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hackthis_archiveIt's come to my attention that there are people who read this El Jay who don't know who Ari is. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I mean apart from the screaming of INFIDELS! *sigh* This is the story of Ari as told by me. This is the story of Ari as told by HBO.
Stargate: Atlantis/Entourage/RPS (Alternate Universe)
Rodney McKay, Ari Gold, and John Sheppard, with special appearances by both ensembles and Matt Damon!
W.O.E. (World of Entertainment) 2/?
Chapter one here
Rodney McKay, SuperAgent to the Stars, is not a morning person.
He doesn't go for early morning jogs around his Beverly Hills neighborhood, surveying the neighbors' lawns and catching up on the salacious industry gossip –- that's what he has Ari for.
He doesn't go out to get his triple shot, grande Espresso Bomb -– a special at Starbucks, created for Rodney after he tipped the barista 100 dollars –- that's what he has Miko for.
Rodney doesn't lie in bed long after the alarm has gone off, thinking about the surly, indie actors with traumatic hair and startling eyes, and jerking himself off all over the sheets that Magda just changed two days ago.
Rodney doesn't do anything except get up, get dressed in his Monday suit (the dark grey Armani with the blue tie), check his Crackberry (™ Ari), stumble out to the Lincoln Towncar where Chuck is waiting with his second coffee of the day and a wide array of Powerbars, and get driven into the MGA office.
By the time Rodney's car pulls up in front of the MGA Wilshire offices thirty minutes later, it's almost ten o'clock. He's checked in with Teyla and Jake Gyllenhaal, made at least three agents cry, and hung up on one studio head. He's now on the phone with Matt Damon, listening to him talk ad nauseam about the wonders of a drooling baby.
Rodney's already gone through this with Ari three times; he's not really interested in doing it again. "--and then she smiled at me." Matt's lost at least 30 IQ points since Isabella was born.
"You do realize this baby is making you stupid," Rodney says while waiting for Chuck to open his door.
"Rodney," Matt sounds scandalized, which is good for Rodney. He doesn't want Matt's acting skills to atrophy while he's playing Mr. Mom.
"You," he says, putting his hand over the mouthpiece of his Crackberry to speak to Chuck, "do not go anywhere until I say otherwise."
"I thought I was supposed to take Ronon to go running with Teyla this morning," Chuck says.
Rodney frowns. His prize actress being protected by the best assassin in town or his chauffeur-driven car at his beck and call. It's a hard decision. "Fine, but once you're done dropping off the Death Ninja you come right back, do you hear me? I don’t want any of this I got lost in the Valley crap."
"That happened one time!"
"Do I pay you to argue with me? Exactly." Chuck's still sputtering when Rodney walks away. Matt's still talking too as Rodney makes his way into the building, except Matt's using a lot more four-letter words.
"Matt -– Matt -- Matt," Rodney interrupts Matt's tirade about Rodney being an unsympathetic, Satan-fisting dick. "Was I unsympathetic when Ben left you to play metrosexual with J.Lo?" he asks in the elevator.
There are other people around, but it's nothing that everybody in town doesn't already know anyway.
"I can't believe you're bringing that up!" Matt's voice is shrill over the phone. For someone so butch, sometimes he's really girlie.
"You don’t pay me to play nice," Rodney points out when the elevator stops at the MGA offices. He stalks past the minions, down the hall, and straight for Ari's office. "You pay me because the head of MENSA cried when I rejected their offer of membership -– now go take my goddaughter for a walk on Miami Beach so she can grow up to have a warped sense of beauty and suffer from body-dysmorphia."
Matt and Rodney have a very truthful relationship. Rodney tells it like it is, Matt sulks, and then Rodney gets him the best roles possible as a consolation. It's the same relationship Rodney has with all his clients –- it's the relationship that most agents have with their clients.
Agents have low tolerance for bullshit and a sixth sense about sifting it -– mostly because it's all they hear and sell every day.
Rodney shifts his Crackberry from his left hand to his right hand as he passes by the desk of Ari's assistant, grabbing the Starbucks container Miko's left there for him, before storming right into Ari's office.
"What's all this bullshit about Liz's whoring out some cocksucker to you?" Ari asks mildly from behind his glass behemoth of a desk.
Rodney can see the entire Los Angeles skyline just past Ari's head. The MGA offices weren't cheap, but they were so worth it for the view.
"Matt, I have to go have quality time with the other Mrs. McKay now," Rodney says. "Make sure to look at that Bourne Redemption script; I want you able to reassemble semi-automatics blindfolded when you come to see me next week."
"I thought we were done with the Bourne franchise because it was 'stereotypical, Hollywood dick-swinging bullshit'?"
"Yes, but that particular bullshit is going to put your daughter through M.I.T., so shut up and break out the blindfolds."
"Kinky," Ari chimes in. He's got one eye on Rodney and one on his computer screen. He's probably IMing George Clooney.
Other people, who aren't Rodney, are impressed by Ari representing George Clooney, but Rodney has Matt Damon so he doesn't care. Rodney used to represent Brad Pitt too, but then Brad left Jen for Angelina instead of leaving Jen for George, and George got very upset, which made Ari very upset, which aggravated Rodney's ulcer, so Rodney just said fuck it and dropped Brad like the bad penny he is.
Ari's very obsessive about George. Rodney's not nearly as possessive of Matt; he even let Matt knock up some non-industry no-name woman from Florida.
Ari would never let that happen to George. He doesn't even like it when George dates other men, and at least there's no chance of pregnancy then.
"Shut up, you non-phone answering ass," Rodney retorts.
"I'll leave you children to it," Matt cackles in Rodney's ear. "Play nicely with the other agents and don't let Ari break anymore furniture."
Rodney's lower lip doesn't jut out at all. It's not like Matt's there to see it. "You never let me have any fun," he says. He's been hanging around actors way too long.
"Bye, Rodney," Matt says, disconnecting.
Rodney unbuttons his suit jacket, plops into one of the prohibitively priced chairs on the other side of Ari's desk, and sets down his Crackberry. "You didn't call me back," he says, taking a sip of his coffee.
"I had to arrange for Ronon to chaperone my daughter and the latest juvenile delinquent-wannabe she's brought home," Ari replies. "You know he has to have specific orders not to choke them if they get too touchy feely."
"I thought you wanted him to choke them?"
"Yeah, but that upsets the kid, and the kid tells the wife, and then I don’t get my morning blow job."
