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thewayofthemandalorian · 2 years

Text

nothing new - oneshot

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Rating: M

Summary: After helping him with yet another breakup, your already fragile friendship with Dieter Bravo nearly reaches its breaking point.

Word count: 5,164

Notes: I’m back a little bit early! This idea came to me the other day and I wanted to write it ASAP. There is angst in this and Dieter’s a shitty friend, but he makes up for it. In this version he’s not an actor but a trust fund baby, but is still a mess.

This fic is cross-posted to AO3 under the same name and my taglist can be found linked in my bio as well as my masterlist which is linked below.

Warnings: Loneliness, angst, friends to lovers, food mention, alcohol mention, jealousy, swearing, bad friendships, arguments, kissing, reference to sex, reference to drugs

masterlist (main) || masterlist (dieter bravo)

“Why would she break up with me, though?” Dieter asks, shoveling a massive bite of ice cream into his mouth. It’s four in the morning. You’ve been in crisis mode for the past six hours. It seems like your job is saving Dieter from crisis and not his best friend most days. After four years it’s getting a bit tiresome. But you do it all the same. Even if he never does the same for you. It’s not about that.

You know exactly why Anika Novik, his girlfriend of the past–you rack your brain–six months (Dieter’s personal record since college, where his longest relationship had been a whopping ten months), broke up with him. It’s the same reason all of his girlfriends and boyfriends break up with him, or he with them. You’re not going to tell him why, not wanting to rock the boat. “Did she say why?” you ask instead.

Dieter shakes his head and grabs a Kit-Kat from his pocket. Breaking it, he puts them in his bowl of ice cream. Well, there are other, more self-destructive ways that Dieter can and has dealt with breakups. Lord knows you’ve seen all of them. You should be grateful that he’s eating his feelings and not snorting them or fucking them away like he has in the past. “She said I needed to be more sensitive. Whatever the fuck that means.”

You hold your tongue, knowing exactly what Anika means. Dieter’s not known for being the most… tactful of people. Especially when it comes to his partners. You know he’s just looking for a connection, that you maybe shouldn’t be this hard on him, even mentally. But sometimes he’s even been not so sensitive towards you.

It’s been an odd friendship that you and Dieter have. You’re always willing to drop everything for him because he’s usually a good friend when he puts in the effort. Usually.

You look at the time and sigh internally. “I’d love to stay up and chat more and figure out the mystery that is women’s minds, but I have to be at the courthouse in like four hours.”

Dieter rolls his eyes. “Of course you do. You and work.”

You have no idea what the fuck that means. “Yes, Dieter. Not all of us are trust fund babies.”

Dieter pushes himself off his chair. “Okay, you go sleep or do whatever it is you need to do. I’ll take care of everything here and head out.”

You narrow your eyes. He’s never taken care of anything in his life. But you’re too tired to make that argument. Shuffling off to bed, you know it’s not going to be easy getting to sleep. It never is when Dieter decides to show up. You can go days, full weeks even, when he doesn’t contact you. At first, he’d been on you all the time. Claiming to be best friends and everything. But as time’s passed, you’re beginning to realize more and more that you’re the backup friend. The failsafe in case no one else wants to deal with his ass.

For all the liveliness Dieter Bravo has, he sure has a knack for making you feel lonely when you’re with him.

It’s an endless cycle with him, a revolving door of being ignored or looked over for extended periods of time and thinking that you need to drop his ass like so many of your other friends have suggested. But when he does remember, when he does deign to talk to you and hang out with you, he makes you feel like the greatest person in the world. Most of the time.

You don’t know what to do. But this has been your life for six years. Since senior year of college. Always the life of the party, even then. The two of you have been in each others’ lives ever since; he even helped pay for your law school degree. And it wasn’t long before you noticed his revolving door of partners. You don’t know if it’s because you planted yourself firmly in the friendzone and made him perfectly aware, but he never once has hit on you or suggested that you try the whole dating thing with him. And then he would disappear or only interact with you when he felt like it. When he didn’t have anyone else to talk to.

