For the record, Spot is in the form of a Maltese.
Fic: Suppose It's Too Much to Call Coincidence, 2/4
AIRPS, Adam/Kris, Kris/Other, various, NC-17
Summary: In which Kris finds a puppy and the laws of probability change dramatically.
Notes: AU and crack, maybe more crack low-fat rather than lite.
It was almost the two year anniversary of American Idol when Adam began to suspect that Katy had been less high and more completely, maliciously useless as a source of information when Kris started dating--of all people--Adam's PA. If there's supposed to be a message in that, Adam has no idea what it's supposed to be.
"I don't believe this," Adam tells Katy, currently in Japan or Korea or the Philippines, somewhere not here being the point, and not married to Kris, which is why this entire nightmare is happening. "She wants him to move in with her, and I can only hide his luggage so many times before he figures out he can just go buy more."
"Huh. So Kris is still living with you?" Katy answers in stunning reinteration of the obvious. Over the phone, she makes a disgusting slurping sound with her spoon, which Adam would judge so much if he didn't have a gallon of ice cream melting in his lap right now. "What's she like?"
Adam pauses; it's not so much there are no descriptors, more that she's terrifying, and Adam's pretty sure this is some kind of commentary by 19E, or punishment for orchestrating the Great Dog Experiment of 2009, which, Adam has to admit, was fucking brilliant. "You know that club no one talks about, down on--"
"The one with the--oooh."
"Yeah." Beneath the spike heel of Laura the PA, Adam's life has become something that should not resemble, and yet does, living in a BDSM scene, but without anything that makes it fun, like orgasms, or hey, another guy, though she has the pain covered. More than once, Adam's thought maybe he should ask for a safeword, except that would be admitting she's out-topping him and winning. "It's like that."
Katy's quiet for a moment. "And Kris?"
Adam stares up at the ceiling and takes another spoonful of melting cookie-dough before trying to answer. "He seems happy." Then. "So was Kris into--"
"Not in so many words," Katy says devastatingly. "Though I always kind of suspected--"
Adam shuts his eyes. "Please shut up before I start to cry; I'm not nearly that drunk yet."
"Get some vodka," Katy answers practically, such a smart girl, and Adam completely forgets why he is holed up in his own room in his own house until he opens the door and someone who is not Laura the PA moans. "Oh God," Katy echoes in shock as Adam leans against the wall and shuts his eyes in a completely useless attempt to block out the horror. "They're--"
"Here, yes, this is my life, thanks for caring." The kitchen is four separate sounds away and Adam really wonders why the hell the alcohol is out here and not in his room, as obviously it really needs to be. Grabbing the first bottle in sight, Adam gets back to his room and pretends he's doesn't feel used. Crawling back on the bed, Adam watches Spot licking his spoon and tries to care. "This is totally your fault," Adam says, shifting Spot into his lap and taking a long drink from the bottle. "You just had to find yourself or whatever shit--that's so nineties by the way--"
"Oh please," she says, voice slurring a little, "you're blaming me--"
"And look what happened! Laura the PA."
"It's not like I could award him to you in the divorce or something--"
"Why not? Look what happened." Spot looks up, then crawls up his chest on tiny paws to stare into his eyes before licking at a smear of melting ice cream and pretends it's affection. Adam will take it anyway. "She asked him to marry her."
From the other side of the phone, something fragile breaks with great energy. Adam wishes he had something breakable; he's a huge fan of things that break on impact. Seriously, a redecoration of his room is totally in order. After a few long seconds, he hears Katy gulp a little and wipes his eyes surreptitiously on the edge of the comforter. "Yeah. Me too."
"Is she--" Katy takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I mean--"
"Oh God, baby, no," Adam soothes. "You're totally hotter. Blonde by way of Loreal, honey. Cannot coordinate. Just--no. Totally a trade down."
Katy sniffles and takes another drink. "Thanks." Then, "So where's Spot anyway?"
Adam looks down at just as Spot manages to fall headfirst into the ice cream. Reaching in, Adam fishes him out before turning the carton on its side and decides not to care that melted ice cream is spilling everywhere. It's just that kind of a night. "Hiding in here like anyone sane." Wiping ice cream from Spot's ear, Adam pushes him back toward the carton. "Is ice cream bad for dogs?" he asks belatedly. Not that he's coming between Spot's teeth and that carton; that's why there are vets.
"Not for that one," Katy answers cryptically. "You know, don't worry about Laura the PA."
