.

But today was quiet. Showing up and making a stellar impression in the first few weeks was definitely a good thing, but had you been…too productive? Had you accidentally fucked yourself over because now you’re sitting here looking like a moron because you didn’t have something to do?

You booked a zoo tour for him and his kids next month, finalized the rest of his schedule for this week, arranged his travel to see friends in Spain later this summer. You’d organized his home office last week, updated his business accounts spreadsheet and even managed to book him an appointment with an eye doctor after he told you it’d been three years (ridiculous).

Jason walks up and says something to Greg, who’s pretending to give Briony shit about the granola bar. Briony’s smiling up at him like he’s just told her Christmas is coming early.

“Hey,” you greet Jason with a smile, hand him his cell phone that’s been tucked into the bum bag around your shoulders.

“I saw the tickets to the zoo at Battersea Park--thanks for putting that together.”

You nod, glad you were able to come up with something he could do with his kids next weekend when they’d be in town. An advertisement on the tube is what led you to buying three tickets on a whim, just in case.

You smile and look to your left, for some reason nervous that someone will see how awkward you’re being and misread it. It doesn’t matter, though, because he reaches forward and his hand’s on your elbow in a way that makes your face feel warm.

“I mean it,” he says, a nod to himself and to you, one that lets you know he’s touched by the gesture.

“Yes, yeah, sure,” you nod like an idiot, immediately embarrassed by the way his touch leaves your mouth unable to form consonants or vowels.

“Jason, go talk to Mark about camera angles,” Maggie appears and slaps him on the shoulder, a smile on her face when she playfully barks the order.

Phil’s hand is outstretched suddenly, a reminder that time on set moved faster than anywhere else. “Y/N, could you take a picture of me in this for my mum?”

You accept the phone and snap a photo, Maggie’s answering a text and then gets tugged away by a PA.

You turn to face Jason when Phil walks away, you’re ready for a request or a task or anything. But he just holds your gaze for a second, a pleased smirk spreads across his face.

“Anything I can get you?”

He shrugs, “I’m good.”

It dawns on you, right then, that he walked over here to talk to you. Well, maybe not you. Maybe you were just in his way. Maybe he was looking for someone else but he saw you and it reminded him to say thanks.

But either way, right now it’s just you and Jason standing here and it feels good to think that maybe he just likes being around you. Maybe the smirk on his face is because he sees the way your brain is short-circuiting. Luckily, he pulls you out of your crisis.

“Can you come to my trailer later, around 3? Before I have to help them shoot at Keeley’s office later? I can text you.”

You’re nodding and agreeing to it as you visualize your own calendar in your head. You’re supposed to get off at 4pm today, an evening to yourself and the idea of a glass of wine on the couch sounds especially nice now that you’ve realized your social skills are such shit.

“Perfect, great,” he says. “Apparently I have to go talk to Mark.”

You nod, he nods, and then he turns to leave you by the huddle of sound guys handling wires and knobs. You meet him in his trailer and handle the emails and errands he needs, grab a tea on the way home and you’re in the door at 4:49pm--and that’s with afternoon traffic.

London’s been sunny this week, you had wine with Maggie and Brett and Phil one night and you didn’t feel new. You felt normal.

Winter was fading into spring over the last ten days, it was starting to feel like you were your own little piece in the big puzzle you got thrown into. Brendan knew he could always count on you to laugh at his jokes--especially and specifically when they were aimed at Jason. Brett knows your childhood nickname and threatens to tell Phil every time you get dangerously close to calling him out for flirting with Maggie.

You don’t always feel like a transplant anymore, you feel like someone who’s starting to have a place. A tiny one, maybe off in the corner, but still, a place.

And when you left Jason’s trailer that afternoon, you thought it’d be the last time you saw him.

So, naturally, your eyes go wide when you find him beneath the light of your front door this evening. You’re in a sweatshirt and bike shorts, completely unprepared for company.

“Hi!” he says quickly, almost like he’s startled by the opening of the door, like he didn’t know if you’d be home or expected someone else on the other side of the knob. There’s a smile on his face that mirrors yours almost immediately. “Hey, sorry—to just show up here, like this.”

“How do you know where I live?” You narrow your eyes, a teasing but confident tone. All that does is give him a cheerful smugness that you regret immediately, one that makes his eyes scan your face before he shrugs.

“I know I’m not your boss, but I’m, like, not not your boss at the same time.”

You hold back a laugh and watch him, “what a blurred and confusing boundary…”

He smiles, “Which, all I mean by that is that Maggie sent the listing to me when she found it, I’ve actually known where you live since before you lived here,” he admits casually.