And you’re a giver. You have been since you were a little girl. Having a need to please everyone. You give and give and give and give until you have nothing left. And Dieter is a taker.

You hear the door shut as Dieter leaves.

When you get up a few hours later, the kitchen is as exactly as you left it.

- - - -

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury –”

Buzz. Buzz.

You attempt to continue in your closing statement. “My client, Tara Potts –”

Buzz. Buzz.

You glance at the Assistant District Attorney, who is also your friend and can clearly hear your phone. She shakes her head. Keep going, Jen mouths, giving you a thumbs up.

The buzzing in your pocket stops. And then it starts again. Sighing internally, you just hope that no one else can hear it. And that it doesn’t try to jump out of your skirt’s pocket.

Once the jury has been sent to deliberation, you pull out your phone. You have twelve new texts and three missed calls from Dieter. Jesus Christ.

“Heyyyy,” he says when you call him back.

You’re not in the mood. “You know not to call me when I’m in court,” you snap. It’s the one rule that you have that’s hard and fast. You’re still the most junior attorney in the firm, you need to prove yourself. You’re glad that Jen, the ADA and partner in the firm, is also a long-time friend.

“Cool your jets, ace attorney,” Dieter chuckles. “Was just going to see if you wanted to go to that new bar that opened up tonight. We can be each others’ hype man. I’m ready to go on the prowl again.”

You hold back your sigh. It’s been over a week since you last saw Dieter. You try not to miss him when he’s too busy to talk to you. “Isn’t it a bit too—?”

“Too soon?” he interrupts. “Anika didn’t love me. And I didn’t love her. I thought I did. But maybe that’s why she ended things. It wasn’t meant to be.”

You refrain from reminding him that he’s said that about his last seven partners. “I guess. It’ll have to do with the case.”

You also don’t know if you can stand being Dieter’s hype-woman. He never hypes you up in the way that you want or need him to. Never talks you up the way you talk him up. It always ends the same. Maybe tonight will be different though.

You almost believe it.

“That’s a yes, right?”

You exhale. “Fine.”

Boundaries are something that come easy to you when it’s other people. You’re able to establish them well, firmly setting them in place. Once upon a time, it had been the same with Dieter. But he’s not a person who’s been told many times in his life. And then there’s the other thing.

You’ve been in love with him for the past year. And you know if you move out of your self-imposed friendzone, it’s only a matter of time before he drops you.

Jen would tell you to dump his ass regardless. She and Nikki, the paralegal for the firm, have both made their opinions of your ersatz friendship with him very clear. “He’s using you, babe,” Nikki had told you over cocktails last week when you had vented to them at happy hour. “You’re like his own personal emotional support toy.” She frowns. “I don’t know where I was going with that. You know what I’m trying to say.”

You had frowned. “It’s not like that,” you argued. Your argument was weak, even to your ears.

“Yes! You won’t regret it.” You already do a little bit. Because he won’t even consider you. You know that’s partially your fault. But even if he does, it’s only a matter of time until your novelty will wear off as a prospective partner.

You spot Jen across the foyer. “Hey, are you busy tonight?” you ask, falling into step next to her.

“Family thing with my cousin, why?”

Playing cool, you shrug. “No reason. Just wondering.”

Her eyes narrow at you. “You have that look. The ‘I just talked to the dumbass and he got me to do something for him’ look.”

She’s too smart for her own good. “He’s not a dumbass,” you say.

“No. Just an asshole who’s using you. What is it this time? No, don’t tell me. I need to go into this vacation calm and collected.”

Can’t say you blame her. “It might be different this time,” you say.

Jen gives you the look she reserves for the very dumb witnesses and defendants taking the stand. “Girl. You’ve been saying that for the past year. Possibly more.” Changing tacks, she says, “Listen. It sucks. He sucks. Friends are supposed to build each other up not make you feel like shit. You’re amazing at defending the innocent. You’re so good with putting others first. But it isn’t selfish to put yourself first every now and again.”

You absorb her words. “Have a good weekend with your cousin,” you say.