Adam blinks at the phone. "They picked out their china. She picked out my suit. And by the way, holy shit, the woman has no taste, it's the seventies by way of evil around here--"
"No, seriously," Katy says, totally crazy, but that's why Adam likes her, "don't. Just--um, just make sure you take his guitar, okay? It'll help."
"His--what are you--"
"I am going to pass out now?" Katy says thoughtfully. "I think. Night."
Totally crazy. Adam watches Spot lick his way back into the carton and takes another drink. "She has a suit for you, too, you know. Polyester blend. And white. Think about it."
Spot looks up, ears raised in alarm. Somehow, that makes Adam feel a lot better.
It's not so much that Adam can't plan a bachelor party--sure, he never has before, but whatever, Adam knows parties--but more that Laura the PA hates every idea he has, which makes him love them all, even the ones that involve a football-esque theme and imported beer.
It is not classy, Adam admits to himself, and perhaps the uniforms aren't entirely accurate, but accuracy is overrated, and a stripper football team is really helping him to appreciate the sport.
"They're guys," Laura the PA says in stentorian tones while rearranging his entire schedule to increase his misery. What-the-fuck-ever.
"I can find girls." Their uniforms, at least, don't require a new design. Adam tilts his head at the fit of the pants; maybe liquid latex? "Or I could just take him to Vegas if you're going to be a bitch about it."
Laura the PA glares at him. "Fuck yourself. Vegas? Better than that." She points at his favorite feature. "Are they--is that a g-string?"
"A jock strap will show under the latex," Adam says sweetly, and that is how Adam ends up on a plane with Kris, Kris' guitar, and Spot, because even Spot's desecration of his bed while he was sleeping (passed out) sleeping does not deserve staying with Laura the PA. At least, not until Adam's sure his lawyer can get Spot out of a homicide conviction, because from the way Spot stares at her neck, he's figured out what a jugular does and where he can get one.
"I still don't get why I need the guitar," Kris says as they emerge into the cool of the airport, where no, their hoodies aren't hiding anything, but that's why they have enough security to set up a small government if they need to. Hooking an arm over Kris' shoulders, Adam ignores the growing attention, feeling Kris huddling closer to his side with every shouted question.
"You never know," Adam answers vaguely; Kris hasn't written anything since Laura the PA reorganized his life, which really should have been a warning signal, but at the time, Adam was just relieved Kris' sudden descent into My Chemical Romance esque stylings had ended, and Fallout Boy was no longer on repeat on the ipod. Living every day worried a missing eyeliner would become Kris' tribute to Pete Wentz was exhausting.
Spot squirms around to look at Kris sadly from the crook of Adam's arm; Adam is not stupid and did not even think dog carrier, and if he had, the scratches on his wrist would have immediately banished the thought. Kris sighs as they come to the car, hiding the flinch at every question tossed at them like it's dynamite that might explode at a moment's notice while Adam pretends he's not holding a purse-size dog in a public place and this isn't actually his real life.
"Okay," Adam says as soon as they're behind close doors, "though I have never been married, I am not feeling the joy and whatever that a lifetime of television has promised me people like you feel on days like this. Spill."
Kris sets his guitar carefully on the bed, looking at Adam like he might dispute the fact he's kind of utterly miserable. The expression breaks almost immediately, and Adam crosses the room and pushes the guitar aside, wrapping an arm around Kris. Spot barks affirmation from a chair across the room, curled on top of Adam's make-up case.
"I--it's not that Laura's not great," he says slowly, like the words hurt, which they should; it's goddamn Laura the PA, "but I--don't think this is working?"
"Oh, thank God," Adam breathes. "Can I call and tell her? Please? Consider this my Christmas present for like, the next five years."
Kris jerks his head around, staring at Adam like he'd never seen him before. "I--what?"
"What? The rampant hostility and seething hatred were subtle?"
"I thought--" Kris frowns. "Actually, you know, I have no idea what I thought. This last week--" Kris takes a deep breath, "--okay, seriously, I'm such a loser, but--"
"No, baby," Adam says soothingly, resisting the urge to find Kris' phone and speed-dial this mess to an end right now. "Rebound, rebound. It happens to everyone--"
"--I kept thinking about--" Kris flushes bright red, and apparently, this conversation is going to go somewhere really-- "It's--she's exhausting and--I mean, it's like, everything I do--I mean," And impossibly, Kris goes even redder, which might as well be a billboard, "I mean, does she really have to always be right?"
"Is that," Adam takes a second, staring at Spot, because he doesn't think either of them will get through this if they have to look at each other, "a really obscure euphemism?"
Kris lets out an explosive breath, almost limp with relief. "Yeah."
