A/N: Before I start this story, I'd like to give a special shout-out to Sammieflute (a.k.a. joseeapologist) for recommending my first Ice Dancer fanfiction, Champions, on Tumblr. I cannot express how much that meant. To have my story talked about and recommended by others is such an honor. Thank you
Disclaimer: We all know what I'm going to say, but that doesn't make it any less painful. I don't own Total Drama
A gentle breeze was blowing, whispering through the short, thin trees that bordered the hotel's rooftop terrace. City lights twinkled alongside the stars, spreading a silvery sheen across the night sky. Several stories below, traffic weaved in and out of narrow streets, car horns blaring every few seconds.
Jacques leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and listening to the sounds of the New York night. If he strained his ears, he could just barely hear the music floating up from the hotel's first floor. He frowned, trying to block it out.
The Ridonculous Race had ended earlier that day, with the Police Cadets, Sanders and MacArthur, taking the gold…or million dollars. All the previous teams, who had conglomerated in the New York hotel as they were cut from the competition, were now all reunited. Which, apparently, some had taken as an invitation to throw a massive party before everyone went home the next day.
In an attempt to pull his mind from the downstairs celebration, Jacques focused his attention on the person across from him. Josée, his partner in both the race and his ice dancing career, was slumped over in a heap of misery. Most of her face was buried in her arms, so Jacques could only see her half-closed eyes as she stared through the tabletop.
He was upset about placing third, too, but she seemed to be taking it particularly hard. She had scarcely said a word since they sat down, ignoring, or quite possibly not hearing, his scattered attempts at conversation. A warning bell had been subtly ringing in his mind for several minutes now, trying to convince him to speak to her.
You cannot let her sit like that all night. DO something!
But what? Jacques silently countered, frowning at his partner. What could I possibly say that will make her accept our placing?
Nothing; nothing at all. Josée hated bronze as much as he hated silver, and nothing he said would change that. Jacques was thankful she had at least had her tantrum already; her temper had ruined more after-event parties than he cared to remember. But something about seeing her like this was just as bad.
He tilted his head at his lethargic partner. Maybe there was some way he could get her mind off their loss, even for a short amount of time…
"Ah, Josée?" he said tentatively. He winced, wishing his voice didn't sound so loud as it drifted across the empty terrace.
She merely blinked for a response, but words or not, he knew she was listening. He cleared his throat and tried again.
"Josée, ecoutez," he said. "I know you are upset about placing third, but we cannot stay up here forever." He indicated their surroundings with a sweep of his arm. "We should at least go downstairs for a few minutes, just so everyone knows we still care about—"
"I don't."
She had been so quiet for so long that the sudden interruption made Jacques jump. He sighed, instinctively reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder. She didn't meet his gaze, but didn't pull away, either.
"I don't care about the stupid race," she said, her voice a strange combination of sullenness and a snarl. "And I don't care about the show. We never should have done this."
"Josée—" he tried, but she started talking again before he could finish.
"We lost," she snapped, finally lifting her head off the table to look him in the eye. "Again. And this time, our placing was even worse!"
Her eyes flashed, reflecting the dim light of the terrace as if her gaze held a fire of its own. Jacques gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, but didn't speak. He knew from experience it was better to let her finish before trying to calm her down.
"We placed third!" she hissed, forcing out the word as if it was physically painful. "I almost wish we hadn't made the podium. Then at least we wouldn't be leaving with a bronze medal!"
Her eyes widened as the words sunk in, and the fire abruptly vanished. She slouched back down, dropping Jacques's gaze.
"What are we going to do now?" she muttered. "We failed, and it was filmed for the entire world to see. Again."
Jacques winced; he had almost forgotten that the race was a TV show. He doubted he would ever be able to watch it; he still couldn't bring himself to re-watch their accident at the Olympics.
We would not have lost so shamefully if we had not cheated, whispered a treacherously blunt part of his mind.
Crossing his arms, Jacques sat back. He couldn't argue with the voice; he knew it was right. He and Josée had made enemies out of just about every other person in the race. The only ones who weren't their enemies simply hadn't been around long enough to start hating them.
Jacques let his gaze drift across the terrace. It was completely empty, save for himself and Josée. Shadows crept between abandoned tables and chairs, and the only light came from a metal tree positioned a few paces away. Its leafless branches were hung with glowing orange globs, which cast flickering light across the terrace, shadowing half of Josée's face and making her look even more miserable.