"Too much information, Ari."
"This from the man who's actually seen his client making out with Ben Affleck? All that fudge packing is making you soft, Rodney."
Remarks like this used to lead to bloodshed, but Dr. Heightmeyer says that this is just Ari's way of getting Rodney's attention. That he's probably feeling neglected, so Rodney only bristles slightly. "Fifty percent of our clients are gay," he points out. "George is gay. You would be gay for George if you weren't so irreparably straight!"
Ari makes a dismissive wave. "I tell George that every time I sleep over."
Rodney snickers. "In your dreams, Gold."
"More like your dreams, ass muncher," Ari grins. "So, are you going to tell me what the fuck made you leave six messages last night or do I have to go out and fuck Lizzie Weir to find out?"
"Please, she wouldn't let you touch her with someone else's dick."
"I'll remember to bring a dildo then," Ari says, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. "So, c'mon, out with it already, blow job lockjaw got your tongue?"
Rodney rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his coffee. He has no idea what to say about John that doesn't make him sound like a thirteen year-old girl who draws sparkly hearts around pictures of Jake Gyllenhaal.
Ari unfolds his arms and sits upright. "McKay, I've heard you sell ham to Jews and bacon to Muslims, you are never at a loss for words. What the fuck is going on?"
Rodney exhales through his nose. "I met him last night, Ari."
"Him who?"
"My next big thing." Rodney has this sensory flashback of John's mouth pressing against his, of the agility of John's tongue slipping between his lips. He moves his coffee cup closer to his crotch. He's so fucked.
Ari peers at him curiously. "Your next big thing like Jake going Brokebitch or your next big thing like-–" Ari drops off at whatever he sees on Rodney's face. "No fucking where you get your paycheck, McKay," he says pointedly.
Ari's chastisement is just what Rodney needs to break him out of thoughts of kissing John. "He's good," Rodney clears his throat. "He's really fucking good."
"Good like George?"
"Good like George in Out of Sight," Rodney sighs.
Ari's nostrils flare.
"He's good like Matt in Good Will Hunting," Rodney carries on. "He's got that fresh edge; he hasn't been completely broken down and ruined by the industry yet. "
Rodney doesn't point out that John's been broken by something already. Everybody in the industry is already broken long before they arrive, Hollywood just manages to find new and inventive ways to break you that you've never even considered.
"So, what the fuck are you doing sitting on your ass like some cheap trannie hooker that doesn't have a corporate card and the best drug dealers in town on speed dial? Get the fuck up and go make us some goddamn money!" Ari's flails. "Stop acting like you and I don’t run this fucking town from the goddamn bathroom!"
Rodney hesitates for a microsecond, not long enough for anybody but Ari to catch, and then he's on his feet. "I'm Rodney McKay," he says authoritatively. "I made gay cowboys fashionable; I can make it rain Oscars and Scientologists; I'm the reason that Ben Affleck can't get a job selling GEICO car insurance!"
Rodney didn’t like the way Ben broke up with Matt; he tends to hold a grudge for a long time.
"Exactly!" Ari says, slamming his hands on his desk. "Now go out there and get me a new shirt-lifter to plaster on the cover of Us Weekly -- I have to go take a dump and figure out how to pull Vinnie's Ramones project out of Alan Horn's ass."
It takes Miko ten whole minutes to call Liz Weir's office, find out where she lives (Santa Monica), find out that's not where her guest house is, and then find out where exactly she's hiding John Sheppard. Rodney could call Liz himself, but then he'd have to talk about the script he didn't read on the ride in, and pretend that he's not about to start stalking the guy living in her guest house, and that's what he has Miko for.
He then has to wait another whole thirty minutes for Chuck to get back from taking Ronon to Toluca Lake where Teyla lives. He could use that thirty minutes for constructive things, like reading Liz's script, or harassing Academy members into nominating Matt for an Oscar for The Good Shepherd, or finding out if Austin took Jake back after his last public sexcapade. Instead he sits down in his ergonomically designed chair -– Rodney's too important to develop a bad back. He's too important to even get a hangnail -– and he tells Dr Beckett this at his monthly check-ups.
Other people may have their physicals once a year, but Rodney makes several millions of dollars and pays a lot of money to see his doctor whenever he wants. He owns Dr. Beckett, but apparently he doesn't own his own brain, because he keeps staring at his 21'' Mac flat screen and can't make sense of out anything he's seeing.
Every time he tries to read an e-mail his brain projects a random image of John Sheppard's floppy hair or his quirky smile or the way he laughed when Rodney snapped at him. Rodney opens Firefox and feels John's breath on his cheeks. He opens up Daily Variety and sees the collar of John's black tee shirt stretching just slightly over his collarbone.
By the time Miko buzzes him to tell him Chuck's downstairs, Rodney's skin is itching with this frantic sort of energy that he hasn’t felt since George and Brad announced that they wanted to remake this movie called Ocean's Eleven together.
Rodney's so desperate to get to Venice and get his hands on John Sheppard that he forgets his Crackberry and has to go back for it. And it's a good thing he does, because Ari calls while he's en route to Venice to bitch about George's presidency red herring. Rodney knows it's going to happen; Ari knows it's going to happen, too, he's just got cold feet about leaving L.A. for D.C.
"Everyone in D.C. looks like they got hit by the ugly stick," Ari complains as Chuck turns down Pacific Avenue and into Venice. "How can the rest of the world bow before us when our Congressmen are all fugly?"
Rodney snorts. "And this is why I'm Canadian."
"Please, you may be the only country with politicians uglier than ours!"
"Can you even name one Canadian politician?"
"Shut up, or I'll make George deport you."
"He's got to get elected first," Rodney points out as they cross Rose Ave. "You're under the mistaken assumption that Ma and Pa Okie are liberal enough for a hot, gay president. Considering the gay mafia couldn't even get a gay movie an Oscar, I'm not holding my breath."
The street they're on is becoming progressively narrower. There are huge, Victorian homes interspersed with these hipster design studios. Rodney hates Venice; it tries so hard to pretend it's not trying at all. Goddamn hippies.
Ari laughs. "You must have this country mistaken for one where you can't buy yourself a presidency and still have change left over to get a blow job from an intern."
There's a biker on the road that’s entirely too close to the car. "If you hit this car, I'm going to sue you and your grandchildren and your grandchildren's grandchildren, fucking health nuts," Rodney hollers to the biker even though the window is up and he can't be heard.