“Got it,” you step aside and he comes in, shuts the door behind himself before he meets your eyes again.

“How are you?” You ask, intrigued by his surprise visit but also not wanting to scare him off. You like the way he’s looking at you, your heart does a flip at the thought that he wants to be around you. Just like earlier today. Fuck.

“I’m good,” he says, you walk towards the kitchen and wave a bottle of wine in the air and he nods. “I got stuck late at work, I was walking and it started to rain.”

“You live like, two minutes from here…” you’re smiling despite the challenging statement, you grab a glass from an overhead cabinet.

He shrugs when he slinks into a barstool at your counter, apparently unfazed by your accusation when he comes off it easily: “yeah, I just wanted to say hi.”

You reach for a glass in the cupboard overhead and tease him over your shoulder. “Curious to see how Maggie allocated the living stipend?”

He sits up straighter now and plays into the bit, pushing his lips out in thought when he looks around your open concept kitchen and living room. “That and…”

He looks around the room again, his words hang in the air as he buys time. But his hair’s a mess and his watch isn’t on--so you know something’s up.

It clicks. He’s got something on his mind or something and he’s…trying to talk about it? To you?

Men! Sheesh. You try to relax your forehead as you pour him a glass so your confusion and shock isn’t misread as displeasure. Realistically, you’re touched he feels comfortable enough and the thumping in your chest is a dead giveaway if he can hear it when you deliver the wine.

“Shit day?” You ask, watching as his fingers wrap around the step. He takes a sip and shrugs.

“Yeah, shit day…shit month, shit year.”

You giggle into your own glass, take your first sip before nodding. “I know the feeling.”

“No, I shouldn’t--” he pauses and stumbles for a second, “I don’t mean to complain or sound like a dick.”

You shrug and offer a smirk. “You’re not a dick if you have a human emotion.”

He nods, watches the wine in his glass as a smirk crawls onto his face. He looks up at you. “My ex could argue that statement for two hours.”

“Could she?” You smile, nodding when you tell him: “I’m a pretty patient person.”

“Are you?”

“I am,” you laugh, “I like to think so.”

He lets out a tiny laugh at your comment, quiet for a second before he lets out an exhale. “I’m just stressed, really. Being showrunner this season is harder than I thought and it’s not even hard, it’s just more than I’m used to.”

You nod immediately. That makes sense and you see the fatigue on his face. You’d heard Maggie talk about it before: long hours, late nights, location shoots, freezing days, rewrites and props changes. TV wasn’t easy and you were already aware of that, only a few weeks in.

“I get that—but I think it’s normal to notice the learning curve when you’re doing something new.”

He nods, accepts it and holds his breath for a second. “Yeah, that’s…a good way to say it.”

He smiles at you softly, eyes coming up to meet yours quickly before he shrugs. “I know I’ll survive, it’s just—been a rough go of it, lately.”

“So what’s your release?” You ask.

His brows furrow together and the crease in his forehead lights something up inside you.

He says it like this hasn’t occurred to him at all. “My release?”

“How are you dealing with your stress?”

The confusion on his face turns into amusement when the corner of his mouth twitches toward your ceiling.

“So, nothing?”

He laughs. “I hadn’t thought about—doing anything, really.”

“Men,” you roll your eyes, moving towards the couch with your wine in hand. “The wine’s a nice place to start, but certainly not enough.”

He makes a face for a second, like he’s judging himself or imagining the terrible things you must think about him now that you’ve heard his feelings, but he stands to follow and listens intently when you almost open up.

“When my boyfriend dumped me and Kyle let me go, I stayed in bed for a good…two weeks,” you admit, a grimace on your face because you know it makes you sound like a loser. “But then my sister suggested I go to a rage room and it was amazing.”

“A rage room?” He laughs. “One of those places where you just break shit?”

“Smashing a TV to pieces is surprisingly therapeutic,” you tell him seriously.

He thinks on it for a second, nodding like he’s giving it real thought when he plucks at his lower lip. You can see the smirk he’s fighting, a sip of wine when your eyes dare him to say whatever he’s thinking.

“You don’t have to tell me--”

“But,” you say at the same time as he says it. A flash of embarrassment on his face when you raise your brows, reading him like a book, just spit it out.

“Why’d you get fired?”

Right. You knew it would come up at some point and even if Jason wasn’t really your boss, he definitely had the right to be curious.

“I only ask because I read her reference letter--she loves you.”

“She does love me,” you nod. “But she was having family issues and I wanted a raise and then I found out that her daughter was sleeping with my boyfriend.”