In the silence that stretched between them, Jacques allowed his mind to drift, and soon began to wonder what exactly was going on downstairs. The music had continued at a steady pace, and if he closed his eyes, he could imagine he heard laughter.
I bet there is a dance floor down there.
Jacques wasn't sure if the voice simply enjoyed taunting him, or if it was attempting to motivate him. He glanced at Josée, wondering what she would do if he suggested they join the party. She had slumped down on the table again, eyes completely closed this time. She didn't look like she was in a partying mood.
However, he knew that few things pulled Josée's mind away from failure faster than dancing.
"Ah, Josée?" he said into the silence.
She glanced up at him, but otherwise didn't move.
"What if we—did join the party downstairs?" he said hesitantly, wary of upsetting her further. "Just for a moment."
Josée sighed. "I suppose we have to," she said, her voice slightly muffled by her arms. "Everyone will accuse us of pouting if we don't."
Even if that's what we are doing.
She didn't say it aloud, but she might as well have, with the tone she was using.
Jacques nodded in agreement, pushing back his chair and standing before he could talk himself out of the idea. Josée followed suit, albeit much more slowly, and fixed him with an expression that clearly said, "Okay, this was your idea, you figure out what to do now."
Jacques offered her a small smile, the first smile he had attempted since their defeat, then led the way across the terrace. He bypassed the elevator without a word, walking straight toward the stairwell. Josée glanced briefly at him, and he thought he saw a flicker of gratitude in her expression.
The walk down to the first floor was anything but quiet. Although neither he nor Josée spoke, music echoed loudly through the stairwell, completely muffling their footsteps, and when they reached the main lobby, Jacques was sure he could see the window panes trembling.
It wasn't particularly difficult to find the rest of the contestants. He and Josée followed the pounding music past the reception desk, then down a short hall, and stopped in the doorway of a large room that seemed to be dedicated to just such occasions. A DJ booth perched in one corner, where Rock and Spud were sifting through a pile of albums, all the while wearing expressions that reminded Jacques of a four-year-old on Christmas morning.
Jacques glanced down at Josée to find her eyeing the party with sullen resignation. He grasped her hand, squeezing supportively before tugging her through the door. They skirted along the back wall until coming upon an empty table near the corner. Jacques slid into a chair, and Josée dropped down across from him, fixing him with an expectant stare.
"Now what?" she prompted when he didn't say anything.
Jacques looked out across the room, suddenly feeling lost. "I do not know," he admitted, turning back to his partner.
She met his gaze with an odd expression, as if she was trying to look annoyed in order to cover something else. A knot of concern settled firmly in Jacques's stomach.
"We can just sit here, I guess," he suggested. "We do not have to stay for long."
Josée merely nodded, crossing her arms, and Jacques let his gaze drift to the rest of the room. Their table was positioned along the back wall, not far from the door. An unwanted thrill of excitement ran up his spine as he eyed the dance floor, which stretched out between them and a row of long buffet tables along the opposite wall.
Blinking rapidly to chase away the feeling, Jacques decided instead to pick out everyone he recognized in the crowd. Aside from Gerry, asleep face-down on his cake plate, and Pete, sprawled back in his chair, snoring, most everyone was dancing. There were Emma and Noah, standing near the room's edge, staring into each other's eyes with rather goofy-looking grins. Kitty danced in and out of the crowd, dragging Mickey along with her in time to the music. As Jacques watched, she twirled them both around a bit too vigorously, sending them flying into the cake table.
He winced. "That is going to leave a mark," he said aloud, mostly to catch Josée's attention.
She made a disinterested, acknowledging noise in the back of her throat, but otherwise remained silent. Jacques slouched back in his chair, feeling like he was losing a second battle that day.
There has to be something I can say to help her, he thought with frustration.
But his mind remained irritatingly void of ideas. Swallowing a huff, he glanced back at the other contestants. Owen was now crouched beside the dismantled buffet table, scooping mashed cake from the floor into his mouth. Jen stood close by, balancing against Tom as she angrily scraped food off her designer shoes.
Then Jacques's gaze caught on two unfamiliar figures on the edge of the dance floor. He straightened for a better view, trying to identify them. A slim, blonde-haired woman and a tall man with a ball-cap stood a bit apart from the crowd. Both held small notebooks and were leaning close together, conversing intently. The woman shifted to one side, and Jacques was able to make out the crisp, white lettering on the back of her jacket: Press.