"We're here, Mr. McKay," Chuck says, pulling to the side of the road and getting out the car. Rodney looks around him and tries not to recoil from the overwhelming hippie-vibe of the area. They're double parked on Pacific, and they're not at a front door, but at the top of a communal walkway with flowers and tiny yards.
Rodney can smell the salt and the hot dogs and the marijuana when Chuck opens the door. He's definitely in Hippieville. Ari's still talking, but Rodney has other matters to attend to. "Gold, shut up and go make us some money. I have to go get myself another golden boy."
"Don't let me catch you fucking on the couch, McKay," Ari retorts. "I just had that shit cleaned."
"Like I'd sully myself with your sloppy seconds," Rodney says dismissively as he heads down the walkway. "Who knows what sort of testicle-destroying heterosexual STDs you have."
He stops in front of a particularly galling house. The fuchsia trim alone hurts his soul. On behalf of all of his gay clients and all the gay actors Liz has worked with, he's offended. He can't believe someone hasn't forced her at gunpoint to repaint her house.
Rodney gingerly pushes open a rickety wooden gate and walks into a small forest. Clearly, Liz has never heard of a gardener either. Rodney knows indie work doesn't pay that well, but this is ridiculous.
He rings the doorbell to the guesthouse and steps back when the door opens immediately. "Ford, you're early, Lorne must've put-–" John's jovial greeting dies off when he realizes who's at the door. "Mr. McKay?"
John's tone is all curious bemusement, but Rodney takes one long look at John Sheppard in a wetsuit and forgets what he was going to say. It's not his fault in the slightest since Sheppard's wetsuit is unzipped to his waist, showing obliques and chest hair, and Jesus, that's a lot of tan skin.
"Don't you put on sunblock when you go outside?" Rodney blurts out. "You're entirely too tan for someone who's using at least an SPF 30. Do you want to die of skin cancer?"
"Well, hello to you too," John says, apparently recovering from whatever confusion he'd had. His hair is even crazier than usual though. It's damp in some places and dry in others. Most of it is standing up as though it had a fight with itself and one side divorced the other. "I'd invite you in, but Liz isn't here—"
Just over John's shoulder Rodney can make out a surfboard with sand on the nose, and when he looks he sees John's bare feet and sand all over the doorstep. Rodney steps over the sand and pushes his way past John and into most pitiful guest accomodations he's seen since he had to live on Teyla's sofa during the lean years.
John smells like saltwater, and Rodney is glad of the Blackberry in his hand, because it keeps him from doing something stupid like getting arrested for molesting a thirty-something indie actor.
"I didn't come to see Liz," he says, rapidly taking in the starkness of the living room. He's expecting incense and flimsy Indian inspired curtains hanging from the walls since this is Venice, but there's just a futon, a bookcase with three books, a Johnny Cash poster, and a dresser with a photograph on it. If it weren't for the huge plasma TV Rodney might be really disconcerted. "I came to talk some sense into that thick skull of yours. I can only assume that the ocean has knocked out most of it," Rodney says, slipping his Blackberry into the inside pocket of his suit.
At first he doesn't even see the skateboard propped up in the corner. Clearly John Sheppard has been sent to test him.
"Oh my god! Did you hit every branch of the stupid tree on the way down?" Rodney asks disbelievingly. "A skateboard? Do you know how much you're going to cost the studios get insured if people find out you ride that thing? Don't you have too much hair for a mid-life crisis?"
John purses his lips and holds the door open wide. "I think we've been through this already, Mr. McKay. You're under the impression that I want to act -– I think you're delusional. I did Liz a favor, end of story."
Rodney looks up at the ceiling and prays to the gods of the Hollywood Box Office. "How many times do I have to tell you to call me Rodney?" he says, crossing the room in four steps and firmly shutting the door.
John crosses his arms. "And how many times do I have to tell you I don't want to be an actor, Rodney?"
From this close Rodney can see the sand flecked in John's hair. "Did you just go surfing?" This is obviously not the question he meant to ask either. John has him completely off his game and he's only been here 30 seconds. This is scandalous. Ari would have an aneurysm -– but Ari hasn't been kissed by John Sheppard.
John sighs and uncrosses his arms. "Look, Rodney, I'm sure you're a great agent, but acting isn't what I do. It's not even a hobby."
Rodney rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. "All right, all right, you want to be difficult, we'll do it your way. What do you do, Mr. Sheppard?"
John's smirk makes Rodney take a step back, right into the wall with a thud. John just raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes I surf. Sometimes I do volunteer work. Sometimes I tinker with my friend's '65 Mustang."
"Is that a euphemism?"
John takes a step closer. "Do you want it be?"
Rodney looks left and then looks right. He doesn't see any camera, but that doesn't mean anything these days. "Is this a set up? Did Brad put you up to this because I dropped him? Very fucking funny Bradley, ha ha."
John's smirk grows. "Is Bradley your ex?"
"Oh god no!" Rodney says with distaste. "I do have some standards." He's rather alarmed when John's arm comes up beside his head. It's a good arm. Well defined. From this angle Rodney can see John's armpit hair, which is just a weird realization.
He's completely taken off guard when John's face swoops in close to his -- the smirk is long gone. "Is this the part where I'm supposed to confess to an illicit background in gay porn and you tell me it doesn't matter, that you can make me a legitimate star anyway? Is this the part where I'm supposed to blow you for a second chance?"
John's breathing on him again, and Rodney's dick is taking great interest in this. The last time he got laid –- well, it was a long time ago. And then when Rodney got Joe got that Sci-Fi show he stopped calling. Typical.
Rodney narrows his eyes. "I've never seen you in any gay porn, so no."
John blinks. "You're serious about the acting thing, aren't you?"
Rodney rolls his eyes. "My god, he can be taught. Who knew?"
"I think the United States Air Force would disagree with you." John's hand drops away and Rodney feels a pang of regret, although he doesn't want to wonder why.
"You were in the military?" Rodney can't keep the horror out of his voice, but now things make sense. No wonder John didn't want the lead in Atlantis. "Okay, I know how you people operate, so forget I asked or told or whatever," Rodney says turning to leave, only to be blocked by John's arm again.
When he glances over at John he's got that curious look back on his face. "You really just wanted to sign me to your agency? None of that funny casting couch shit that Aiden's always telling me about?"
