InsaneJournal

Current mood:	mellow
Entry tags:	ai, american idol, american idol: fic

American Idol Fic: Black Bird Singing 1/13
TITLE: Black Bird Singing
AUTHOR: Mari
RATING: NC-17 eventually
SPOILERS: Uh. This is AU. This is deeply, deeply AU. No one has wings, that’s about as much contact with “canon” as it actually has.
PAIRING: Michael Johns/David Cook.
SUMMARY: Somewhere, Michael’s life went wrong, and he’s not entirely sure where.



Michael hated his job. This was not what one would call an industry secret. If he was pushed, he would say that this came about as a result of the angry, bitter way that he stabbed out his cigarettes, almost as if he would rather be putting them out on skin than pavement, the way that he smelled like alcohol more often than he did not, the way that he wielded his camera like a weapon.

Or, he guessed, it probably also came about from the way that he kept saying that he hated his job, to anyone who would listen and more than once at top volume.

Michael did not believe in keeping secrets.

Beth only smiled at him as he was winding down from the latest of these tirades in her office. She was a tall woman, and pretty, and she had wanted to be an actress when she had first come to the city of angels over two decades before. She had learned swiftly that pretty was not enough, and that talented and even ruthless were not enough, and that was why she was here now. Michael would have thought that this would give her a certain amount of sympathy for his own position, but such was not the case. If anything, she seemed even more determined to burn the self-pity right out of him.

She folded her hands together now and smiled at him, sweetly, in a way that managed to look fake even though she could be quite the talented actress when she wanted to be, Michael had seen her do it. She had long, dark hair that was just starting to turn gray, or would have been if Michael did not know that she had started going to one of the best colorists in Los Angeles with handfuls of cash some six months before. (She hardly had any right to complain about how much he knew about her, Michael decided, she who encouraged all of his baser instincts in the fine art of stalking people in the first place.) Beth had skin the color of burnt honey that was also being kept from even the very first hints of aging by the best science that money could buy, and Beth had large, dark eyes that could pin a man to his place without laying a finger on him. Michael had imagined what she would be like sprawled across the very desk that separated them now more than once; the hell of it, he figured, was that she knew this and was not above using it whenever she thought necessary.

There was a decent chance that now was one of the times when she was going to deem in necessary, he decided as he glared back in response to her oh-so-sweet smile. There must be something different in his eyes even as the rant was the same, something wilder, because Beth leaned down beneath the desk and with perfectly manicured nails opened one of her drawers so that she could rifle inside. “How much do I pay you, Michael?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “This isn’t going to be answered with more money,” he said. There was a tightness in his chest, a thrumming in his veins, a sense that this time, he was really going to do it, he was really going to quit. It was either that or, quite bluntly, go insane. He would hate to end his career by becoming a story himself.

Beth shot him a look. “I started paying you more per picture three months ago,” she said sharply. “Be damned if I’m going to give you another raise, you’re not that good-or that pretty.” Michael leaned further back in his chair, folded his arms across his stomach, and flashed her a smile intended to remind her that they both knew he was at least one of the above. Beth ignored it. She found the paper that she was looking for at long last and slid it across the desk at him. Michael barely glanced at it before his eyes had to skip away again. He didn’t like to be reminded of how much money he was actually given for chasing people back and forth across the city and filming their darkest moments. Spending the money, sure, but then he could at least pretend that it landed in his bank account through some mysterious means that he did not entirely understand. “This is to remind you of how much I already pay you, and how little prepared you are to actually work anywhere else.”

Michael leaned further back in his chair and felt his smile fall away. “Did I ever tell you that you’re a real cunt, Beth?”

Beth’s smile began to glitter; Michael was not sure how she did it. He swore that he had not seen her face move. “I’m telling the truth, Michael,” she told him. “Because I want what’s best for you.” Another frightening shift in her face. “And if you ever call me a cunt again, I’ll have security escort you out of this office and you’ll never step foot in it again.”