Oh no.
Jacques instinctively tensed. The very last thing he wanted to do right then was talk to a pair of reporters. One glance at Josée told him the exact same thing about her. She had leaned back in her chair and was staring at the floor with an unreadable expression. The knot of concern in his stomach tightened; what thoughts were running through her head right then?
He blinked hard to clear his mind. There wasn't time to worry; they needed to slip out before the reporters spotted them.
"Ah, Josée?" he said hesitantly, subconsciously lowering his voice, though the music was so loud he probably could've shouted without being overheard.
Undoubtedly noticing the tension in his tone, Josée flashed him a questioning look. Jacques glanced from her to the reporters; they were still whispering intently. Was it his imagination, or were they looking at him and Josée?
"There are a couple of reporters over there," he said, not moving his gaze so she knew where to look.
Josée shot up ramrod stiff, her head swiveling in a way that was bound to attract attention. "What?" she hissed. "Where?"
"Calm down," Jacques advised gently. "In the corner by the buffet tables."
Josée followed his directions, and Jacques knew the exact moment she spotted them. She stiffened, gripping her ice dancing vest as if she thought it might make her invisible.
"Oh, no," she growled through her teeth. "No. I am not talking to any reporters."
"Let's leave before they notice us," Jacques said quietly, slipping out of his chair and sidling back against the wall.
Josée rose slowly to her feet and followed, her eyes never leaving the reporters. In the back of his mind, Jacques thought she looked like a frightened rabbit preparing to bolt. And why shouldn't she? After their behavior during the race, he could only imagine what the press had to say about them.
"Just try to stay calm," he muttered, taking Josée's hand as they slid along the wall. "Maybe they will not see us."
Across the room, the blonde woman glanced toward their empty table, scanned the back wall, then said something to her companion. Jacques unconsciously quickened his pace, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw both reporters sliding quickly through the crowd toward them.
"Too late," Josée snarled, obviously noticing at the same moment.
She stopped, dropping his hand and staring fixatedly at the floor. Jacques glanced toward the door, a glowing beacon of freedom only a few paces away. He swallowed a sigh; it would've happened either way, but he had been hoping to put off an interview for a bit longer.
Internally steeling himself, and working to push away similar memories from the Olympics, Jacques straightened his shoulders and slammed a neutral expression onto his face.
And not a second too soon.
"Hi there!" the blonde woman called as she fought past Tammy and Leonard, who were comparing napkin rings and not paying attention. "Jacques and Josée, right?"
"Oui," Jacques answered with a nod, aware that this reporter already knew exactly who he was. "And you are?"
"Ethan and Harriet," the man wearing the ball-cap put in, gesturing first to himself, then to the woman. "We're with the Ridonculous Race press team."
"Ah, I see," Jacques replied, wracking his brain for what to say; he hoped his words didn't sound as forced as they felt. "And you are here to interview us?"
"If you don't mind," Harriet said.
Jacques had the feeling she wouldn't have left even if he did say he minded.
"Of course not," came a smooth reply from beside him. "Anything for our fans."
Jacques glanced sharply at Josée. She was watching the reporters with a bright expression, flashing a wide, show-ready grin. His heart lurched; it was like looking at a completely different person. This wasn't the Josée who had just been sitting with him in silent heartbreak; this was Professional Ice Dancer Josée, who never had problems, never stopped smiling, and certainly never let on when she was crushed inside.
However, only Jacques seemed to notice the drastic change.
"Excellent," Ethan said, smiling back as Harriet readied her notebook. "So, with the race over, what's next for you two?"
"There are plenty of local competitions we will look into," Jacques replied, working to keep his answers vague. He honestly hadn't been thinking about that during the race, and definitely not since it ended.
"Glad to hear it," Harriet said. "And I'm sure your fans will be, too. Which reminds me, everyone has been wondering about your reaction to the outcome of race. It couldn't have been easy losing to the Police Cadets."
"We're professionals, so naturally we've trained to handle such situations," Josée replied promptly, a note of haughtiness entering her tone.
Jacques shot her a look that he hoped didn't look too concerned. But he was; Josée usually spoke that way when she felt cornered.
"That's right, you two competed in the Olympics," Harriet said, scribbling madly in her notebook, though Jacques wasn't sure how much she could possibly have gotten from just the first two questions. "You won silver, right?"