If Rodney keeps rolling his eyes this much they're going to get stuck in his head. "I admit that you're the hottest thing I've seen in quite some time, and that's impressive because I represent most of the fuckworthy people in Hollywood, but like I said before: I want to make you a star, not a whore. That part comes later."
"So, what if I don't want to be a star -- would you still be interested?"
It's Rodney's turn to be confused. "Would I be interested in what?" He already has an assistant, an assassin, and an apoplectic business partner.
"In me." And just like that's John's got the upper hand again, because one minute Rodney's completely irritated and pissed off and the next he's plastered against the wall of a shabby Venice guesthouse with John Sheppard, surfer and ex-USAF, nuzzling his neck.
Rodney plans to say something cutting and smooth, but "Urk" is pretty much all that comes out when John licks the side of his neck, and then they're kissing, again, and Rodney really doesn't know what to do, because he's the most eloquent person he knows and he's pulling a blank. He may curse less than Ari most of the time, but there's stubble rubbing against the side of Rodney's cheek, and if he comes back to the office with stubble burn Ari will never let him hear the end of it.
Rodney can smell the salt in John's hair, and the sand falling out of it tickles his nose.
He doesn't mean to sneeze in John's hair, it just sort of happens.
John snickers against his neck. "Interesting."
"Sandy," Rodney corrects.
John makes a 'hmm'ing noise and moves to kiss him again. It takes a couple kisses for Rodney to pull himself back together –- he just wants to see if they're as good as he remembers them being. And then he needs another kiss for jerk-off material. And then he just wants one more. And one more.
Every kiss is going to be the last one -- it's not like he's going to keep kissing John Sheppard. No -- that way lies madness and Ari screaming about Rodney fucking up his ten percent.
"I don't know what this is all about," Rodney says, pushing John to arms length with some difficulty. "I really don't get you at all. You don't want to be a star, but you do want me -- you don’t even know me. 50% of Hollywood wants me dead, the other 50% live in fear of my wrath, you don't even seem to care!"
John rubs his jaw wryly. "You may not have noticed, but this is Venice not Hollywood."
"No, this is a train wreck," Rodney corrects as John manhandles him out of his suit jacket and tosses it on the floor with a thud. He only spares a momentary thought for his Blackberry.
"Maybe I like train wrecks," John says philosophically, before leaning in and stealing another kiss. Well, maybe stealing's not the right word, because stealing would imply that Rodney didn't want it to happen. Rodney's dick certainly thinks this is a great idea.
"I really don’t get it," Rodney gasps, pushing away again as John pulls at his tie. "Why me? I mean look at you!"
John sighs and pulls Rodney's tie off. "Do you like me at all, Rodney?" he asks, the tie makes a slow susurration against collar and shirt before being dropped on the floor.
"I don’t know you."
"That wasn't my question. Do you like me?"
"So far I can't figure out if I like you; you certainly seem deranged enough for me to like you. I just know that I spent most of last night dreaming about you and left six messages on my partner's phone about you and your talent."
"My talent."
"Yes, your talent," Rodney can't keep the irritability out of his voice. "It's not a euphemism –- I have more tact than that, believe it or not."
But not so much more, because John's standing there half-dressed, looking at Rodney inquisitively, and Rodney's only human. Now it's Rodney's turn to shove John against the wall, his hands finding purchase on slightly clammy skin, and kissing John with a weird sense of possessiveness that he hasn't had about anyone in a long time.
When Rodney pulls back to breathe, John's face does this weird thing that Rodney can't follow. There are too many emotions warring for their place, and eventually John goes back to that sort of laconic amusement. "I wasn't acting," he says eventually.
The zipper of John's wetsuit is poking Rodney right in his navel, but he'll let it go, because John's pushing Rodney's hand down the front of said wetsuit, and things like this don't tend to happen to him everyday. Oh sure he gets silicone breasts thrust in his face weekly at the Ivy, but men like John Sheppard are all straight or married or so far in the closet they might as well be in Narnia –- and, oh god dammit. It’s his Crackberry ringing.
Rodney groans, even as he's down on the floor extracting his phone from his jacket. He's tempted not to answer it, but it's Miko and she wouldn't call unless something was on fire, someone was dead, and someone else was in jail. She's very capable that way.
"What?" Rodney snaps, listening intently to Miko for several seconds. When she's done, he sighs. "Fine. I'll be there as soon as I can. "
John's brow furrows as Rodney collects his clothing. "You're leaving? Now?"
Rodney sighs. "Yeah, I—work. It's work."
"You come to my house, make out with me, and then bail. Wow, I feel really special."
"That wasn't making out," Rodney protests, although his clothing and John's swollen lips would beg to differ. "I didn't even get my shirt off!"
The incredulous look John gives him says it all. This is how all of Rodney's other relationships got screwed up too. "Next time, we'll make out," he promises, although whether that promise is for John or himself is left open to interpretation.
John snorts. "What makes you think there'll be a next time?"
Rodney just raises an eyebrow.
John's smirk reappears. "Right, when is this next time?"
"Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Asia de Cuba. The car'll pick you up at 7:30." John's still nodding as Rodney's halfway out the door. "Wear something nice," he says, pausing to take in a still half-dressed John. "But nothing that'll get me arrested for solicitation."
--TBC---
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Stargate: Atlantis/Entourage/RPS (Alternate Universe)
Rodney McKay, Ari Gold, and John Sheppard, with special appearances by both ensembles and Matt Damon!
Chapter one here
Rodney McKay, SuperAgent to the Stars, is not a morning person.
He doesn't go for early morning jogs around his Beverly Hills neighborhood, surveying the neighbors' lawns and catching up on the salacious industry gossip –- that's what he has Ari for.
He doesn't go out to get his triple shot, grande Espresso Bomb -– a special at Starbucks, created for Rodney after he tipped the barista 100 dollars –- that's what he has Miko for.
Rodney doesn't lie in bed long after the alarm has gone off, thinking about the surly, indie actors with traumatic hair and startling eyes, and jerking himself off all over the sheets that Magda just changed two days ago.
Rodney doesn't do anything except get up, get dressed in his Monday suit (the dark grey Armani with the blue tie), check his Crackberry (™ Ari), stumble out to the Lincoln Towncar where Chuck is waiting with his second coffee of the day and a wide array of Powerbars, and get driven into the MGA office.