- - - -

Your uber pulls up at the club at eight-fifteen. As always, you’re here first. Dieter will either be right behind you or be hours late or forget entirely. You snag a table and order a whiskey sour. Something tells you you’re going to need it.

Nursing your drink, you take in the crowd. It’s probably too early to get a definitive vibe of the crowd. Most folks probably won’t come until later.

Jen’s words from earlier stick in your brain. It wouldn’t hurt to re-establish some boundaries. You can tell him how you feel. How lonely you feel in his presence. How you feel like the failsafe, the backup. The afterthought. And if he doesn’t like it, well then too bad.

Easier said than done.

As you’re ruminating, you feel a pair of eyes on you. Glancing across the room, you see a man at the bar. He’s cute. Tall, dark hair, the beginnings of a beard. He catches you watching him watch you and he raises his glass to you. You return the gesture and he makes his way over to your table.

“No woman as pretty as you should be drinking alone,” he starts.

Your face warms. “I’m not alone,” you counter, gesturing at him. “But also I’m waiting for my friend.”

The man frowns at your pinched expression at the mention of your friend but he doesn’t know you. “Well, I’ll keep you company until he shows up. Unless I’m way out of line here. You’re well within your rights to tell me to fuck off.”

You laugh. “I am a lawyer so I’d do it in legal jargon.”

“Cute and smart. You got a name, or should I just call you Ally McBeal?”

You laugh and tell him your name, and he’s about to tell you yours when Dieter arrives. “Hey,” he says, his voice hard.

“Oh, hey, Deet. This is…” you gesture to the man sitting in what’s supposed to be Dieter’s seat.

He looks between you, sensing something off. But he’s not going to say anything to this woman he just met. “Matt. You must be the friend.”

“Yeah. I’m the friend.”

What’s got him in a mood tonight?

“Well, Ally, it was nice to meet you. You, too, dude.” The man gets up from his seat, pushing a napkin towards you.

Dieter takes no time in taking the seat that Matt just vacated. You pick up the napkin and fold it over and over again. “What’s wrong with you?” you ask.

“That guy is a perv.”

You scoff. “Dieter, I’m a lawyer. I think I would have picked up on that if that were the case. He was just keeping me company while I was waiting for you.”

“Yeah, guess you don’t need my help hyping you up,” he mutters. And it stings.

Dieter’s needy. Always has been. You could be the peacekeeper, the placater, but you remember Jen’s words. “That’s why we came here, right? So you could go on the prowl. Never said anything about me not going on the prowl either. Also, I need to talk to you about something.”

A waiter comes to the table to take Dieter’s order. “A double whiskey. Neat.”

You remember Dieter when he was a good friend. And you miss that time in your life. “Dieter.”

His eyes land back on you. “Yeah?” The waiter comes back with Dieter’s drink and his eyes wander around the room again, landing on a girl sitting in the corner with a group of friends. “Holy shit.”

“What? What is it?” Fearing the worst.

Dieter turns his attention back to you for the briefest of moments. “That’s Kate Grimley. She’s the perfect girl for me,” he proclaims. “Could you imagine her and I as a power couple? Her showing up on my arm at events?” His eyes glaze over at the image he’s presented. And for a second, you’re glad that you and he don’t have a chance.

“I don’t think that’s the best reason to ask someone out. I hardly think she’d want to be a trophy.”

Dieter waves you off and takes a drink of his whiskey. “Yeah, right. She’s the perfect girl for me. What did you wanna talk to me about?”

You’re not going to sweep it under the rug, not going to bottle it up. “Never mind. It’s nothing. Why don’t you go talk to her?”

Goddammit.

He nods and, taking his whiskey with him, goes over to the girl’s table. Leaving you alone. Again. He seems to hit it off with her pretty quick. He doesn’t need you to be his wingwoman. Ordering an uber, you close your tab and look down at the napkin in your hands. It has writing on it you notice. A phone number.

You put it in your purse and slink out of the club without so much as another glance in Dieter’s direction.