Josée's hands twitched into fists for the briefest of moments, though her smile never faltered. Jacques jumped in before she had a chance to answer.
"Yes," he said quickly. "Second place."
"And you came third in the race?" Harriet clarified, rather unnecessarily, he thought.
He readied a polite reply, but before he could speak, a loud voice broke out from behind them.
"Jacques! Josée!"
Jacques looked up as he heard his name, glancing over the reporters' heads as Geoff came bounding out of the crowd.
"There you dudes are!" he said, skidding to a halt beside Ethan and Harriet. "Everybody was wonderin' where you'd gone!" He grinned genially, as if he had completely forgotten that they had been enemies only a few hours prior.
"We have not been here long," Jacques replied, choosing his words carefully just in case the reporters were writing everything down. "We were over there."
He gestured to the empty table where he and Josée had been.
"Cool," Geoff said enthusiastically. "Isn't this party totally rockin'? And now we have all the top three teams here!" He gestured at the crowd behind him.
"You're Geoff?" Harriet guessed.
"That's me," the surfer grinned, pushing his cowboy hat further back on his head.
"And you won second place with your partner Brody?"
Jacques hardly heard Geoff's affirmative answer. With the reporters momentarily distracted, now was the perfect time to escape. He reached to grab Josée's hand, intending to lead her to the door, but stopped short as he realized his partner was no longer beside him.
He sucked in a sharp breath, rapidly scanning the room for any sign of her, but she had disappeared. Trusting Geoff to keep the reporters distracted, however unintentional it may be, Jacques slowly edged back, then made for the door.
Bolting down the hallway, he desperately tried to think of where Josée could have gone. As he skidded to a halt in the hotel lobby, his eyes locked on the wide, glass doors leading to the parking lot.
She probably went outside, he realized, starting forward. He guessed that after their encounter with the reporters, she would feel too boxed in within the hotel to go to her own room, and the parking lot was closer than the rooftop terrace.
Outside, the night was cool and still. Barely a breath of wind stirred the leaves of the few trees lining the asphalt. Jacques frowned, scanning the shadows for any sign of his partner.
She would not have gone far, he thought, worry prickling in the back of his mind. Maybe she did go all the way to the terrace.
Just as he was about to give up and go back inside, his eyes caught on a lone figure standing beside one of the trees.
Josée!
Jacques only just managed to halt the word before it leapt from his mouth. Swallowing hard, he started toward her, taking care to shuffle his feet a bit so she would hear him coming. Josée didn't move, and as the moonlight illuminated her more clearly, Jacques saw that her back was toward him. He paused directly behind her.
"Josée?" he said tentatively.
When she didn't respond, he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Josée?" he tried again.
"I failed." Despite the stillness of the air around them, her words were almost lost.
Jacques took a step forward, tilting his head to see her face. "We failed," he corrected gently.
Josée turned away, shadows engulfing her face. "It doesn't matter," she replied bitterly. Her voice wavered the slightest bit, unintentionally informing Jacques that she had been crying. "First the Olympics, now this."
"It was my fault at the Olympics," he said, then, in an attempt to make her smile, added, "As you are so fond of pointing out."
"It doesn't matter," she repeated, a thread of aggression leaking into her tone. "We'll always be second-best." She sniffed. "Or third-best."
Jacques paced around to face her before she could continue. "Non, Josée, that is not true," he said. "We are still champions—"
He cut himself off abruptly as she looked up, meeting his gaze with a fiery expression.
"What kind of champions lose the gold in two massive competitions?" she demanded, anger crackling in her eyes like lightning. "What kind of champions are known as the 'ones who got silver in the Olympics'? Or the 'ones who lost the race'?"
"Josée—"
"Face it, Jacques," she interrupted heatedly. "We failed. I failed. And do you know what happens to failures?" He didn't think she wanted a reply, for she plunged on without waiting. "They get criticized, and yelled at, and have their entire, humiliating disaster put on TV for the whole world to see!"
She was shouting at this point, hands balled into trembling fists. Moonlight reflected dramatically in her dark eyes as they pooled with tears. She stopped to pant through her nose, a snarl contorting her face.
But Jacques knew she wasn't angry at him, so he did the only thing he could think to do at that moment. Reaching out, he wrapped both arms around Josée and pulled her into a tight embrace. She collapsed against him, as if she felt too heavy to stand properly.