By the time Rodney's car pulls up in front of the MGA Wilshire offices thirty minutes later, it's almost ten o'clock. He's checked in with Teyla and Jake Gyllenhaal, made at least three agents cry, and hung up on one studio head. He's now on the phone with Matt Damon, listening to him talk ad nauseam about the wonders of a drooling baby.
Rodney's already gone through this with Ari three times; he's not really interested in doing it again. "--and then she smiled at me." Matt's lost at least 30 IQ points since Isabella was born.
"You do realize this baby is making you stupid," Rodney says while waiting for Chuck to open his door.
"Rodney," Matt sounds scandalized, which is good for Rodney. He doesn't want Matt's acting skills to atrophy while he's playing Mr. Mom.
"You," he says, putting his hand over the mouthpiece of his Crackberry to speak to Chuck, "do not go anywhere until I say otherwise."
"I thought I was supposed to take Ronon to go running with Teyla this morning," Chuck says.
Rodney frowns. His prize actress being protected by the best assassin in town or his chauffeur-driven car at his beck and call. It's a hard decision. "Fine, but once you're done dropping off the Death Ninja you come right back, do you hear me? I don’t want any of this I got lost in the Valley crap."
"That happened one time!"
"Do I pay you to argue with me? Exactly." Chuck's still sputtering when Rodney walks away. Matt's still talking too as Rodney makes his way into the building, except Matt's using a lot more four-letter words.
"Matt -– Matt -- Matt," Rodney interrupts Matt's tirade about Rodney being an unsympathetic, Satan-fisting dick. "Was I unsympathetic when Ben left you to play metrosexual with J.Lo?" he asks in the elevator.
There are other people around, but it's nothing that everybody in town doesn't already know anyway.
"I can't believe you're bringing that up!" Matt's voice is shrill over the phone. For someone so butch, sometimes he's really girlie.
"You don’t pay me to play nice," Rodney points out when the elevator stops at the MGA offices. He stalks past the minions, down the hall, and straight for Ari's office. "You pay me because the head of MENSA cried when I rejected their offer of membership -– now go take my goddaughter for a walk on Miami Beach so she can grow up to have a warped sense of beauty and suffer from body-dysmorphia."
Matt and Rodney have a very truthful relationship. Rodney tells it like it is, Matt sulks, and then Rodney gets him the best roles possible as a consolation. It's the same relationship Rodney has with all his clients –- it's the relationship that most agents have with their clients.
Agents have low tolerance for bullshit and a sixth sense about sifting it -– mostly because it's all they hear and sell every day.
Rodney shifts his Crackberry from his left hand to his right hand as he passes by the desk of Ari's assistant, grabbing the Starbucks container Miko's left there for him, before storming right into Ari's office.
"What's all this bullshit about Liz's whoring out some cocksucker to you?" Ari asks mildly from behind his glass behemoth of a desk.
Rodney can see the entire Los Angeles skyline just past Ari's head. The MGA offices weren't cheap, but they were so worth it for the view.
"Matt, I have to go have quality time with the other Mrs. McKay now," Rodney says. "Make sure to look at that Bourne Redemption script; I want you able to reassemble semi-automatics blindfolded when you come to see me next week."
"I thought we were done with the Bourne franchise because it was 'stereotypical, Hollywood dick-swinging bullshit'?"
"Yes, but that particular bullshit is going to put your daughter through M.I.T., so shut up and break out the blindfolds."
"Kinky," Ari chimes in. He's got one eye on Rodney and one on his computer screen. He's probably IMing George Clooney.
Other people, who aren't Rodney, are impressed by Ari representing George Clooney, but Rodney has Matt Damon so he doesn't care. Rodney used to represent Brad Pitt too, but then Brad left Jen for Angelina instead of leaving Jen for George, and George got very upset, which made Ari very upset, which aggravated Rodney's ulcer, so Rodney just said fuck it and dropped Brad like the bad penny he is.
Ari's very obsessive about George. Rodney's not nearly as possessive of Matt; he even let Matt knock up some non-industry no-name woman from Florida.
Ari would never let that happen to George. He doesn't even like it when George dates other men, and at least there's no chance of pregnancy then.
"Shut up, you non-phone answering ass," Rodney retorts.
"I'll leave you children to it," Matt cackles in Rodney's ear. "Play nicely with the other agents and don't let Ari break anymore furniture."
Rodney's lower lip doesn't jut out at all. It's not like Matt's there to see it. "You never let me have any fun," he says. He's been hanging around actors way too long.
"Bye, Rodney," Matt says, disconnecting.
Rodney unbuttons his suit jacket, plops into one of the prohibitively priced chairs on the other side of Ari's desk, and sets down his Crackberry. "You didn't call me back," he says, taking a sip of his coffee.
"I had to arrange for Ronon to chaperone my daughter and the latest juvenile delinquent-wannabe she's brought home," Ari replies. "You know he has to have specific orders not to choke them if they get too touchy feely."
"I thought you wanted him to choke them?"
"Yeah, but that upsets the kid, and the kid tells the wife, and then I don’t get my morning blow job."
"Too much information, Ari."
"This from the man who's actually seen his client making out with Ben Affleck? All that fudge packing is making you soft, Rodney."
Remarks like this used to lead to bloodshed, but Dr. Heightmeyer says that this is just Ari's way of getting Rodney's attention. That he's probably feeling neglected, so Rodney only bristles slightly. "Fifty percent of our clients are gay," he points out. "George is gay. You would be gay for George if you weren't so irreparably straight!"
Ari makes a dismissive wave. "I tell George that every time I sleep over."
Rodney snickers. "In your dreams, Gold."
"More like your dreams, ass muncher," Ari grins. "So, are you going to tell me what the fuck made you leave six messages last night or do I have to go out and fuck Lizzie Weir to find out?"
"Please, she wouldn't let you touch her with someone else's dick."
"I'll remember to bring a dildo then," Ari says, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. "So, c'mon, out with it already, blow job lockjaw got your tongue?"
Rodney rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his coffee. He has no idea what to say about John that doesn't make him sound like a thirteen year-old girl who draws sparkly hearts around pictures of Jake Gyllenhaal.
Ari unfolds his arms and sits upright. "McKay, I've heard you sell ham to Jews and bacon to Muslims, you are never at a loss for words. What the fuck is going on?"
Rodney exhales through his nose. "I met him last night, Ari."
"Him who?"