“Ma’am, yes ma’am.” Michael rose from his chair. “Does Her Highness have any particular assignments for me today, or I am to go wherever my own inherent sleaze takes me?”

Beth had turned on her computer as soon as Michael stood up. It was her way of signaling that the conversation was over and he could be on his way. She glanced at him over the terminal with her eyebrows raised. “Michael,” she inquired in her warning tone. Michael always knew this one, because it was so sweet that only a fool would believe in it. “Do you ever realize how much you get away with solely because of the pictures you take?”

“We agree on something.” It certainly wasn’t his sparkling personality, for Michael had been making it his mission for nearly four years now so that that would not endear him to anyone.

Beth’s lips thinned, but she took the comment as submission, apparently, for she pushed a thin plastic case across the desk at him next. Michael barely glanced at him before he raised his eyebrows and tossed it back. Some pop star with a guitar was posing on the cover, artfully moody lighting surrounding him. His face looked vaguely familiar to Michael, but that didn’t mean anything. He didn’t know the names of half the people he photographed.

“Nice eyes,” Michael said idly.

“The business likes them pretty,” Beth said. She seemed to realize that she had possibly stepped over a line at the last moment and looked at Michael over her computer. He hadn’t been talented enough, pretty enough, or ruthless enough, either, just like her. It never ceased to amaze him, how she could call everything about him into question from his wardrobe to his upbringing, and then show a surprising tenderness at the strangest of moments. Beth made a flicking motion. “He has a new girlfriend, maybe.”

“News at eleven.” Michael flipped the case over so that he could study the song selection on the back. A few of the titles looked familiar, like maybe he had heard them playing on the radio to and from work.

“He hasn’t broken up with the last one yet.”

“Got it.” Michael tossed the CD back down on the desk. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“He likes Hyde downtown,” Beth called out lightly. When he turned and glared at her, she flashed her teeth. “Since I noticed that you didn’t ask for a lead or anything.”

“You send me out on nothing gigs, I got to pick up my challenges somewhere.” And because he would have loved to tell her how little he thought of chasing some pop star who was apparently so uninteresting that his face was only ringing the faintest of bells (and to him, whose job it was to know every potentially scandalous face within California’s state lines) by blowing it off and spending his evening in a bar.

“If you come back smelling like alcohol, I expect you to have some ass-kicking pictures to compensate,” Beth called at his back. Michael waved a hand back at her and didn’t stick up any particular fingers.

The sun had already long since set as Michael entered his car and started the engine. When he had first started this gig, before he had realized that it was going to be a long-term thing and not just a way to make a few quick bucks for a job that any idiot willing to set their scruples to the side could do, he had joked that it had made him like Batman, this tendency to work strictly at night. It was still goddamned hot, though. He had thought that he was going to be getting away from this kind of heat when he left Australia, but it had followed him all the way around the globe so that it could cling to him.

Michael muttered and pulled at the collar of his shirt as his vehicle’s air-conditioning, blessedly, finally began to kick in. He was in a bad mood. He knew that. He had been in a bad mood for the past four years, and he didn’t think that it was going to be getting better any time soon.

Hyde was located in West Hollywood, and it was so exclusive that the parking attendant balked as soon as Michael got out of the car.

“Can’t take it yet, man, sorry,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the bouncer, who shook his head very slightly. He was surrounded by a swarm of hopefuls who were wearing dejected expressions as they began to realize that they were not going to be on the magic list, either. “Not until I’m sure you’re going to get in.”

Michael shrugged and tried his magic smile. “Come on, mate. I’ve got friends in there, they’re waiting for me.”

“Who are they?” The bouncer had appeared out of nowhere. Jesus, no wonder he was employed at the best, if he would be that big and that quiet at the same time.

It was all that Michael could do to hold back his curse. He had glanced at the album long enough to memorize the face, he had breezed right past the name. His job was to get a few pictures that could be spun as scandalous once the right caption was attached to them. He didn’t have to actually know who they were.