On the ride home, Dieter’s text tone goes off. Where’d you go? :(

For the first time in your friendship, you leave it on read.

- - - -

Over the next few weeks, you only answer Dieter’s texts here and there. You keep avoiding his requests to hang out, claiming to be busy with a case. It isn’t a complete lie. It’s Jen’s case, but you’re pitching in as well. And in your down time, you hang out with Jen and Nikki and begin to prioritize yourself.

One day when you’re cleaning your apartment, something you’ve put off for a while, there’s a knock on the door. Turning off your audiobook, you go to the door, looking through the peephole. It’s Dieter, holding two Starbucks cups.

You sigh and open the door. The vacuum had been on just a second ago so he knows you’re here. “Hey.”

“Did I do something?” he asks. “You barely talk to me anymore.”

Opening and closing your mouth several times in quick succession, you flounder for an answer. “I’ve been busy with work, you know that.”

“No, don’t give me that bullshit. I miss my best friend and we hardly hang out anymore. We used to all the time.”

A lump forms in your throat. You thought this version of Dieter had been gone. The version that cared about his friends beyond just using them. “I’m sorry,” you say and then immediately curse yourself. You have nothing to apologize for.

“It’s all good. I know you’re busy with becoming the best attorney LA’s ever seen. Doesn’t mean we can’t chill in the down low.” He holds up a cup. “Brought you your favourite.”

He sits on the couch with you, and you chat about things that aren’t deep. “How are things going with Kate?” you ask.

Dieter grumbles something and swirls the coffee around in his cup. “She’s too busy to date at the moment. She’s going to let me know when something in her schedule clears up, though.” He takes a sip and says, “I don’t think she realizes what she’s missing out on. She’s giving me the run-around.”

You rub your eyes in annoyance. “Try giving her the benefit of the doubt. She didn’t say no. She said not just now.”

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right. It’s only been a few weeks. And she’s still responding to my texts and everything.”

He leaves shortly after that, having to go to a board meeting. As you return to your cleaning, you find the napkin that has Matt’s number on it. Fuck it.

Hey, I know it’s been a while. It’s “Ally McBeal.”

The three dots pop up almost immediately.

A week later and some more strong communication with Dieter, you find yourself at a cafe with Matt. You didn’t tell Dieter about this. He doesn’t need to know. Jen knows all about it though.

Dieter presses the call button, strolling down the sidewalk, eager to tell you his news.

The ringing of your phone interrupts your story. “Sorry, I’m just going to see who it is.” You pull the phone from your purse. It’s Dieter. “Not important. They can leave a message.”

A minute later, your phone rings again. It’s Dieter again.

“If you have to answer it, that’s okay. Don’t let me keep you from anything,” offers Matt.

You shake your head. “It’s fine.” You press the decline call button and put it on do not disturb as well. “What were you saying?” you ask

Dieter frowns as the call is suddenly dropped. He’s just about to try again when he sees you in the window of a coffee shop. You’re smiling at something, someone. God, your smile. He doesn’t deserve you, he really doesn’t. He doesn’t know how you put up with all his bullshit. Maybe that’s why he’s felt you pulling away some in recent weeks. It isn’t jealousy, he knows that. Perhaps the inevitable has finally come. You’re tired of his shit. But he still wants to tell you his good news, so he walks into the cafe.

And sees you sitting with the perv from the bar. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like the way that this dude is looking at you like you’re something to eat.

“Hey.” He makes himself known.

Reluctantly, you turn in your chair. “Dieter. What are you doing here?” You lace your voice with enough for him to intuit that you don’t want him here right now.

“I…” Dieter stalls, thinking of something to say. “I need you to come with me right now.”

You balk. “I’m kind of busy right now. Can it wait?”

Dieter shakes his head. “It’s urgent.”

Matt, ever the gentleman, steps in. He knows exactly where your friend fits into all this. Knows what neither of you want to admit to each other or yourselves. “It’s cool. I have to get back to the office soon, anyway.”