His lips form an ‘o’ involuntarily, the response you got from most people when they hear how the dominoes all fell at the same time.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “Fired might be a strong word, but, certainly how it felt.”

“Well, her loss,” he nods confidently. “I’ve seen the way you organized my desk drawers and it’s either witchcraft or psychoticism and I’m okay with either if it’s always this easy to find shit.”

“I’ll keep it up then,” you smile and take another sip.

“Sorry to just…show up, by the way,” he looks down at his own glass in hand, “and drink your wine.”

You had been looking forward to a shower and a night of watching trashy reality TV (though now you’d sworn off all of the Real Housewives). Other than that, your night was likely to consist of facetiming your mom and plucking your eyebrows.

Jason sitting at your counter with a smirk on his face didn’t bother you at all, but you certainly couldn’t tell him you were flattered that he came here.

You nodded to let him know it was no nuisance. “I’m always up for a glass of wine and talking you off the ledge.”

“That shouldn’t be part of your job description, though.”

“Do you know how many times I listened to Kyle complain about her friends or had to send gift baskets to them after fights?”

“I’m guessing a lot?”

“You venting about work stress is a walk in the park,” you reassure.

“Well, I’m glad,” he says solemnly, a moment when he holds your eyes and you feel your cheeks get warm.

You clear your throat, don’t be stupid, and force out a joke to act like whatever moment this was wasn’t problematic or weird or worse, enticing.

“So unless you have a daughter that will sleep with my boyfriend, we’re probably good.”

“My daughter’s seven,” a beat when he shrugs a single shoulder. “And you don’t have a boyfriend.”

You take a loud slurp from your wine--partly for comedic effect and party out of your own awkwardness--and smirk over the rim to match his. “Right.”

table of contents | talk to me + join the tag list

AN: WOW! HI! It's been a hot minute. I'm so glad to be posting this chappie and so appreciative of everyone's patience as my life evolves and writing has taken up a smaller portion of my time. I would love love love to hear what you think of this chapter and the story so far, I've been writing a lot the last few days as feb turns into march and I'm excited to share more!!!!

taglist: @babysugar02 @daydreamgoddess14 @endlessblasphemy @hart-kinsella @shanefilan @bookoffracturedghosts @cavillsim @the-fanfic-fangirl @tegan8314

#tt #temporary things #idkthisisjustforfanfic #jason sudeikis #jason sudeikis imagine #jason sudeikis fan fic #jason sudeikis fanfic #jason sudeikis snl

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thisismysecondrodeo · 2 years ago

Text

Twitter Famous (Jason Sudeikis x Reader) - Chapter 1

wc: 2.4k

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You had never planned on being a musician. When you were younger you thought maybe astronaut or author—there was still time for one of those things but it seemed you hadn’t made it out of the A’s in your career book—but after getting into songwriting in college, selling a few of your songs, and a few viral videos of you actually performing, you had carved out a small niche for yourself as a musical artist. It was strange to think about, but you had reached exactly the level of celebrity you were comfortable with—very famous to a decent-sized group of people, and absolutely nonexistent to everyone else.

The combination of medium celebrity and the fact that you’d never sought fame at all was probably why you were a little looser with social media than your manager, Kayla, would like. You were never offending anyone, you mainly just tweeted personal information that she’d rather you kept to yourself—like how finishing the show Normal People made you sad and horny or the story of the worst date you’d ever been on that ended with you peeing your pants in an In-N-Out.

You were taking a break at the recording studio while working on your second album. It was hard to handle the writing block sometimes, a lot of pressure to keep creating something greater than what came before. The studio was wood-paneled and a little smokey, but comfortable. You’d recorded your debut album there as well and so it felt like being in your own living room when you told your producer you needed a break and flopped down on the black leather couch in the corner to pull out your phone.

“Headed to the corner store, need anything,” your producer, Chris, asked, sliding his vape out of his pocket and wiggling it. You didn’t need the hint that he was going to get pods, he vaped so much that talking to him was like trying to peer through fog at the San Francisco bridge. Though you and weed were well acquainted, neither vapes nor cigarettes were your speed.

“All good, thanks, Chris.”

He nodded and shut the door behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts which was never a good thing, especially when a recording session wasn’t going well. The songs were technically all written, but when you went to record you realized they needed work and inspiration just wasn’t hitting you. It didn’t help that a lot of what you were recording were love songs, written during a relationship that ended poorly, to say the least. Your ex was mildly famous himself and a musician as well, which you had hoped meant he’d understand you. After all, what was being a musician if not just trying over and over again to make yourself understood? But he had wanted fame more than he ever wanted to be comprehended, which meant wanting your relationship dragged into any tabloid that would report on it and every date you went on filmed for Instagram and TikTok…and on one memorable occasion, live-streamed on Twitch. So it was hard to record songs you’d written while deeply in love now that you were rather apathetic to the whole thing. But you also couldn’t just rewrite every song as a breakup song no matter how much you wanted to when you’d already started recording, so you tweaked what you could to make sure you didn’t sound…inauthentic.

