a/n: Originally written for SMACKDOWN 2011, on Fief Goldenlake.
The Manager
By icecreamlova
Part 1
- : -
"I wouldn't want to be him," Briar said, wincing as he watched the car onscreen screech narrowly around a corner, almost smacking into a wall.
"Her," Tris corrected, busy with her papers.
"The driver's female?" Briar said, astonished.
Tris looked up. She was smirking. "Daja Kisubo. I know her, actually. She's a very nice person, easy to manage, unlike some people." Her smirk widened. "And someone who pulls stunts like you will be afraid of driving fast, I DON'T think."
He snorted, crossing his arms and drawing her eyes on purpose to the body art on his hands. No doubt she was referring to the headache he'd given her, when he turned up with distinctive tattoos she'd have to arrange for his body double to duplicate. Briar sat back in his chair, determined to argue if she wanted him to laser it off; he appreciated what Tris did for him, but he wouldn't be pushed around.
Tris sighed, rubbing her temples. The sight was familiar. "Look. I don't want to argue about this any more. Wear gloves, for all I care. Sandry-yes, that's the New York seamstress in the news a few weeks back-she works for me too, and she said she'd make some that wouldn't break the next time you jump out a window. Just don't let the tattoos be seen or they'll find you. I don't want to see you again until your next success."
It was a clear dismissal. Briar left only because he felt the same way.
- : -
As Briar left Tris's office, muttering, someone else was just entering. The new visitor stared momentarily at Briar's back - and then at Tris.
"You don't want to know," Tris told her, sharply.
Her visitor said, "His shirt's very well made."
Unwillingly, Tris smiled. "You must be the only one who sees him and thinks of his shirt, Sandry."
Cornflower blue eyes blinked. "What about you?"
"I don't count," Tris said. "I'm his manager, and a more bleat-brained, vain man I've never met. Except maybe, that botanist. What's his name? Crane, I think." Her nose crinkled up, slightly, and Sandry giggled. "Besides, I've known him for years. It would be like dating my brother."
"Too friendly?" Sandry supplied, grinning. "More likely to talk about people a few tables over and rate them on how pretty they are, like Daja and I do?"
"I wouldn't say that," Tris said dryly. "I don't go... what did you call it that night? Yes, 'getting to know my uncle's city'."
"I was actually doing that," Sandry sniffed. Her grin turned wicked. "But this time, I wasn't admiring his shirt."
Tris enjoyed her meetings with Sandry more than she would ever admit. Nevertheless, all joking aside, she had a task to complete. Their laughter dying down, Sandry and Tris got to work: planning how to advertise Sandry's newest fashion line.
"Uncle refuses to wear any more of my work," Sandry sighed, and her agent crossed that possibility off her mental list.
"Actually," Tris said thoughtfully, "I was thinking about what you said a few weeks ago. About taking your line in a new direction."
"Do you have anyone in mind as models?"
Tris smiled, gleefully. "Two, actually. You know I also manage Daja, and she's always admired your work."
"She never said that to me," Sandry murmured, twisting her fingers together. "And we're friends."
"Well, we're professionals, aren't we?" Tris said. "You can ask her yourself."
"You said two people."
Tris's smile grew positively wicked - something she had learnt from Sandry, in their years of friendship. "The other one's the man who was just leaving my office when you came. Briar Moss."
"The stunt artist?" Sandry questioned. "He... doesn't look like he'll like that."
"Briar Moss: Male Model," Tris said. "I'm his boss, and he's already on probation. He'll do what I want."
They kept their faces straight for precisely three seconds.
- : -
Tris usually held meetings in her office, but for Daja (and her personal health) she was willing to leave and navigate her way, on her own two feet, through the crowds.
She hated the steps down to the trackside. Fortunately, it was easier to climb down than up. She was sure she'd be much grumpier later.
"I have a proposal for you," she called.
The racecar driver she managed looked up, pulling off her helmet to reveal the smoothest chocolate skin Tris had ever seen. It made her teeth seem whiter when she smiled.
"Sandry asked me already," Daja Kisubo told her. "I said yes. I am rather curious how infamous stuntman Briar Moss will react when he is also asked to model her clothing line."
Tris sniffed. "I already told him, once, that Sandry would be making gloves to hide those tattoos he got. He's just going to have to wear more."
Daja shook her head wonderingly. "Tris," she said, "remind me not to make you angry. The sky would probably crackle with lightning if you asked."
- : -
Briar hated getting his clothes fitted. It was a chore, and he only tolerated it because being a very public escape artist entailed very exacting standards in how well the clothes fit.
However... Briar did like pretty women.
And Sandrilene fa Toren was pretty. She dazzled the media (despite her reputation for being insanely stubborn, as highlighted a month or so ago), who couldn't seem to get enough of the up-and-coming designer. Or 'seamstress', as Sandry called herself. Tris, of course, was ecstatic, or as ecstatic as their placid, equally stubborn manager could get anyway. (Tris had point-blank told Briar his public life was going to be used to boost Sandrilene's new line, and had left no room for argument.)
"Just a little longer," Daja Kisubo, who was waiting for her comfortable jeans to be tailored properly. Another media star who had agreed to the advertising, she seemed to handle being a mannequin with much more patience than Briar could imagine, and Briar could imagine plenty.
Briar often pictured himself as a slow-growing tree, tolerating silliness because everything passed in the blink of an eye, but he couldn't compare to Daja's steadiness.
With Sandry's air-light footsteps, darting in and out as she added to the masterpiece framed upon Briar's and Daja's bodies, Briar thought he rather appreciated that.
- : -
Well?