"My next big thing." Rodney has this sensory flashback of John's mouth pressing against his, of the agility of John's tongue slipping between his lips. He moves his coffee cup closer to his crotch. He's so fucked.
Ari peers at him curiously. "Your next big thing like Jake going Brokebitch or your next big thing like-–" Ari drops off at whatever he sees on Rodney's face. "No fucking where you get your paycheck, McKay," he says pointedly.
Ari's chastisement is just what Rodney needs to break him out of thoughts of kissing John. "He's good," Rodney clears his throat. "He's really fucking good."
"Good like George?"
"Good like George in Out of Sight," Rodney sighs.
Ari's nostrils flare.
"He's good like Matt in Good Will Hunting," Rodney carries on. "He's got that fresh edge; he hasn't been completely broken down and ruined by the industry yet. "
Rodney doesn't point out that John's been broken by something already. Everybody in the industry is already broken long before they arrive, Hollywood just manages to find new and inventive ways to break you that you've never even considered.
"So, what the fuck are you doing sitting on your ass like some cheap trannie hooker that doesn't have a corporate card and the best drug dealers in town on speed dial? Get the fuck up and go make us some goddamn money!" Ari's flails. "Stop acting like you and I don’t run this fucking town from the goddamn bathroom!"
Rodney hesitates for a microsecond, not long enough for anybody but Ari to catch, and then he's on his feet. "I'm Rodney McKay," he says authoritatively. "I made gay cowboys fashionable; I can make it rain Oscars and Scientologists; I'm the reason that Ben Affleck can't get a job selling GEICO car insurance!"
Rodney didn’t like the way Ben broke up with Matt; he tends to hold a grudge for a long time.
"Exactly!" Ari says, slamming his hands on his desk. "Now go out there and get me a new shirt-lifter to plaster on the cover of Us Weekly -- I have to go take a dump and figure out how to pull Vinnie's Ramones project out of Alan Horn's ass."
It takes Miko ten whole minutes to call Liz Weir's office, find out where she lives (Santa Monica), find out that's not where her guest house is, and then find out where exactly she's hiding John Sheppard. Rodney could call Liz himself, but then he'd have to talk about the script he didn't read on the ride in, and pretend that he's not about to start stalking the guy living in her guest house, and that's what he has Miko for.
He then has to wait another whole thirty minutes for Chuck to get back from taking Ronon to Toluca Lake where Teyla lives. He could use that thirty minutes for constructive things, like reading Liz's script, or harassing Academy members into nominating Matt for an Oscar for The Good Shepherd, or finding out if Austin took Jake back after his last public sexcapade. Instead he sits down in his ergonomically designed chair -– Rodney's too important to develop a bad back. He's too important to even get a hangnail -– and he tells Dr Beckett this at his monthly check-ups.
Other people may have their physicals once a year, but Rodney makes several millions of dollars and pays a lot of money to see his doctor whenever he wants. He owns Dr. Beckett, but apparently he doesn't own his own brain, because he keeps staring at his 21'' Mac flat screen and can't make sense of out anything he's seeing.
Every time he tries to read an e-mail his brain projects a random image of John Sheppard's floppy hair or his quirky smile or the way he laughed when Rodney snapped at him. Rodney opens Firefox and feels John's breath on his cheeks. He opens up Daily Variety and sees the collar of John's black tee shirt stretching just slightly over his collarbone.
By the time Miko buzzes him to tell him Chuck's downstairs, Rodney's skin is itching with this frantic sort of energy that he hasn’t felt since George and Brad announced that they wanted to remake this movie called Ocean's Eleven together.
Rodney's so desperate to get to Venice and get his hands on John Sheppard that he forgets his Crackberry and has to go back for it. And it's a good thing he does, because Ari calls while he's en route to Venice to bitch about George's presidency red herring. Rodney knows it's going to happen; Ari knows it's going to happen, too, he's just got cold feet about leaving L.A. for D.C.
"Everyone in D.C. looks like they got hit by the ugly stick," Ari complains as Chuck turns down Pacific Avenue and into Venice. "How can the rest of the world bow before us when our Congressmen are all fugly?"
Rodney snorts. "And this is why I'm Canadian."
"Please, you may be the only country with politicians uglier than ours!"
"Can you even name one Canadian politician?"
"Shut up, or I'll make George deport you."
"He's got to get elected first," Rodney points out as they cross Rose Ave. "You're under the mistaken assumption that Ma and Pa Okie are liberal enough for a hot, gay president. Considering the gay mafia couldn't even get a gay movie an Oscar, I'm not holding my breath."
The street they're on is becoming progressively narrower. There are huge, Victorian homes interspersed with these hipster design studios. Rodney hates Venice; it tries so hard to pretend it's not trying at all. Goddamn hippies.
Ari laughs. "You must have this country mistaken for one where you can't buy yourself a presidency and still have change left over to get a blow job from an intern."
There's a biker on the road that’s entirely too close to the car. "If you hit this car, I'm going to sue you and your grandchildren and your grandchildren's grandchildren, fucking health nuts," Rodney hollers to the biker even though the window is up and he can't be heard.
"We're here, Mr. McKay," Chuck says, pulling to the side of the road and getting out the car. Rodney looks around him and tries not to recoil from the overwhelming hippie-vibe of the area. They're double parked on Pacific, and they're not at a front door, but at the top of a communal walkway with flowers and tiny yards.
Rodney can smell the salt and the hot dogs and the marijuana when Chuck opens the door. He's definitely in Hippieville. Ari's still talking, but Rodney has other matters to attend to. "Gold, shut up and go make us some money. I have to go get myself another golden boy."
"Don't let me catch you fucking on the couch, McKay," Ari retorts. "I just had that shit cleaned."
"Like I'd sully myself with your sloppy seconds," Rodney says dismissively as he heads down the walkway. "Who knows what sort of testicle-destroying heterosexual STDs you have."
He stops in front of a particularly galling house. The fuchsia trim alone hurts his soul. On behalf of all of his gay clients and all the gay actors Liz has worked with, he's offended. He can't believe someone hasn't forced her at gunpoint to repaint her house.
Rodney gingerly pushes open a rickety wooden gate and walks into a small forest. Clearly, Liz has never heard of a gardener either. Rodney knows indie work doesn't pay that well, but this is ridiculous.