"We are not failures," he said gently. "It was a long race, with a lot of difficult challenges, and considering all the cheating we did, third place is—"
"An inexcusable failure," Josée interrupted, her voice muffled as she pressed her face into his shoulder.
Jacques instinctively tightened his hold on her. The sounds of the party floated distantly through the air, but he hardly noticed. "We are not second-best," he said firmly. "Or third-best. We are still gold medalists, even though we did not win this time."
"If we're really gold medalists, then we should have won."
She fell silent, but Jacques could almost hear the thoughts undoubtedly running through her head at that moment. If I was really a gold medalist, then I should have won. Josée sniffed, and he suddenly noticed that his shoulder felt damp.
"But we did not win, Josée," Jacques said, readjusting his hold on her so he could look down at her without pulling away. "And as professionals, we should know that we cannot win every time."
"We can try to," she replied sullenly.
"We did try—"
"But it wasn't enough." She finally lifted her head off his shoulder to look at him. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and her mascara was streaked down her cheeks in dark, uneven lines. "And if we hadn't cheated, we wouldn't have lost so shamefully."
Jacques tilted his head at her as she echoed the thought he had had earlier that evening. "That is true," he replied. "Maybe we can learn something from this."
Josée blinked, sending a few tears rolling down her face. Jacques unwound one of his arms from around her, gently brushing away the shimmering droplets before continuing.
"Maybe now we can leave the cheating and sabotage behind us, non?" he said. "So that even when we do not win—" Josée opened her mouth to protest, but Jacques placed a finger over her lips, "—Not if, Josée, when, then we do not have to feel this way afterward."
She held his gaze for a moment longer, eyes flickering before glancing away. "You're right."
Her words were so soft that if Jacques hadn't seen her mouth move, he would have doubted she had spoken them. She looked up again, unconsciously tightening her grip on his vest.
"I meant what I said in Central Park today. I want to be a better person." Her voice wavered, and she paused for a moment before continuing. "I don't think…I don't think I'll be very—good at it, but I want to try."
Jacques smiled softly. "We will try together," he said.
Josée smiled back at him, not in the show-ready, fake way she had for the reporters, but a genuine smile. One that seemed hopeful and, for the first time that day, truly happy.
He had the feeling that they would have stood like that for some time, but there wasn't a chance to find out, for there was a sudden noise from across the parking lot. Jacques looked over Josée's head toward the hotel entrance just as the two reporters, Ethan and Harriet, strode outside. Josée tensed, taking a small step closer to him as she followed his gaze.
"I still don't want to talk to them," she said, her voice barely louder than a breath.
Me neither, Jacques thought, watching as the pair crossed the asphalt to a white car waiting near the far end of the parking lot. "I do not think they are here for us," he whispered back.
Josée remained silent as they watched the reporters clamber into their car. Jacques held his breath, hoping the shadows from the nearby tree were enough to hide both his and his partner's purple outfits. The car's engine roared to life, yellow beams of light jumping out in front of it as the headlights flickered on. Then, wheels scraping merrily on the pavement, it started forward, weaving out of the parking lot before disappearing down the adjoining road.
Neither he nor Josée spoke for several long seconds as they stared after the car, as if subconsciously worried they would somehow be overheard. Once the sound of the engine had faded into the New York traffic, Jacques let out his breath in a sigh of relief.
Josée did the same, relaxing her grip on his vest. "I guess it's safe to go inside now," she said, a bit drily, Jacques noticed, as she turned back to him.
He let out a faint snort of laughter. "I guess so," he echoed, glancing at the hotel doors and trying to picture the party that was still happening inside. "Do you want to go back?"
He couldn't suppress the tiny spark of hope that lit within him. There was still plenty of time left if she wanted to dance…
Josée looked thoughtful for a moment, as if contemplating who all they would see at the party, and what the following conversations might be like. Finally, she met his gaze, smiling for the second time.
"I think we should," she said quietly.
Jacques felt a grin spread across his face; it was almost as if some part of him had been waiting for this moment. "In that case," he replied, "would you like to dance?" He stepped back, offering her his arm as if he was a classy gentlemen escort.
Josée rolled her eyes, the smile never leaving her face as she took his arm. "Of course," she said, the slightest bit of affectionate warmth leaking into her tone.
Jacques's grin widened, if that was possible, as they started across the parking lot. It had been entirely too long since she had used that tone of voice; he hadn't realized how much he had missed it. And maybe now, despite everything that had happened during the Ridonculous Race, he could hear it more often.