The bouncer’s mouth moved when he saw Michael’s blank look. On someone less inhumanly sized, Michael was pretty sure that it would have been a smile. “That’s what I thought.” He snorted. “We don’t even let real entourages in here, do you think that we’re going to let in a freaking paparazzo?” Michael could feel his face tightening, and the bouncer smiled again. “Yeah, I recognize you. You can take your pics with all of the other bottom feeders. No cameras in the club.”

Just for a second, Michael started to lean forward on his toes. Just for a second, Michael thought about making something of it. He wasn’t exactly small, and he hadn’t stopped going to the gym even after it had become clear that fame was never going to happen for him.

He also, when it came down to it, wasn’t willing to get his face pounded in just yet. Michael leaned back and raised his hands in surrender. “Easy, mate, easy. There’s no reason to get physical here.”

“Not unless you make me,” the bouncer grunted. He returned to his place by the door in time to shake his head in negation at a blonde that Michael thought had been on FOX at some point.

Michael reclaimed his car and wound up paying a ludicrous amount for parking across the street, where he was surrounded by his own kind. The cameras even clicked a few times as Michael himself strolled up, before they realized who he was. Michael threw up his middle finger in response and was rewarded with a few laughs and a few more camera clicks. No one here could be called friends, not really, but no one could be called enemies, either. It didn’t even matter if they all got the exact same shot. If it was good enough, someone would still pay for it.

“Anything interesting?” Michael asked Justin Levine, who was parked outside of Hyde as his regular gig and had probably made enough money off of the comings and goings of the people inside to retire in Tahiti by now.

“Lindsay Lohan went in about two hours ago,” Levine answered easily. He raised his camera and took a few shots as the blonde finally gave up and walked off in a huff. “The baby’s not slowing her down at all.”

“Hmm.” Michael raised his camera and took a few lazy shots, not really caring what he caught. None of the celebrities on the other side of the street were paying any attention to the conspicuous throng of cameras positioned to make note of their comings and goings. Or at the very least they were taking care not to give away too quickly just how much attention they were paying; Michael made note of more than one person on the way up entering the club and staying just long enough to make sure that the proper photos has been captured before wandering right back out again. It was a cycle. They all fed upon each other, and then bitched when their food had the audacity to complain.

God, Michael needed a drink.

“Here.” Right on cue. Michael knew that there was a reason that, out of all of the people he could be crouched with outside of one of the hottest clubs in Los Angeles, he minded crouching beside Levine the least of all. He took the flask that Levine handed over to him with a snort.

“You have way too much of a sense of the theatrical, mate.” It was whiskey, and it tasted divine sliding down Michael’s throat. He paused long enough for the burn, then the glow, before he took another swallow.

“I’m giving you free booze. Don’t be a bitch.” Levine raised his camera and took a few shots of a blond man that Michael knew he should give a shit about somehow, only to pause when he noticed that Michael was not doing the same. “You know something that I don’t?”

“Beth has me out here for someone specific.” Michael laughed when Levine gave him a dirty look, and snatched the flask from his hand again. He hadn’t bothered to eat earlier, sending each gulp of whiskey straight into his head. There was a part of his mind remaining sober enough to caution him on that, but Michael didn’t want to listen. He was feeling good right now-God, it was so hard to feel good any more-and that was that. “Don’t give me that, man. You know how it is.” They were friends among parasites, oddly. That didn’t mean that there were certain lines that still couldn’t be crossed, and spilling Beth’s scoop was one of them. Not to mention that Michael feared her wrath whenever she inevitably tracked the spill back to him.

“Your boss is a bitch.” There was an admiring tone that Levine couldn’t quite mask as he said it. Beth had that effect on people, too. “Dude. Slow it the fuck down, all right? That’s supposed to last me all night.” He snatched his flask from Michael’s hand and made a face when he felt how light it was.

