ellore

Stars Come Down from the Rafters (1/?)

2007-06-21T14:55:27Z

Title: Stars Come Down from the Rafters (1/?)
Author: ellore
Pairing/Characters: Jared/Jensen
Rating: PG for this part
Genre: RPS AU
Word Count: 3,467
Spoilers: Nada
A/N: I was amazed at the response to my prologue - thank you all so much! <3 Hopefully, chapter one won't disappoint. It would have been out sooner had Jared's voice not been so difficult. I'm still not quite happy with his POV, but I didn't want to leave any readers hanging for too long. Again, feedback would be much adored - let me know what you think.
Previously: Prologue

Summary: Against his better judgment, professional dancer Jared Padelecki agrees to be a judge and choreographer on "America's Favorite Dancer" and meets dancing hopeful Jensen Ackles.

What do you dance?
~Traditional African Bantu greeting

Chapter 1

Since Jared normally got up at five in the morning to begin warm-up and practice, it was no hardship to be at the theater the show had rented by six.

He wasn’t sure why he’d been instructed to show at six – auditions didn’t begin until eight, after all – but then again he was used to performing for audiences not cameras. Perhaps the procedure was different. He stopped off at a gourmet café he’d discovered not long after moving to New York. They carried some of the best, albeit priciest, coffee he’d ever tasted, and realizing that not everyone was a morning person like him, he thought it would be nice to splurge and bring his new associates a portable coffee carrier of their Jamaican Blue Mountain Roast.

There were already some contestants lined up outside the theater when Jared arrived, and he appraised them with a practiced eye as he walked past. Some, he could already tell, could genuinely call themselves dancers – part of that was how they carried themselves but mostly it was in their awareness of their bodies and movements. The majority would be going home disappointed, their assessment of their own ability mistaken. And then there were those few who were clearly there on a lark, to shamelessly get their fifteen minutes of fame on the small screen. It kindled a simmering sort of upset in his gut, all anger and frustration, that he refused to examine more closely while he was still in public.

He was whisked inside as soon as he came into view of the door – the guard muttered something grouchy about prima donna TV execs that he didn’t catch, but the man warmed noticeably when Jared offered him a cup of coffee and guided him backstage where everyone else was convening.

“Ah, Mr. Paladecki!”

“Oh, actually, it’s Padalecki,” he corrected the blonde woman with a good-natured grin. She was coming towards him with the intensity of a guided missile, high heels clicking over the floor in an allegro beat.

She huffed a little and with a grin, a barracuda-quick flash of teeth, said, “Yes, yes, of course. I’m Dawn Ostroff, the executive producer. Call me Dawn. This way, please, Mr. Paladecki.”

Smile dimming uncomfortably, he tried again, “Uh, that’s Padalecki.”

“This is Eric Kripke, the show’s creator, and Samantha Ferris.” He barely had a chance to nod at the other two and flash them a friendly grin before Dawn was demanding his attention again. “They’re the two regular judges. The third judge is a guest judge. We’ve already done the open auditions in L.A. and Chicago – New York is the last. Hmm, you have a good face, young and hot, so after you’re done judging here we’ll put you on the rota for the guest judge seat for the rest of the show in addition to your responsibilities as a choreographer. Got it?”

Jared was used to dealing with egos – they were present in exceptional frequency in any performance business – so he managed not to gape at her as she lectured him. “I was under the impression that that’s what I was signing up for,” he responded evenly.

“Good – you do the artsy stuff, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re more than a ballerina, ballerino, whatever, right? I mean, you do do other styles?”

Given her disregard for getting his name right, he doubted that she would listen if he told her that the preferred term was danseur. Instead, he snickered mentally at her turn of phrase and let his annoyance ease away as irrelevant as a prohibited camera flash during a performance.