He rings the doorbell to the guesthouse and steps back when the door opens immediately. "Ford, you're early, Lorne must've put-–" John's jovial greeting dies off when he realizes who's at the door. "Mr. McKay?"
John's tone is all curious bemusement, but Rodney takes one long look at John Sheppard in a wetsuit and forgets what he was going to say. It's not his fault in the slightest since Sheppard's wetsuit is unzipped to his waist, showing obliques and chest hair, and Jesus, that's a lot of tan skin.
"Don't you put on sunblock when you go outside?" Rodney blurts out. "You're entirely too tan for someone who's using at least an SPF 30. Do you want to die of skin cancer?"
"Well, hello to you too," John says, apparently recovering from whatever confusion he'd had. His hair is even crazier than usual though. It's damp in some places and dry in others. Most of it is standing up as though it had a fight with itself and one side divorced the other. "I'd invite you in, but Liz isn't here—"
Just over John's shoulder Rodney can make out a surfboard with sand on the nose, and when he looks he sees John's bare feet and sand all over the doorstep. Rodney steps over the sand and pushes his way past John and into most pitiful guest accomodations he's seen since he had to live on Teyla's sofa during the lean years.
John smells like saltwater, and Rodney is glad of the Blackberry in his hand, because it keeps him from doing something stupid like getting arrested for molesting a thirty-something indie actor.
"I didn't come to see Liz," he says, rapidly taking in the starkness of the living room. He's expecting incense and flimsy Indian inspired curtains hanging from the walls since this is Venice, but there's just a futon, a bookcase with three books, a Johnny Cash poster, and a dresser with a photograph on it. If it weren't for the huge plasma TV Rodney might be really disconcerted. "I came to talk some sense into that thick skull of yours. I can only assume that the ocean has knocked out most of it," Rodney says, slipping his Blackberry into the inside pocket of his suit.
At first he doesn't even see the skateboard propped up in the corner. Clearly John Sheppard has been sent to test him.
"Oh my god! Did you hit every branch of the stupid tree on the way down?" Rodney asks disbelievingly. "A skateboard? Do you know how much you're going to cost the studios get insured if people find out you ride that thing? Don't you have too much hair for a mid-life crisis?"
John purses his lips and holds the door open wide. "I think we've been through this already, Mr. McKay. You're under the impression that I want to act -– I think you're delusional. I did Liz a favor, end of story."
Rodney looks up at the ceiling and prays to the gods of the Hollywood Box Office. "How many times do I have to tell you to call me Rodney?" he says, crossing the room in four steps and firmly shutting the door.
John crosses his arms. "And how many times do I have to tell you I don't want to be an actor, Rodney?"
From this close Rodney can see the sand flecked in John's hair. "Did you just go surfing?" This is obviously not the question he meant to ask either. John has him completely off his game and he's only been here 30 seconds. This is scandalous. Ari would have an aneurysm -– but Ari hasn't been kissed by John Sheppard.
John sighs and uncrosses his arms. "Look, Rodney, I'm sure you're a great agent, but acting isn't what I do. It's not even a hobby."
Rodney rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. "All right, all right, you want to be difficult, we'll do it your way. What do you do, Mr. Sheppard?"
John's smirk makes Rodney take a step back, right into the wall with a thud. John just raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes I surf. Sometimes I do volunteer work. Sometimes I tinker with my friend's '65 Mustang."
"Is that a euphemism?"
John takes a step closer. "Do you want it be?"
Rodney looks left and then looks right. He doesn't see any camera, but that doesn't mean anything these days. "Is this a set up? Did Brad put you up to this because I dropped him? Very fucking funny Bradley, ha ha."
John's smirk grows. "Is Bradley your ex?"
"Oh god no!" Rodney says with distaste. "I do have some standards." He's rather alarmed when John's arm comes up beside his head. It's a good arm. Well defined. From this angle Rodney can see John's armpit hair, which is just a weird realization.
He's completely taken off guard when John's face swoops in close to his -- the smirk is long gone. "Is this the part where I'm supposed to confess to an illicit background in gay porn and you tell me it doesn't matter, that you can make me a legitimate star anyway? Is this the part where I'm supposed to blow you for a second chance?"
John's breathing on him again, and Rodney's dick is taking great interest in this. The last time he got laid –- well, it was a long time ago. And then when Rodney got Joe got that Sci-Fi show he stopped calling. Typical.
Rodney narrows his eyes. "I've never seen you in any gay porn, so no."
John blinks. "You're serious about the acting thing, aren't you?"
Rodney rolls his eyes. "My god, he can be taught. Who knew?"
"I think the United States Air Force would disagree with you." John's hand drops away and Rodney feels a pang of regret, although he doesn't want to wonder why.
"You were in the military?" Rodney can't keep the horror out of his voice, but now things make sense. No wonder John didn't want the lead in Atlantis. "Okay, I know how you people operate, so forget I asked or told or whatever," Rodney says turning to leave, only to be blocked by John's arm again.
When he glances over at John he's got that curious look back on his face. "You really just wanted to sign me to your agency? None of that funny casting couch shit that Aiden's always telling me about?"
If Rodney keeps rolling his eyes this much they're going to get stuck in his head. "I admit that you're the hottest thing I've seen in quite some time, and that's impressive because I represent most of the fuckworthy people in Hollywood, but like I said before: I want to make you a star, not a whore. That part comes later."
"So, what if I don't want to be a star -- would you still be interested?"
It's Rodney's turn to be confused. "Would I be interested in what?" He already has an assistant, an assassin, and an apoplectic business partner.
"In me." And just like that's John's got the upper hand again, because one minute Rodney's completely irritated and pissed off and the next he's plastered against the wall of a shabby Venice guesthouse with John Sheppard, surfer and ex-USAF, nuzzling his neck.
Rodney plans to say something cutting and smooth, but "Urk" is pretty much all that comes out when John licks the side of his neck, and then they're kissing, again, and Rodney really doesn't know what to do, because he's the most eloquent person he knows and he's pulling a blank. He may curse less than Ari most of the time, but there's stubble rubbing against the side of Rodney's cheek, and if he comes back to the office with stubble burn Ari will never let him hear the end of it.
Rodney can smell the salt in John's hair, and the sand falling out of it tickles his nose.
He doesn't mean to sneeze in John's hair, it just sort of happens.
John snickers against his neck. "Interesting."
"Sandy," Rodney corrects.