Before you can say anything, Matt stands, leaves a twenty on the table and offers you a tight smile. Silence falls between you and Dieter for a full thirty seconds.

“What the fuck, Dieter?” you ask. “What was so important that you needed to interrupt my date?”

Dieter knows he fucked up. It was a low thing to do. But he doesn’t know what came over him. It’s a new sensation, one he can’t describe.

“Well? It better be a damn good reason,” you prompt looking expectantly at him.

Dieter’s mouth goes dry. You’ve never dressed like this for him before. “I… uh… Kate finally got back to me. We’re going out on Saturday night.”

You blink slowly. “You mean to tell me that you broke up my date, with a perfectly nice guy, to tell me that you got a date with a girl you just want as arm candy?”

Dieter blanches at your cold, seething fury. He fucked up all right. “Well, uh, when you put it like that…”

You scoff, grab your purse and walk out of the cafe, into the park where you hope you can evade him. He’s quick on your heels.

“Will you just hear me out?” he asks.

The laugh that escapes you is bordering on manic. “What is there to hear out?” you ask.

“That guy is bad news.”

You shake your head. “You just don’t want to admit that you’re jealous. You’re jealous that your failsafe is paying attention to someone else and you don’t like it when all the attention isn’t on you.” You’re so right, Dieter realizes. And so wrong at the same time. He doesn’t know what you mean when you say that you’re a failsafe. But he is jealous. Of what, he doesn’t know. But he doesn’t have time to explain himself. “You’re a dick, David.”

In all the years you’ve known him, you’ve never once used his government name when addressing him. If you’re using his real name, you must be livid.

You turn on your heel and walk away from him. Leaving him behind.

- - - -

Dieter calls and texts and sends emails and messages and every sort of modern method of communication. You don’t respond to any of them. He knows he fucked up with you. On more than one count. But he can’t figure out what it is that you’re so mad about. Sure he broke up the date, but he had a bad feeling about Matt. Something he still can’t put his finger on. The jealousy, too.

Still, he can’t focus on it for too long because he has a date to get to.

He meets Kate at an up-and-coming restaurant. She’s dressed in a nice black dress, her makeup done and her hair down in waves. She’s pretty, but she’s not on your level of pretty.

Over appetizers, Dieter struggles to find something to talk about. It’s always so easy to talk to you. Or at least it was.

It hits him like a ton of bricks as Kate talks about something he has no interest in. It’s you. He wants you. He likes you.

“...hear a thing I just said?” Kate asks.

Dieter blinks. “What? Sorry. Um. I’m going to be honest with you, Kate. You’re really nice and you’re hot as fuck but I don’t think this is going to work out. I’m sorry.”

Kate frowns. “Hang on. This whole thing was what you wanted. You kept asking me and asking me to go out with you. And now you don’t want to?”

“Something like that, yeah. It’s not you, I promise.”

She scoffs. “Whatever.”

Dieter waves down the server. “We’re done here,” he says, handing over his black card. Leaving a hefty tip, he says to Kate, “I promise, it isn’t anything to do with you.”

Kate rolls her eyes and says nothing.

Hailing the nearest cab, he tells the driver the address of your apartment. He needs to see you. Needs to make things right. Tell you everything.

The knock on the door comes just after eight-thirty. You ignore it. The knock comes louder.

Going to the door, you see that it’s Dieter. “Go away!”

He’s not giving up that easily. “Please just let me explain everything.”

Against your better judgment, you open the door. “Fine. Come in. And I reserve the right to kick you out at any time.”

Dieter follows you into the living room, sitting on the couch. You look at him, half-expectantly half-annoyed. “I’ve been an asshole,” he starts.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” you grumble.

Licking his lips he continues. “I was on my date with Kate earlier tonight and I realized something. The entire time, I wanted it to be you. You were right. I am jealous of Matt. I’m jealous that you were spending time with him and not me… on a date.”

You can’t be hearing this right. “Dieter, what are you saying?” you ask, managing to keep your voice level.

“It’s you. It’s always been you. And I know that… you don’t want to go down that route, you just want to be friends, but—”

“I’m in love with you, you idiot,” you interrupt him. You don’t sound happy about it, though.