“Yes, I also do modern, contemporary, and lyrical dance,” he answered politely. His decision to continue practicing other forms of dance and to compete in competitions had been a double-edged sword – it had gotten his name out in some of the foremost dancing circles but had kept him from advancing from the corps to soloist at the Theatre until last year. Pushing that thought away, he continued, “They overlap to some extent, but…” He trailed off, realizing that Dawn clearly had no idea what he was talking about.

“Yes, good – this show’s not much for ballet. We’d never get the breakers and street dancers in tights.” She laughed loudly – braying like a donkey, Jared thought somewhat uncharitably – and didn’t seem to notice that Jared wasn’t laughing with her. He’d put up with a lot of shit over the years about his passion for dance and ballet in particular and had heard far worse insults, but somehow, coming from this woman intruding so presumptuously into his profession, he found himself having far more difficult time hanging onto his equanimity than he had been since before high school.

“Okay, last thing to go over with you – as far as the judging is concerned, keep in my mind that this a TV show. Spout whatever you want about artistic integrity to the camera, but we want young, we want hot, we want faces that will pull in viewers. Keep that in mind when you’re advancing contestants, got it? Young and hot.”

“I understand your position,” Jared said coolly, fixing her with a conversation-ending glare. While it didn’t seem to impress her, unfortunately, she did take the hint and stalked off elsewhere without questioning his carefully worded non-answer.

He slowly unclenched his jaw, consciously relaxing tensed muscles.

“Hey, forget about Dawn – she just likes to ‘be involved.’ Normally, we just nod and smile when she goes off on the ‘young and hot’ thing and then ignore her,” an amused voice said behind him. Jared turned and smiled tiredly at the man who had spoken. “Eric Kripke,” he said, sticking out his hand.

“Jared Padalecki,” he responded, shaking Kripke’s hand.

“I know. I saw you – what was it? Two? Three years ago? At the USA IBC. That was pretty remarkable dancing. An essential no-name coming out of nowhere and managing to snag a bronze? Pretty memorable.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jared grinned widely, the last of his irritation melting away, at the reminder of his performance at the USA International Ballet Competition. Two years later and he still couldn’t believe he’d medaled.

“Hey, Kripkeeper! Don’t go hogging our newest best friend for the weekend,” a woman said, draping a familiar arm around Kripke’s shoulder. “Samantha Ferris, hon. Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you too, ma’am,” he said, nodding to her courteously since she hadn’t offered her hand. The trio stared at each other for a few awkward moments, and then Jared hefted the coffee he was still carrying and added pointlessly, “I brought coffee – the good stuff.”

“Honey, you are a man after my own heart,” Samantha said, her voice a velvety drawl. “Let’s set it by the catering table, and we can start figuring out who gets to play the good judge/bad judge.”

They settled into fold-out chairs, Samantha stationing herself closest to the coffee. She breathed in deeply and moaned throatily. “Ambrosia, absolute ambrosia.”

Jared grinned as he dug into the pastries he’d snatched – caffeine may be the more typical addiction of choice, but he had a weakness for sugar that drove the Theatre’s dance mistress nuts. “So, Kripkeeper?” he prodded.

“Samantha and I first met during an ill-fated attempt to turn Elvira into a Broadway musical – hence the nickname.” The two shared a grin that spoke of a long friendship and Kripke added, “Most of my work has been in producing stage musicals. Broke into TV a little while back with some of those ABC made-for-TV musicals before I came up with this show.”

“Me, I’m a ballroom dancer. I don’t really compete much anymore, mostly get hired as a choreographer for all sorts of random projects.”

Jared quickly swallowed and asked, “Like Elvira?”

“That was one of the more random, you got it.”

They continued chatting as Samantha downed cup after cup of coffee. Jared had always been a pretty friendly guy unless and until he was given reason to be otherwise, and Samantha was clearly adopted him on the basis of his offering coffee and his dimples – she patted him on the cheek at one point and called him a ‘good, sweet boy.’ Kripke, who went by his last name ever since he’d co-produced a musical with a man regrettably named Eric Erickson, was a bit more distant but he had clearly thrown himself wholeheartedly into getting this TV show together. He and Jared might not be insta-friends, but Jared greatly respected his professionalism and dedication and Kripke seemed to reciprocate.