John makes a 'hmm'ing noise and moves to kiss him again. It takes a couple kisses for Rodney to pull himself back together –- he just wants to see if they're as good as he remembers them being. And then he needs another kiss for jerk-off material. And then he just wants one more. And one more.
Every kiss is going to be the last one -- it's not like he's going to keep kissing John Sheppard. No -- that way lies madness and Ari screaming about Rodney fucking up his ten percent.
"I don't know what this is all about," Rodney says, pushing John to arms length with some difficulty. "I really don't get you at all. You don't want to be a star, but you do want me -- you don’t even know me. 50% of Hollywood wants me dead, the other 50% live in fear of my wrath, you don't even seem to care!"
John rubs his jaw wryly. "You may not have noticed, but this is Venice not Hollywood."
"No, this is a train wreck," Rodney corrects as John manhandles him out of his suit jacket and tosses it on the floor with a thud. He only spares a momentary thought for his Blackberry.
"Maybe I like train wrecks," John says philosophically, before leaning in and stealing another kiss. Well, maybe stealing's not the right word, because stealing would imply that Rodney didn't want it to happen. Rodney's dick certainly thinks this is a great idea.
"I really don’t get it," Rodney gasps, pushing away again as John pulls at his tie. "Why me? I mean look at you!"
John sighs and pulls Rodney's tie off. "Do you like me at all, Rodney?" he asks, the tie makes a slow susurration against collar and shirt before being dropped on the floor.
"I don’t know you."
"That wasn't my question. Do you like me?"
"So far I can't figure out if I like you; you certainly seem deranged enough for me to like you. I just know that I spent most of last night dreaming about you and left six messages on my partner's phone about you and your talent."
"My talent."
"Yes, your talent," Rodney can't keep the irritability out of his voice. "It's not a euphemism –- I have more tact than that, believe it or not."
But not so much more, because John's standing there half-dressed, looking at Rodney inquisitively, and Rodney's only human. Now it's Rodney's turn to shove John against the wall, his hands finding purchase on slightly clammy skin, and kissing John with a weird sense of possessiveness that he hasn't had about anyone in a long time.
When Rodney pulls back to breathe, John's face does this weird thing that Rodney can't follow. There are too many emotions warring for their place, and eventually John goes back to that sort of laconic amusement. "I wasn't acting," he says eventually.
The zipper of John's wetsuit is poking Rodney right in his navel, but he'll let it go, because John's pushing Rodney's hand down the front of said wetsuit, and things like this don't tend to happen to him everyday. Oh sure he gets silicone breasts thrust in his face weekly at the Ivy, but men like John Sheppard are all straight or married or so far in the closet they might as well be in Narnia –- and, oh god dammit. It’s his Crackberry ringing.
Rodney groans, even as he's down on the floor extracting his phone from his jacket. He's tempted not to answer it, but it's Miko and she wouldn't call unless something was on fire, someone was dead, and someone else was in jail. She's very capable that way.
"What?" Rodney snaps, listening intently to Miko for several seconds. When she's done, he sighs. "Fine. I'll be there as soon as I can. "
John's brow furrows as Rodney collects his clothing. "You're leaving? Now?"
Rodney sighs. "Yeah, I—work. It's work."
"You come to my house, make out with me, and then bail. Wow, I feel really special."
"That wasn't making out," Rodney protests, although his clothing and John's swollen lips would beg to differ. "I didn't even get my shirt off!"
The incredulous look John gives him says it all. This is how all of Rodney's other relationships got screwed up too. "Next time, we'll make out," he promises, although whether that promise is for John or himself is left open to interpretation.
John snorts. "What makes you think there'll be a next time?"
Rodney just raises an eyebrow.
John's smirk reappears. "Right, when is this next time?"
"Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Asia de Cuba. The car'll pick you up at 7:30." John's still nodding as Rodney's halfway out the door. "Wear something nice," he says, pausing to take in a still half-dressed John. "But nothing that'll get me arrested for solicitation."
--TBC---
Beta by
serialkarma. Show her some love, people! *applauds*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2006-10-19 05:57 pm (UTC)The last time he got laid –- well, it was a long time ago. And then when Rodney got Joe got that Sci-Fi show he stopped calling. Typical.
HA!
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Date: 2006-10-19 06:03 pm (UTC)OH MY GOD THIS IS SO GOOD. SO SO GOOD.
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Date: 2006-10-19 06:45 pm (UTC)I love your brand of crack.
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Date: 2006-10-19 06:48 pm (UTC)HA!
This gets more cracked out as it goes and I want to squee to everyone about it!
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Date: 2006-10-19 06:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-19 07:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-19 07:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-19 07:31 pm (UTC)As always, you rock.
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Date: 2006-10-19 08:29 pm (UTC)But I'm still perplexed how anyone can read your LJ and not know who Ari is.
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Date: 2006-10-19 09:10 pm (UTC)*DEAD*
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Date: 2006-10-19 10:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-20 02:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-20 03:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-20 04:22 am (UTC)Love this - it's just so fabulous and shiny and everyone perfectly in character.
I just got back from a week of conferences in LA and wow, did you nail Santa Monica/Venice or what!
Can't wait for the next part.
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Date: 2006-10-20 08:31 am (UTC)Also, Jake Gyllenhaal apparently climbed over a wall into my backyard this week. Just to see if he could.
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Date: 2006-10-20 02:06 pm (UTC)I think this has just become my favorite SGA AU of all time. There is just something about the characters that makes my brain melt into a puddle. ♥
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Date: 2006-10-20 03:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-20 06:16 pm (UTC)"Clooney, for his part, did his usual ladykiller-tweaking shtick at the fete. "I do have regrets in my life," he told the crowd. "I regret that Michelle Pfeiffer was married when we did 'One Fine Day.' And that Julia [Roberts] and Catherine Zeta-Jones were married, too. Also Matt Damon, but that's a different story. I'd like a crack at him.""
full article from here: (at the bottom of the page)
http://entertainment.msn.com/movies/hotgossip/10-18-06_3
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Date: 2006-10-21 11:58 am (UTC)Rodney's turn, not Rodney turn. And yes, I had to copy out the whole sentence, but that was more so that I could read it again.
Goddamn. This is so hot, and funny, and pure genius. Genius with Ari, which is the best kind of genius.
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Date: 2006-10-28 11:04 pm (UTC)Take care.
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Date: 2006-11-02 09:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-10 03:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-20 07:55 pm (UTC)