RB (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rubberbutton) wrote2009-03-29 10:24 am
rubberbutton) wrote2009-03-29 10:24 am
Entry tags:
Fic: (Serious) Dinner Reservations
Title: (Serious) Dinner Reservations
Disclaimer: The characters may have a passing resemblance to Real People, but this story is a work of complete fiction.
Summary: Ryan Seacrest, secret woobie. Simon Cowell, well-known asshole.
A/N: This is dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ignazwisdom. What can I say -- I'm an enabler.
“When you said have dinner, I thought you meant in a restaurant. With food prepared by professionals,” Simon said, gingerly lifting the lid off one of the pans and peering inside. “This is dreadful. Were you trying to make charcoal briquettes?”
“No,” Ryan said unnecessarily, his brow knitting. He still held a spatula in one hand, and he used it to gesture to the stove. “It's suppose to be chateaubriand with portobello mushrooms and Madeira wine jus. I think the oven setting may have been too high.”
Simon dropped the lid back into place. “And here I'd supposed you were just trying to prepare it cajun-style.”
“I just thought it would be nice for a change. We wouldn't have to worry about the paparazzi or gossiping waiters. It would just be ... us.” He set the spatula down on the counter with a little thwack and crossed his arms.
“What? And we'd have some kind of soppy, candle-lit dinner for two, complete with rose petals and scented candles?” Ryan colored across the cheeks, and Simon choked back laughter. “Oh my god, that's exactly what you were planning.”
“Oh, shut up,” Ryan snapped, turning on his heel and exiting the kitchen. Simon followed him into the dinning room, the table set with real china -- not the paper and plastic Ryan usually favored -- and, of course, candles.
“I think it's brilliant,” Simon said as Ryan stalked around the table, collecting the silverware. “That you're embracing the stereotype like this. Might I suggest that next time you break out the heels and pearls as well? Maybe an apron -- one with ruffles.”
“Just forget it,” Ryan said, taking the utensils back out to the kitchen and dropping them into a drawer, which he then slid shut. “I was trying to do something nice for you. Which is always a mistake. I know this. God, how I know this.” He took Simon's elbow and half-dragged, half-guided him to the door. “Now get out.” He released Simon and opened the door with a mocking little flourish.
Simon opened his mouth, but Ryan didn't give him the chance for a retort, giving him one good shove and shutting the door behind Simon as he stumbled over the threshold.
“You're being ridiculous!” came Simon's muffled voice.
Ryan leaned against the door and pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed some Advil.
He scraped out the pans and set them to soak, changed into an old t-shirt, one with a coffee stain down the front, and threw himself down onto the couch. There was nothing on TV, but he continued to flip through the channels, barely registering each before flipping to the next.
He'd actually settled on -- of all things -- a nature documentary when a familiar knock came, loud and imperious.
“Ryan, do quit sulking!”
Ryan turned up the volume, slumping lower into the couch cushions.
“It's no good ignoring me,” Simon shouted. “I've brought takeaway.”
As if on cue, Ryan's stomach growled loudly. He turned off the TV. “What kind?”
“From that Indian place you like. Come on before the naan gets cold.”
Ryan rose and shuffled to the door and opened it reluctantly. “Is there kofta?”
Simon nodded. “And biriyani. Now let me in so we can have dinner. An edible one.” Ryan moved aside just enough to allow Simon to slip through the door. “We can light the candles, if you like.”
“Fuck you.” Ryan snatched the bag of food from Simon and marched with it to the kitchen.
“Yeah, that too,” Simon said with a grin and followed him.
Disclaimer: The characters may have a passing resemblance to Real People, but this story is a work of complete fiction.
Summary: Ryan Seacrest, secret woobie. Simon Cowell, well-known asshole.
A/N: This is dedicated to
ignazwisdom. What can I say -- I'm an enabler. “When you said have dinner, I thought you meant in a restaurant. With food prepared by professionals,” Simon said, gingerly lifting the lid off one of the pans and peering inside. “This is dreadful. Were you trying to make charcoal briquettes?”
“No,” Ryan said unnecessarily, his brow knitting. He still held a spatula in one hand, and he used it to gesture to the stove. “It's suppose to be chateaubriand with portobello mushrooms and Madeira wine jus. I think the oven setting may have been too high.”
Simon dropped the lid back into place. “And here I'd supposed you were just trying to prepare it cajun-style.”