“Hey, guys! Need a little camera time before you head out to the judging table,” a cheerful voice rang out.

“Ah, Sandy,” Kripke greeted the petite but curvaceous woman heading their way with a smile and a camera crew trailing. Her face was familiar, though Jared couldn’t place from where, and she was smiling brightly, walking with the confidence of someone who knew that admiring eyes were on her and enjoyed it.

“Hi there!” she grinned, coming to a stop with an endearing little bounce. “You must be a guest judge, right?”

“Jared Padalecki,” he said with an answering grin as he stood, offering his hand.

“Well, Jared Padalecki. I’m Sandy McCoy, show’s host.” She took his hand with both of hers, squeezing it and grinning as though they were long-lost friends, and Jared, sensing that she would not be disconcerted, impulsively tugged and swept her into his arms. She was really, very tiny, especially compared to his stature, and as her arms came up around his neck, he swung her off the ground in a bear hug, her laughter pealing in his ears.

“Well, damn,” a gruff voice interrupted. “Now we got two of them.”

“Now, Jim,” Sandy said somewhat breathlessly as he set her on the ground and did a few impromptu steps as he twirled her. “What’s wrong with being friendly?”

The man – Jim – just rolled his eyes and didn’t respond. “That’s Jim Beaver, my cameraman. He’s just grumbly because I hugged him too when we first met and ruined his grizzly bear persona,” Sandy explained as she turned back to Jared and schooled her expression into something more professional. Behind her, he could see Samantha smothering her amusement. “Right, so, the reason I was coming back here is that the auditions will be starting soon and Kripke here wants some judge footage especially of the new face before we get going.”

“I’m at your disposal,” Jared said, hamming it up with a deep bow and flourish.