It's not like Adam objects to heterosexuals having sex; it's just something they should keep in the privacy of their own homes. But this is Kris, so he'll deal. "We should probably talk about this," Adam tells the wall as Spot yawns in satisfaction, like he knows exactly what Adam is going to have to listen to and is enjoying it a lot. "Would alcohol help?"
"God," Kris says gratefully, "yes, please."
"That's my boy." Squeezing Kris, Adam eyes the minibar grimly. "Let's get this over with."
There are things Adam figured out about Kris early on; Kris is tactile, a professional-grade flirt, and when drunk, uses both with innocent yet devastating effectiveness. This is one of many and varied reasons that Kris and intoxication in a public setting would be a recipe for both horrible friendship-ending disaster and three to five fairly specialized fantasies.
It's not like Adam didn't know better; it's just that he had to give a dissertation on safe words and learned things about Kris and his relationship with Laura the PA that combined with alcohol ended up at a place where he just did not care.
The next morning, Adam wakes with the beginnings of a truly epic hangover to see a tanned, attractive semi-blonde wearing his shirt and takes a moment. "Oh my God no."
She scowls at him, then looks back down at Spot, mouth curving in a helpless smile as he crawls into her lap. "Yeah, no, and fuck no."
He's still wearing pants, but heterosexuality can be tricky like that. "I didn't--"
"You didn't, he didn't, and oh God, no, I didn't. My mother would kill me." Spot nudges her hand, and she giggles as he rolls onto his back to stare up at her with melting affection. "Cute dog, by the way."
Warily, Adam sits up and does a check of the bed; on her other side, Kris is passed out cold, but is also still dressed. Adam revises his alert level from I will pretend this is not happening and hope it goes away to So this is unexpected. "So what--"
"Short version? Impromptu concert on the Strip, Elvis impersonator, chapel, and a fan. How's your math?"
"Luckily, the fan is also my best friend who just broke up with her boyfriend, so she called me to ask me to be maid of honor. I thought there might be a problem when she didn't know which of you she was supposed to marry?"
Now that he thinks about it, he remembers rhinestones and making out with someone in a white leisure suit and sideburns in a tiny bathroom while something that could have indeed been a wedding march played. "Huh. They didn't--"
"No. Thank God," she breathes. "She's sleeping it off. However," she takes a deep breath, staring at Spot. "So you're Adam Lambert?"
"Why are you framing that as a question like you hope the answer is no?"
"There's um--" She swallows hard. "The paparazzi sort of--found you. Found us? At the chapel. And--"
Adam shuts his eyes, hangover increasing with a vengeance.
"I found your car--are those jeans painted on or what? I'm pretty sure what I had to do to get your keys qualifies as sex in some states--and got us back here, but they chased us the entire way and your security was really--laughing a lot? So not helpful. I wouldn't--turn on the television? Or like, go outside." She looks at the door, eyes narrowed. "Trust me, if I could have gotten away, I would have. My hair looks awful in the pictures."
"Ouch," Adam says sympathetically, digging for his phone. One look at the screen is enough. "Oh, this is interesting."
"So is there someone you can call to get me out of here--?" she says hopefully. "You threw up on my only outfit, so--"
"I did not. Just a second." There we go, text and-- "My assistant just quit by text message. So far, this day is really looking up."
"She seemed really--" The girl hesitates, looking wary. "--unhappy when I woke her up."
Adam blinks at her, then at Spot; life does not do this. "You called--"
"I didn't know where you were staying!" she answers defensively. "Neither did she, but when she hung up, I tried speed-dial two--"
"You called Brad?"
"And he told me where you were staying and how to contact your security and what to tell them. And he told me to take pictures? Which I did, but I didn't send to anyone but him yet." She blows out a breath. "I mean, fine, if I'm going to be co-star of the American Idol Threesome Scandal drama? I deserve whatever the Enquirer will pay, okay? Then maybe my mom won't disinherit me if I get her like, a BMW or something."
"Wow." Adam stares at her as he hits dial, then looks at Spot, who yawns complacently. "What's your name?"
"Perfect--hi, Laura!" Pulling the phone back from his ear, Adam waits as Laura the PA monologues at a decibel usually reserved for megaphones, reaching for the room service menu and checking availability. "Hungry?"
Anna looks wary. "Um, a little--"
"Can you order--never mind, just get one of everything on the menu." Adam picks up the phone again when it sounds out Laura the PA is running out of breath. "Laura? Listen, it's all--oh, Kris? Just a second, let me check--Anna, baby, is Kris awake yet?"