“Relax. None of us are going anywhere.” Michael took a lazy shot of someone who looked enough like Clooney to claim that he had made an honest mistake later. He already felt better. The night was warm, and the alcohol was bringing out a trickling line of sweat running down his spine. Michael forgot that he had been bitching about this heat only a few hours before; it now felt a hell of a lot like going home. He considered pulling the flask from Levine’s hand and upending it just because he could, only to decide against it. Levine was eyeing him like that would invite a lecture, and Michael’s good mood was still too infant and fragile to withstand it.

Levine eyeballed him for a few seconds before he surprised Michael by rolling his eyes and tossing him the flask of his own volition. “God. Here. You’re a hell of a lot more fun when you’ve had a few.”

“That’s what I keep saying.” Michael caught the flask from the air, unscrewed the cap, and took another swallow. Just a sip this time. He had to pace himself so long as he had a job to do. “Turn this into an after school special and I’ll have to hurt you.”

Levine laughed. They were drawing looks now by their visible lack of giving a shit as to all of the prime flesh waiting to be photographed across the street. Neither one of gave a shit about that, either. “Not my style. When you flame out brilliantly, I’m going to be there taking all of the pictures.”

“TMZ runs stories on celebrity meltdowns,” Michael said. Was that an edge of bitterness coming back? He thought that maybe it was. “Not the meltdowns of people who chase celebrities.”

“I’ll keep them for my scrapbook.”

Michael let out his first startled laugh of the evening, and then flashed Levine his middle finger when he nearly wound up with whiskey up his nose as a result. They settled back hip to hip against Levine’s car, which, like Michael’s, was several thousands of dollars ahead of what he would have been able to afford if he had been employed in honest work. This isn’t so bad, Michael told himself as the whiskey continued to do its work and he eventually had to shed his jacket to escape the warmth. He tossed it onto Levine’s hood behind him; if it wound up being stolen, he could afford another one, too. That was what came with the gig, that freedom. See, look at you. Bitching over nothing.

Michael was sure at first that the wailing sound that he heard, faint and far away, was coming from inside of his own head. It was not until Levine also straightened and said, “What the fuck is that?” that he realized he was hearing police sirens. They were several blocks away for now but coming in fast, and in a neighborhood as posh and put together as this one, the smart money was immediately that they were coming for someone at Hyde. Michael swore and snatched up his camera again so that he could start taking pictures of the startled reactions of everyone waiting outside. Even if not a single one of them had done a thing wrong and the pack outside never actually found out what had drawn the police here, Beth would have a field day with the speculation possibilities all the same.

Two police cars pulled up to the curb, immediately admitting two officers apiece themselves. Michael furiously took pictures of it all without stopping to care how many of them were going to be useful-quantity over quality, and if he hit that button often enough one of them was bound to turn out just right-and was aware of everyone else doing the exact same thing around him. Adrenaline was spiking in his blood, causing his breathing to quicken and making short work of the buzz that he had been feeling. It would take nails under the fingernails to make him admit it, but if there was a part of the work that he enjoyed, it was this one right here, this feeling like he was chasing something against an entire pack of competitors who wanted to take it from him. It was powerful, and the pictures were about as close to performing as he came these days.

The officers walked into the club without so much as a backwards glance at either the insanity of the cameras behind them or the confusion of the patrons still waiting to get inside. The bouncer stood to the side to grant them entrance immediately. After that, all was silence. Michael noticed that the paparazzi, including himself, and the B-listers who had not managed to make the cut were all leaning forward with the exact same expressions of rapt fascination.

“What the fuck is going on in there?” Levine whispered beside him. He wasn’t bothering to take pictures any longer. Neither was Michael, even though flashes were still going off furiously all around them. No one needed more than one picture of a police car without anyone sitting inside; that wasn’t the money shot that was going to sell copies and get the paycheck. Amateurs, Michael thought automatically, never mind that some of these guys had been doing this job for decades rather than a few years. He had to snort back a laugh.