But when tweaking lyrics wasn’t enough you scrolled social media and tried to inspire the feelings you had when you wrote the songs. And as embarrassing as it was, you normally did that by looking at pictures and videos of your celebrity crush, Jason Sudeikis. You’d been a fan of his since you were young watching him on SNL but your little crush had ramped up since the Ted Lasso craze which meant lots of content for you to lust after. You scrolled past a video of him performing onstage for a charity event called Thundergong and thanked your lucky stars that Chris was gone so you could watch the video 3 times over.

You chuckled as you tweeted:

You weren’t surprised it was relatable as the notifications started rolling in but after bantering with a few people Chris came back swinging a plastic bag on one finger and you locked your phone to get back to work.

A few hours later, you’d had more success recording but you were still mentally and emotionally exhausted by the time you hopped in your car to head home. You certainly weren’t excited to sit in LA traffic but you had just downloaded an audiobook you were looking forward to listening to. Connecting your phone to Bluetooth made you realize just how much you’d missed since you tweeted—a slew of Twitter notifications, more Instagram follows, 2 missed calls from Kayla, and a dozen texts.

You chuckled, calling Kayla back and bracing for her playfully admonishing you to keep some thoughts to yourself.

“Hiiii Kayla.”

“Hi Y/N…how are you,” she sounded genuinely curious which only amused you more.

“I feel like I’m pretty good…but I also feel like you’re calling to tell me I’m in trouble.”

“Not trouble…,” Kayla trailed off, but she laughed and so did you. “WHY did you tweet that? I mean don’t get me wrong it’s not a bad thing I’m just suddenly fielding requests from interviews trying to find out what over 40 man you’re dating, and I’d like to know too.”

“No one! I’m not dating anyone,” you laughed. “Honestly? I had just watched a video of Jason Sudeikis singing.”

If anyone knew the ins and outs of your crush on Jason, it was Kayla, who you regularly asked if the two of you would ever be at the same place. It was mostly a joke, you knew you’d lose your mind in the same room as him, but there was a non-zero chance you’d run into him considering you'd started playing the late-night show circuit.

If you thought Kayla was laughing before she was really cackling now. “THAT’S what that’s about?! Oh my God, Y/N, you’re ridiculous. I would still recommend you keep that to yourself—an age gap like that will shoot you straight to trending.”

“You say that like if he found out he’d be at all interested. I guarantee you that man doesn’t want me.”

Kayla sighed. “How many times do I have to remind you that you are more famous and more beautiful and more talented than you seem to think?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah I think I pay you to say that though,” you laughed, taking the exit towards home. “Appreciate it though. And sorry to make your life harder.”

“Nah, it was funny. And I know fame isn’t your goal, but…not the worst thing for album promotion.”

“God, I’m going to be asked about this constantly aren’t I,” you groaned but you only had yourself to blame. “Oh well, my fault. Night, Kayla.”

“Night, Y/N.”

When you got home, made yourself dinner, and worked up the nerve to open Twitter again. It was mostly people guessing who you were talking about, trying to get you to tell them, or just volunteering their own Over-40s and it was a solid list: Chris Evans, Oscar Isaac, Sterling K. Brown, and so on and so forth. A few valid critiques of heterosexuality, considering you weren’t straight yourself.

You thought about just picking one person and telling them the truth but for the sake of Kayla’s heartburn you decided to keep that to yourself for now—instead, you added:

Still relatable, still honest, but also still clearly a joke and it took a little heat off of people wanting to know who you were dating. You were just being thirsty on the internet and who could blame you for that?

Another week, another studio session and this one was worse than before. Your tweet was still getting the occasional notification but obviously, it blew over. It wasn’t like you were the first person to think that, and you certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“I can just tell that your heart isn’t in it,” Chris sighed, pausing the recording playback. “I mean you always sound great, but we both know this ain’t it.”

You spun around in the chair next to Chris, your face pointed at the ceiling, eyes closed, as you took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I know, I know. But the lyrics are garbage.” The studio door opened and closed but you didn’t open your eyes.

“The lyrics aren’t garbage. They meant something to you at one point, they’re good. You’re just singing them like they’re sarcastic.”

You laughed because you knew he was right. “Listen, I just—”

“Need to get laid?”