Anna crumples the menu between her hands, eyes narrowing; trying to look soothing, Adam grabs for her wrists when she looks in danger of felonious assault, shaking his head frantically when she starts to open her mouth. "Okay, I am not telling Kris that--oh. Well, that's--kind of awesome, actually. I really hope I never see you again, and restraining orders are definitely in your future. Maybe you should think about finding a good therapist? Right. Bye!"
"You did not--"
"You were going to sell our pictures to the paparazzi; neither of us have the moral high ground here." Anna shuts her mouth with a frown. "Want a job?"
"Well," Adam says; seriously, he could not have planned this better. "Right, drunken threesome in Vegas with optional near-marriage or....new PA helps her boss and his best friend back to their room after drunken evening on the night he breaks up with his fiancée! It's a heartwarming story! Your mom won't be mad! No more Laura the PA! Everyone wins!"
"Seriously," she says, "are you crazy?"
"I think I pay at a competitive rate?"
"I'm a dancer."
"Then yeah, I can beat that." He pauses hopefully. "I'm not hearing no."
"That's because I'm not stupid," she answers, cradling Spot in one arm and picking up the crumpled menu as she climbs out of bed, revealing a pair of Kris' jeans whose cuffs hover about mid-calf; the girl is tall. "Everything on the menu, right?"
"If you can get me mimosas, I'll throw in a bonus."
Suspicious brown eyes stare into his as she picks up the phone. "I keeping the pictures, though. I'm holding you to this."
"Shock me more," Adam says, stretching comfortably on the mattress. Kris makes a sad sound, bloodshot eyes staring into Adam's pathetically. "Hey, baby, how you feeling?"
"Can you kill me?"
Adam grins, rolling on his side as Anna out-talks whoever she managed to get on the phone, watching Kris creep the width of the bed to collapse against his shoulder just as Anna says, "Oh, and do you have that stuff you make for hangovers? Ask Mindy; she knows the mix. Yeah, four or so? They really drank a lot."
Against his shoulder, Kris mumbles, "Who's that?"
Kris' hair has achieved new levels of messiness; Adam frowns, trying to smooth down the more aggressive spikes. "Just my PA. Pretty sure I broke up with your girlfriend for you, so I needed a new one. Go back to sleep. I'll wake you up when breakfast gets here."
Kris sighs, going boneless. "Yeah, okay."
Anna is in fact a really bad PA, but to be fair, she's never done it before, and Laura the PA left a mess behind before security caught her (arrest! It's like Christmas!), but she has four things going for her: a.) she's not Laura the PA, which is so much a plus, b.) she doesn't live to make his life miserable, c.) Spot inexplicably adores her and Spot hates pretty much everyone, and d.) she has no interest in hooking up with Kris. At all.
"Not really my type," she says, poking through Laura's laptop with a horrified expression etched onto her face and dragging him over to stare, appalled, at each terrifying picture she uncovers. Adam wants to tell her to stop, but it's like some kind of post-modern car-accident metaphor; it's filthy and horrifying and they can't look away. "God, is that--is that an espresso machine? What is she doing to it?"
"I--I don't know," Adam says, feeling ill and like he may never have sex again. "I think that's the tour manager from--okay, no, delete that shit now."
"I was zipping them for blackmail," Anna answers, opening the next jpeg with an intent expression. "You know, for when the restraining order ends?"
"Are you collecting on all my employees?" Adam says, sitting on the arm of her chair to check the zip files; he recognizes about half the names, including his own.
"Of course. I've watched your publicity. You're like, one drunken expose away from a male pregnancy paternity suit. No one wants that."
"I kind of want to marry you," Adam says and almost means it.
Anna gives him a frown, nose wrinkling. "You're not my type.
"Because I'm gay? I can do straight. People do it all the time!" Adam considers. "Though I'm going to admit now, we'll be looking at infidelity in less than three days. If you have a brother, probably before the reception starts."
"It's more that you're a guy," she says, adding the picture to the zip archive. "No offense."
Adam is kind of helpless in the face of this kind of compatibility. "So--oh. My. God."
Anna slams her hand over the screen and shuts her eyes. "No no no, just--" From between his fingers, Adam sees her groping for zip to archive. "I did not see that."
"So I need a shower," Adam says blankly. "And maybe a prefrontal lobotomy?"
"I have whiskey?"
"Seriously," Adam says, "a sexless marriage would be so progressive of us. Think Andrea Dworkin and--what's his name? The guy she married and didn't fuck?"
"And yet I'm untempted," she answers, zipping the entire folder entitled Kris and hiding it where no one but a sympathetic DA will ever have to see it. "Besides," she murmurs to herself as Adam goes to look for glasses, "Kris would totally kill me."