“Oh yeah, those two are gonna get on like a house on fire,” Jim muttered as he hoisted his camera.

~~~

“I can’t believe you quit your job, you dumbass!”

Jensen hmmm-ed absently, holding the cell phone with his shoulder as he looked around at his fellow dancers in line.

“And you flew to New York for this pipe-dream? What the fuck, man!”

He should have gotten here earlier – by the time he had arrived the line was snaking around the building and verging on crossing the damn street. He just hated waking up early.

“Jenny, man, you aren’t old enough for a midlife crisis. You do realize that, right?”

He was almost through the door though, where he would hand in his paperwork and then be given free run of the lobby to warm up with a few of the other dancers about to go in.

“Hey, shithead, are you listening?”

“Actually, I’m pretty much tuning you out, Chris. Hey, put Steve back on, wouldya?” He grinned as he heard Chris sputtering as the two wrestled for control of the phone. He enjoyed messing with Chris – the guy liked to cultivate this Mr. Cool attitude and being able to screw with that was one of the best parts of being his friend.

“Hey, Jensen, good luck, man – Hey, getoff me, dickwad – we’re both rooting for you.”

“Thanks, Steve,” Jensen replied laughingly.

“And don’t worry, we’ll save you some foodstamps if you get your ass handed to you by those snooty judges.” Steve’s voice was tinny coming down the line as though he were yelling at the receiver from a distance. Given the tussling Jensen could still hear going on, that was a likely scenario

“Gee, thanks, you’re real pal,” he responded dryly. “Hey, look, I gotta go. I’m about to head in.” He listened, entertained by their tag team attempts to say goodbye, and finally shouted another, more decisive farewell and closed his cell.

Good timing too, as the man in charge of the door was asking for his papers. He handed them over, and then the man ushered him inside, raising a single eyebrow, Spock-like, at the prop he’d dragged along.

It was a neat theater – like something out of an old movie with red velvet and dark wood and sweeping stairs. Either the place had been preserved or someone had done a bang-up job restoring it to its turn-of-the-century glory.

He looked around, noting a few other dancers warming up, all serious faces and frightening flexibility. There were a few others who weren’t bother – but they didn’t look particularly likely to be continuing on either.

His nerves, which had been calmed by his friends’ strangely soothing berating, began to twang again as he wondered what he was doing here. He was a good dancer, but he wasn’t a professional, had had no real training. He shifted his weight several times, swaying to some nervous beat and hoping that the wait wasn’t too long before he was called.

Finally, he decided to warm-up a little himself – just some jumping jacks to get his blood pumping after waiting in line. He was also accosted – well, okay that was probably to strong a word – by the beautiful and bubbly host, Sandy McCoy, a former cosmetics model who was apparently attempting to move from commercials to roles with greater airtime.

Now that was an exceedingly awkward conversation. It was one thing to go up on stage and dance a choreographed routine, but being interviewed with no preparation and the expectation that this footage could be broadcast on nationwide TV? – yeah, that certainly didn’t help his anxiety. Sandy had reassured him afterwards that he had come off as endearingly shy rather than idiot-in-the-headlights. That was better than he had expected, but he resolved to improve if he made it to the next round. ‘Shy’ was a label he thought he’d left behind in high school, and he really did not want it resurrected.

“Jensen Ackles?”

Swallowing against the surge of bile that was suddenly threatening his composure, Jensen spoke up, “That’s me. Coming!”

The stage seemed very empty and very huge. Jensen was a Texas-boy - a city boy, true – but a Texas boy nevertheless, and he was used to open spaces and wide, flat plains and sky that went on forever. A stage should not feel larger than the state of Texas, but this one did.

Three pairs of eyes were following him, assessing and focused, as he walked up to the microphone, his prop over his shoulder. The skin on his neck itched at the attention, and he refused to look up until he was at the mike.

Oh.

There were three judges, but he barely spared a glance for the two older ones because the youngest one, the gorgeous one, the one sitting on the far right completely captured his attention. He was – he was grinning at Jensen, a wide, bright grin that was like being blinded by a high beam. Every muscle in his face seemed to be involved, a genuine full-face grin and Jensen would swear to God, that his eyes were fucking twinkling. The guy was beaming at him brilliantly, intimately, like they were best friends and he knew exactly what Jensen had planned, thought it was awesome, couldn’t wait to see how he pulled it off.

“So, Jensen,” and he forced his attention to the other man who was speaking. “Most of your experience seems to be in partner dancing, but you’re here solo. What should we be expecting?”

It was the perfect lead-in, and in the glow of that smile, like basking in the sun after getting out of a cold pool, Jensen actually felt comfortable enough to answer as though he hadn’t been a hair away from panicking seconds before.

“Well, I couldn’t find a partner willing to fly across country so I decided to follow the lead of one of the greats.” He swung the coat tree off his shoulder, setting it down with a scarcely audible thump. “I figured, if it was good enough for Astaire,” throw in a self-effacing shrug, “it was good enough for me.”

“Well, okay then,” the older man answered with a nod. That was, apparently, a cue to the crew because the microphone was swiftly removed, and then the opening strains of music began.

Jensen let his eyes slip close as he moved through the first easy steps, letting the rhythm get into his pulse, excitement building in his hips and shoulders and then sizzling through his veins. The original inspiration for his routine had been a Fred Astaire tap routine, but Jensen was not really up on tap. Instead he’d chosen a piece that was mostly big band in sound but a little sultrier. The fast swing beat let him work in some fancy footwork and he threw in some fun dips and swings with the coat tree. God knew, he’d dragged some breathing partners just as unresponsive around the dancefloor before. And then there, the bridge, where it slowed down just enough to be sexy. He moved sensuously, pretending that he was trying to grab smiling guy’s eye across the dance floor – it was still a G-rated move, but there was just enough leg and just enough slither to let the judges know that if he wanted to pole dance, he could. And then the quick beat resumed, and he was careening towards his final moves.

