Title: in the morning I can smell you on my pillow
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: Party Down, Henry/Casey. 800 words. For Tiffany.
“Oxygen read-outs at record low! Must self-detonate!”
Casey’s voice is low and slightly robotic, crackling over the line with created static — Henry can picture her, grinning, rubbing paper over the phone, crinkling it up with her thin fingers — but he immediately knows that it’s her. He would know even if his phone didn’t pop up with her picture — one he took, her profile, Casey biting her lip in concentration, cutting crudites — and her name, Casey Klein.
She breathes heavy for a moment, possibly imitating some Darth Vader-esque character and then stops abruptly and laughs. “What’s up, Pollard?”
“Oh, just sitting on my couch, listening to some crazy person who somehow got my phone number talk about oxygen read-outs.” He imagines her on her (hypothetical, he’s never actually seen it) couch, legs crossed, maybe. That smile lingering on her face.
“So you know how Roman gave me that script to look over?” The change in topics doesn’t phase Henry. Casey’s just like that, improv, manic, almost.
“I do.”
“Are you prepared to have your ears assailed with juicy lines from Adventure of Gronn? Because this is too good to keep to myself.” There’s a small pause. “And by good I mean really, really bad.”
“I am pleased that you thought of me when considering who to share bad things with.” He is, though, really. He’s done being surprised by it; he’s moved on to the comfortable warm feeling. It’s a good place. If Casey were here, sitting next to him on this couch (probably kicking her feet up on the table, shoes on) he would brush her hair back. Maybe nibble at her ear a little. She’d squirm away, maybe, say something like “Jesus, dude. It’s like Roman’s fucking in the room with us.” And he would laugh, despite himself, and tell her that “Roman’s not fucking anywhere,” let alone here, with them. Hypothetically.
“My options for an appreciative audience are sadly limited.”
“Well, that makes me feel loads better.”
“C’mon Henry. Don’t pout. You’ll get wrinkles.”
“Are they the kind that make me look older and distinguished?”
“Hmm,” Casey says, pausing, and Henry knows she’s picturing him, really thinking about it. For some reason, that makes his heartbeat speed up a little. Not the wrinkles part, definitely not that, but knowing that she’s picturing him like he’s picturing her (though with considerably fewer wrinkles). It’s nice. “Yeah, maybe,” she concludes, letting silence come over the line.
“I was under the impression that a performance was imminent.”
“Yeah, well. You got me all distract-y with the wrinkle thing.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re the one who brought that up.”
“Semantics.”
“Semantics?”
“Besides,” Casey continues, ignoring the half-question. She does that. Barrels through things. Aside from being a completely unattractive quality, it’s one of the things Henry likes most about her. That and her non-wrinkly face. And non-wrinkly other things.
Very non-wrinkly, in fact.
“Besides, it’s not that much fun doing the whole thing by myself. I mean, there are parts. Voices. I feel like, if only for the sake of mockery, this should be performed on a much grander scale.” Henry can hear paper rustling, the turning of pages. “A whole shit-ton of people just laughing their asses off.”
Henry thinks that might be a little on the mean side, and while Roman does deserve to have his ass handed to him on as many platters as are necessary, that maybe, Casey might be pushing this a little. “It’s really that bad?”
“It is, actually. There’s a character — okay, character is kind of a generous term for it — named Sexya. Guess what she’s there for?”
“I’m going to take a shot in the dark and guess that she is there for balancing weaponry on her heaving bosom.” He’s never said that word out loud before, bosom. Maybe he should mark it on the calendar or something.
“Something like that.” There’s another long pause, and Henry thinks it’s nice, actually, that they can just sit here like this, listening to each other breathe. Normal. Nothing fancy, nothing hard.
“Is it sad if I say that I’m a little disappointed? That I thought that — just maybe — Roman might have some hidden depth that wasn’t about space viruses and giant weeping vaginas?”
“Wow. That is an especially vivid mental image.”
“Isn’t it though? Came up with that one myself.” She sucks in her breath and lets it out. “Seriously though. You should come over and read this script with me. I’ll even improvise some sort of costuming. You might look kind of handsome in suspenders.”
“Suspenders?” Henry’s going to pretend that Casey didn’t just make another massive jump in the conversation. He’s just along for the ride at this point. It’s a nice ride. He isn’t complaining.
“And a little hat.” He pictures her again, grinning. “You in?”
“I am so in.”
“Gross, Henry. This isn’t phone sex.” She’s still smiling, he can hear it in her voice.
“News to me.” And he’s smiling now, too. Despite himself.