You picked your head up to see it was Andie who had entered, your best friend since college, and an up-and-coming actress herself who you hung out with more than anyone. She had just gotten off set and told you she’d swing by to hear your new stuff, and you weren’t surprised she showed up just in time to see you close to freaking out.

“Me getting laid isn’t going to make this song any better. Hear it for yourself.”

You motioned for Chris to start the recording over and the three of you listened to about 30 seconds of it before he cut it again. Andie was sitting on the couch with her knees pulled up to her chest as she listened, gently rocking to the music.

“So,” you asked, “you see?”

“Lyrics are good, music is good…I stand by my assessment, you just need to get railed so you sound like you actually believe what you're saying.” Chris laughed and you gave him an exasperated look but he only shrugged and motioned that he was stepping outside. Andie came over and took his seat.

“Okay, so if you don’t want to get railed—”

“Didn’t say that, it’s just not that easy.”

“Then I don’t know…what’s something you can do that makes you FEEL like you just got railed?”

It was classic Andie to be so preoccupied with you having sex, but she only wanted the best for you and she knew your ex had…not been it. She just wanted to see you having fun. And in truth it wasn’t a bad suggestion, you thought on it for a moment, humming.

“Honestly? I watch Sleeping with Other People for the 100th time.”

Andie laughed, “You should tweet that, it's funny.”

“You know Kayla hates when I’m funny,” you joked, but you were already pulling out your phone. “Soooo, movie night tonight?”

Andie stood up as Chris came back into the studio and returned to the couch. “I don’t know dude, that sounds like something you should do in private.”

You chuckled and Chris looked confused but didn’t ask any questions which you appreciated. “You, uh, ready to get back in the booth?”

“Let’s try the next track, just give me one sec,” you were staring at your phone as you responded and then you locked it and sat it on the desk before opening the door to the booth.

When you came back out Andie was looking at you wide-eyed.

“What, was it that good?”

Andie just grinned. “Check your Twitter.”

You couldn’t help it, you squealed and Andie cackled like a fool. Jason Sudeikis liked your tweet.

“That recording was really good, I think—”

“Not now Chris, can’t you see her crush liked her tweet,” Andie giggled and Chris rolled his eyes, but you were embarrassed so you just locked your phone.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m here, I’m focused. That can wait.”

“Can it?! @ him right now and tell him you have a crush on him I swear to god,” Andie’s face was enthusiastic and you wanted to join her in her excitement but you also wanted Chris to take you seriously.

“Andie! It's alright, just come over later, we’ll drink wine and squeal. Promise.”

“Alright, I get the hint. I’m just gonna go flirt with the front desk guy again, get me when you’re done."

A woman of your word, after the two of you left the recording studio you poured Andie a glass of wine and listened to her try to convince you that you should try to DM Jason Sudeikis.

“He doesn’t follow me.”

“Okay, but everyone knows he, like, searches his name or whatever. He clearly sees tweets about him…”

“And?”

“Annnnd you should tweet at him.”

The two of you were standing in the kitchen, picking at a premade charcuterie board you’d picked up on the way home. It was already dark out and chances were high that Andie would be staying the night, which only added to the sleepover vibe.

“We’re strangers Andie, he has no clue who I am, I’m not just gonna harass him on Twitter.”

Andie threw her hands up in the air. “How many times do I have to remind you that you are hot and also famous? He might be interested! Look, why don’t you just go back to last week’s 'men over 40 tweet', pick one of the people clamoring to find out who you were talking about, and mention him. If he doesn’t see it, no harm, no foul. If he DOES see it and he’s not interested, you were just interacting with fans. And if he IS interested…then I’m a genius, you owe me a hundred bucks, and I get to name your first child.”

You scoffed, a small smile on your face. You loved Andie, you loved how she encouraged your nonsense, but you knew there was no way anything would ever come of it. You groaned playfully, “Okay but no children.”

“Fine, dog.”

“Deal.”

You pulled out your phone and followed through, butterflies in your stomach the whole time. You tossed your phone away from you like a bomb as soon as it was done.

When you woke up a little hungover with a missed call from Kayla, you thought you might be trending again. You weren’t really surprised to see Jason liked the tweet, even if it did make you swoon. You were more surprised that he followed you. But you were stunned that it wasn’t you that was trending… It was #ShootYourShotJason

Every other tweet you saw was “Jason ask her out” and “Jason make a move”. A few that suggested you were out of his league, a few more wondering who the hell you were. But most importantly, Jason was liking every single one.

“ANDIE,” you yelled, knowing she could hear you from the guest room. She came in rubbing her eyes and grunting. “What the hell did we do?!”

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