He dipped low, coat rack resting lightly in the crook of his arm just as the trumpets blasted their final note, and then the music was over. Swallowing hard, smile fading with the music, he stood up and waited to hear what the judges thought of his unconventional performance.

The woman spoke first, as she pretended to fan herself. “Whoo, mama!” she enthused. “Honey, all I have to say is if you’re that hot with coat rack, I would love to see you with a real partner. I’d definitely like to see more of you.”

“Thank you,” he replied breathlessly, not yet willing to unknot the jittery twists in his gut.

“I see Samantha’s point,” the older man picked up the thread, “but frankly, Astaire did it better.” Jensen clutched at the coat tree, knuckles whitening, refusing to let his spirits fall. “It was interesting idea, but your technique was not the best. I simply don’t think you have what it takes right now to make it through the show. I’m sorry. I’m going to say no.”

“Well, Jared?” Samantha prompted the final judge.

The smiling guy – Jared wasn’t smiling anymore, and he looked at Jensen for a beat, stared at him as though he could read every nuance of his face if he just studied hard enough, before he spoke. Pinned by those perceptive eyes, Jensen stared back helplessly, every emotion bared on his face, hoping Jared could see how much he wanted this.

“Kripke has a point – you technique is not as good as I’d like it to be. But technique is what makes an athlete and performance is what makes an artist – you need to be both to dance.” He paused for breath, watching Jensen as though to check that he was truly paying attention. Startled by his earnestness and his articulateness, Jensen could only nod, his breath caught in his throat. He still could not predict which way Jared would decide.

“You performed very well,” Jared continued, a small smile quirking his lips. “You took an idea and made it your own. That elusive charisma, stage quality, whatever… It’s there, man. I’d like to send you to choreography after this and see what more you can do.”

Air exploded from his lungs in one stunned and relieved exhale. “Thank you, thank you,” he repeated breathlessly. It wasn’t an unqualified pass to the next round, but it was another chance to get there. “Thank you,” he reiterated once more, just to be safe.

Jared grinned at him, giving him a surreptitious thumbs-up as he left the stage. It shouldn’t have warmed him the way it did – the guy was clearly just being friendly in an insane, we’ve-never-actually-talked sort of way. But the way Jensen couldn’t stop smiling when Sandy stopped him to talk wasn’t just because he’s been invited back for choreography.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: For those of you interested, the Fred Astaire routine referenced in the chapter can be seen here.

Stars Come Down from the Rafters (Prologue/?)

2007-06-15T05:53:52Z

Title: Stars Come Down from the Rafters (Prologue/?)
Author: ellore
Pairing/Characters: Jared/Jensen
Rating: PG for this part
Genre: RPS AU
Word Count: 1,036
Spoilers: Nada
A/N: I had a grand plan for a fantasy J2 AU, but then I decided that was too ambitious right out the gate and that I should test the waters with a little one-shot instead. It mushroomed beyond that, of course. *laughs at self* In any case, this is the result of getting hooked on that show "So You Think You Can Dance" and RPS at about the same time. Feedback would be adored - this is my first slash or RPS so I'm a little nervous.

Summary: Against his better judgment, professional dancer Jared Padelecki agrees to be a judge and choreographer on "America's Favorite Dancer" and meets dancing hopeful Jensen Ackles.

Dance 'til the stars come down from the rafters
Dance, Dance, Dance 'til you drop.
~W.H. Auden

Prologue

Jared had been a klutzy kid. By the time he was eight, he’d broken his leg falling out of a friend’s treehouse, prematurely knocked out three of his baby teeth, fractured his wrist tripping over the family dog, and fallen through an older sliding glass door – the kind without the safety glass. It was the final injury that was the last straw. He’d ended up in the hospital with multiple lacerations and more stitches than Jared wanted to consider. One glass splinter had come frighteningly close to his left eye. Another had narrowly missed slicing the blood vessels in his neck.

His mom enrolled him in ballet in the vague hopes that Jared would become more graceful and less likely to kill or maim himself before he reached his teen years. The ballet teacher had practically salivated over her opportunity to get her hands on a male dancer and had extolled the benefits, going on about self-discipline and the marvelous control over his body that a dancer would require and that Jared, as her student, would develop. Over Jared’s loud protests, he joined her late afternoon class twice a week.

What no one had expected was how much he would enjoy himself. Right about the time that he was jeté-ing across the studio with more enthusiasm than skill and the instructor barking at him to hold his hips still, he realized that he didn’t want to wait two more days before his next lesson, that in fact, what he did want was to keep dancing after the lesson was over and to come back tomorrow for more.

His parents were confused but supportive, clearly expecting his interest to wane eventually but willing to humor him until then. His teacher was ecstatic, declaring in one breath that he had an amazing natural talent and performing presence and in the next breath that his technique was abysmal and that if he wanted to advance he would have to dedicate himself unto her hands, body and soul.

He took her words to heart and threw himself into dance with unreserved passion. By the time he was fourteen, he had been training in ballet for six years, had added contemporary dance, jazz, and tap three years ago, and had auditioned to attend Booker T. Washington High School for Performing and Visual Arts in Dallas, one of the premier arts magnet schools.

He cried when he was accepted and swore his mother to secrecy.

At sixteen he was considered a rising star in the dance department, and at eighteen, he decided to forego college and accept the American Ballet Theatre’s offer.

At twenty-two, on leave from the Theatre, terrified, and faced with the prospect of empty time after fourteen years of physical discipline and relentless practice, he did something he once swore never to do and accepted a TV network’s offer to be a judge and choreographer for their "American Idol"-esque dance competition.