“I just thought it would be nice for a change. We wouldn't have to worry about the paparazzi or gossiping waiters. It would just be ... us.” He set the spatula down on the counter with a little thwack and crossed his arms.
“What? And we'd have some kind of soppy, candle-lit dinner for two, complete with rose petals and scented candles?” Ryan colored across the cheeks, and Simon choked back laughter. “Oh my god, that's exactly what you were planning.”
“Oh, shut up,” Ryan snapped, turning on his heel and exiting the kitchen. Simon followed him into the dinning room, the table set with real china -- not the paper and plastic Ryan usually favored -- and, of course, candles.
“I think it's brilliant,” Simon said as Ryan stalked around the table, collecting the silverware. “That you're embracing the stereotype like this. Might I suggest that next time you break out the heels and pearls as well? Maybe an apron -- one with ruffles.”
“Just forget it,” Ryan said, taking the utensils back out to the kitchen and dropping them into a drawer, which he then slid shut. “I was trying to do something nice for you. Which is always a mistake. I know this. God, how I know this.” He took Simon's elbow and half-dragged, half-guided him to the door. “Now get out.” He released Simon and opened the door with a mocking little flourish.
Simon opened his mouth, but Ryan didn't give him the chance for a retort, giving him one good shove and shutting the door behind Simon as he stumbled over the threshold.
“You're being ridiculous!” came Simon's muffled voice.
Ryan leaned against the door and pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed some Advil.
He scraped out the pans and set them to soak, changed into an old t-shirt, one with a coffee stain down the front, and threw himself down onto the couch. There was nothing on TV, but he continued to flip through the channels, barely registering each before flipping to the next.
He'd actually settled on -- of all things -- a nature documentary when a familiar knock came, loud and imperious.
“Ryan, do quit sulking!”
Ryan turned up the volume, slumping lower into the couch cushions.
“It's no good ignoring me,” Simon shouted. “I've brought takeaway.”
As if on cue, Ryan's stomach growled loudly. He turned off the TV. “What kind?”
“From that Indian place you like. Come on before the naan gets cold.”
Ryan rose and shuffled to the door and opened it reluctantly. “Is there kofta?”
Simon nodded. “And biriyani. Now let me in so we can have dinner. An edible one.” Ryan moved aside just enough to allow Simon to slip through the door. “We can light the candles, if you like.”
“Fuck you.” Ryan snatched the bag of food from Simon and marched with it to the kitchen.
“Yeah, that too,” Simon said with a grin and followed him.
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OMG
OMG
I LOVE YOU SO, SO MUCH
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i need a good dose of Rymon daily, and this filled my fix!
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yeah, this is a second comment, what of it?
*gasps* My baby!
“Just forget it,” Ryan said, taking the utensils back out to the kitchen and dropping them into a drawer, which he then slid shut. “I was trying to do something nice for you. Which is always a mistake. I know this. God, how I know this.”
*makes cooing noises*
Simon opened his mouth, but Ryan didn't give him the chance for a retort, giving him one good shove and shutting the door behind Simon as he stumbled over the threshold.
YAY! Good for you, baby!
As if on cue, Ryan's stomach growled loudly.
Aw, belly. :)
“From that Indian place you like. Come on before the naan gets cold.”
!*^$*#^!*&@^!(@!)@!*#^ OH MY GOD THIS WAS SO WRITTEN FOR ME. ALSO, GUESS WHAT I WAS EATING WHEN I FIRST READ IT. NO, REALLY. GUESS.
“Fuck you.” Ryan snatched the bag of food from Simon and marched with it to the kitchen.
“Yeah, that too,” Simon said with a grin and followed him.
My flailiness is EPIC. Oh my god, I LOVE you.
Re: yeah, this is a second comment, what of it?
Hahaha, yeeeeeeah ... I don't suck up in half-measures. And I'm psychic.
My flailiness is EPIC. Oh my god, I LOVE you.
Your flailiness is my flailiness. :D I'm glad you liked it. I was like, "Hmmm, I know nothing about these guys besides their obvious case of gay and the fact that they're on AI, I'm not sure I can adequately characterize them." And then I'm like, "Eh, it's okay, I'm pretty sure she's desperate."
ILU, too.
Re: yeah, this is a second comment, what of it?
Oh, honey. My life would suck so much without you. ♥
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Heee! Simon. *shakes head*
This is most awesome. ;)
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it's the sort of adorable ficcy love letter fans give one another
Heh, that's a good way of putting it. *blushes*
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*hearts a million*
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Glad you liked!
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