Levine shot him a look, then sighed and plucked his flask from Michael’s hands. “Bad Aussie. No more free booze.” Michael shot him a lazy middle finger. “I love what drinking does to your wit. Razor sharp, man. Razor sharp.”

“Up yours.”

“Like I said.”

Michael didn’t bother to answer and leaned forward as if by concentrating hard enough he would spontaneously develop powers of X-ray vision that would let him see what was going on behind those walls to create such a tense, hushed atmosphere out here on the street. The bouncer noticed Michael’s intense interest and shot him a dirty look. Michael waved. Everyone else held their breath.

The doors of the club exploded open and let out a man, and the woman that he had tucked under his arm as if he was going to have to physically shield her from an attacker. He had given her his coat. Michael was so startled by the old school gesture of chivalry that it took him several more seconds to realize that it was the famed pop star that he was staring at, and that the woman under his arm was likely precisely the new girlfriend that Beth had sent him out here to capture. The paparazzi around him had already taken a dozen pictures by the time that Michael even lifted his camera to his eye. He had a lot of ground to make up, then. Michael took several even breaths and for once tried to concentrate on making the shots good rather than just making sure that there were a lot of them, confident that at least one would turn out to be just right through happy accident. It was hard to concentrate, though, and his fingers felt fat and clumsy.

The pop star must have made arrangements within the club, for his car was being pulled up for him almost before his feet had the chance to hit the pavement outside. He glanced up once, and across the street to the madness that was happening there. The pop star’s mouth pulled down in a frown as he saw them all. Michael swore, even though he knew that it was insane with his camera in front of his face, that he and the pop star made eye contact for a few seconds.

He had not been lying to Beth. Those really were amazing eyes.

You’re drunk, Michael told himself furiously. He had always been able to walk that line between just buzzed enough to make the shots fun and too far to keep his professionalism intact, and the one time that he slipped, naturally that was going to be the night when he paid for it. He kept his hands on his camera and decided that he could tear himself a new one later. Or better yet, Beth could do it, because God knew that she was going to have plenty to say if every other paper and website in town wound up with the shots that she had specifically sent him out here to get.

The pop star nudged his female friend into the car ahead of him and then got in himself. His driver peeled away from the curb almost before his client had a chance to get the door shut. There was a split-second of hush in the air as everyone tried to decide which would be more lucrative, chasing after them or sticking around to see if even more drama would emerge a few minutes later. The cops still hadn’t come out.

“Damned if I’m going to let that go,” Levine announced finally, and like that, the mob had come to a decision. Michael lunged back across the hood of Levine’s car for his jacket, and the car keys that were in his pocket. He noticed Levine giving him a look as he straightened.

“I’m fine,” Michael said, and believed it. He felt sharper and more on point than he had in months.

“Yeah, whatever.” Levine’s expression was dubious. “Look, I’m not going to give you a free ride to my story or anything, but I’m totally willing to give you a play by play over my cell phone. So you don’t turn into a story yourself.”

Michael found his keys and flashed Levine a smile. Turning it into a competition; that had been Levine’s mistake. “Watch my cover story, asshole,” he said, and ran for his vehicle. He only felt Levine’s eyes against the back of his neck for a few seconds before Levine turned away. The pop star was getting away, after all, and business was business.

Michael threw himself into the front seat of his car and shoved his key into the ignition so hard that the vehicle nearly screamed as it started. He missed taking out a BMW as he backed out of the space by a margin of error no thicker than the car’s paint itself and knew that he was leaving a thick layer of his own tires behind as he peeled out onto the street. It had been a lazy move, bothering to tuck his car out of the way at all, and now he was paying for it in ground to be made up. That wasn’t Michael’s concern, though.

I’m going to have to tell Beth about those eyes, Michael thought. She would give him hell about it, because that was her thing, but it was the only way that Michael was going to be able to exorcise them from his mind. That single glance had already been written into his brain like an image across a negative, sharp and unalterable.

End Part One

Go to Part Two