~~~

Jensen took his first dance lesson before he started high school. Every girl he had talked to had said that being not only willing but able to dance increased his hotness exponentially. And well, the stereotype about male dancers had to start somewhere, right? Either way, it was a win-win situation. Once his teenage libido settled and he wasn’t sporting a hard-on in every stiff breeze, he’d be able to figure out what really did it for him, and a dance class was a good investment towards getting laid regardless.

He signed up for a generic social dancing course at a local dance studio – a very noncompetitive, relaxed place whose students were just in it for the fun. Surprisingly, he had a better time than he had expected. He’d always liked music – had toyed with the idea of forming a band with his friends once they got their driver's licenses – and had an unshakable sense of rhythm.

He kept up with it, casually, throughout high school. It paid off in college. By then, his dick had pretty much started paying exclusive attention to guys and dancing provided him with a built-in network of dates. Hot dates. More traditional jocks might mock dancers as sissy-boys or whatever, but Jensen understood just what athleticism it took to dance – he firmly avowed that his dates had the best bodies of any jock or gym enthusiast around.

So yeah, dancing was one of his better ideas. He wasn’t nearly as shy as he was in high school, but meeting on the dancefloor or even just having dance as a conversation opener most likely saved his college sex life.

Jensen had always considered going to physical therapy school, but by the time he graduated, he was tired of school, tired of classes, and very much tired of living off his parents’ allowance. He decided to enter the workplace, earn some money, and to reconsider graduate school down the line after he had some savings in the bank.

He got a job in a physical therapy clinic working in administration. It wasn’t the most exciting job in the world, being chained to a desk and a telephone line. And while it wasn’t exactly the paperwork nightmare of being a lawyer, but there was a lot of bureaucratic forms and filing. He meant to stay maybe a year or two but then he was promoted. So he stayed on.

By the time he was twenty-six, Jensen had been working at the clinic for four years and he realized that he was miserable. He sat back and took stock of where he was in life and what he was doing and discovered that he hated having a desk job and that he did not want to be here another four, five, ten years. The brightest part of his life was the weekends when he went dancing – not even hooking up – but the dancing itself.

He decided that he needed to get out of the rut he was stuck in and do something fun and impulsive, something just for him. When he saw the advertisement, it seemed like fate. He politely told his boss that he was giving notice, and then he went home and began choreographing his routine for the open auditions of the TV show "America’s Favorite Dancer."

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