Dieter’s heart jumps into his throat. “Then why—why were you on a date with that guy?”

You scoff, your eyes hard and shiny with unshed tears. “Because I’m trying to move on from you. You have such a revolving door of partners. As soon as you’re bored with someone, you drop them or make them drop you so that you can move on to the next shiny, new toy. Dieter, I don’t think I could handle it if you did that to me. You already treat me like a failsafe.”

There’s that word again. “What do you mean by that, exactly?” he asks, dreading the answer.

“You…” Your voice cracks and you try again, all the things you’ve kept bottled up inside of you spilling out. “You only call me up when you need or want something and everyone else is busy. I’m the failsafe. And sometimes you’re such a terrible fucking friend to me. You take and you take and you take and you take. You never give, you’re always taking advantage of my giving nature. The only time you give is when you want something in return. You’re an asshole.”

Dieter doesn’t defend himself, doesn’t try to deny what you accuse him of. He just listens and takes it. Because you’re right. Of course you’re right. Taking a deep breath, he says, “I know. You’re right. And I’m so, so sorry I treated you that way. I’m sorry you had to deal with that for so long. I’m sorry for how I’ve dealt with my feelings and how you’ve had to witness and be at the receiving end of those.” His own voice is trembling. He’s lucky that you even have allowed him in and haven’t kicked him to the curb long ago. It’s a sign of your kindness, he thinks.

You sigh. “Thank you.” It isn’t forgiveness. It’s too soon for that. “I’ve been in love with you for a while and I’ve kept my distance because I know you’re just going to get bored with me. I’m nothing new, nothing exciting.”

Dieter shakes his head. “That couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s true that I’ve dropped people like hot potatoes when a relationship has run its course. I’m not denying that. But I like you. I’ve never gotten jealous of anyone else before. I’ve never… yearned for someone’s company like I yearn for yours. I just don’t want to come across as overbearing.”

You swallow. “Then why do you go weeks without contacting me?”

“Because… I don’t want you to realize that I’m not good. But you figured that out already. Please tell me what I can do to make it up to you. I know it’s a mountain to climb, I know that, but I want to be a better man. I want to be with you.”

You consider it for a long minute. “I forgive you,” you say to his immense relief. “But you need to work to show me you mean it and I’ll decide if I can trust to be with you. But it can’t be an empty promise or a meaningless gesture.”

Dieter nods. It’s the least he can do. And he’s going to do that and more. “Yeah, okay,” he murmurs. A beat passes. “Can I… can I kiss you? Or is that asking too much?”

You sigh. “All right.” Getting up, you cross the short distance to the couch. Cupping his bearded cheek with your palm, you lean in and press your lips to his.

It’s chaste but with a modicum of heat. Dieter breathes your name and looks utterly wrecked by the little kiss.

“I mean it, David. If you mess this up, you’re gone,” you say.

He smiles. “Understood. You’re stuck with me, I promise.”

- - - -

Eighteen months later

True to his word, Dieter is stuck with you. It took a lot of effort and work on his part to prove that he was serious about you and serious about changing. He’s made it clear that he hasn’t changed just for you.

Six months after you had your discussion, Dieter had still continued to hold up his end of the bargain. He wasn’t doing it out of obligation. He was doing it because he wanted to become a better man. To be with you and to make amends. His first order of business was to start attending therapy to figure out why he behaved the way he did. He’s made some real improvements with himself.

And now, a year later, you and he are still going strong. Your relationship is new and exciting everyday. He isn’t even remotely bored with you. Dieter loves waking up with you and spending his time with you and experiencing new things with you. He can’t believe it took what it did to get here. That it took being on the brink of ruining everything to realize what it was he truly wanted, who he truly wanted. The first time you came together was like the first time all over again. Magical and right and everything he’s ever imagined it being. And it’s like that every time. Regardless of how many times (and it’s been many, many times).

You’re on even, solid ground now. More equal in your give and take with him. And it didn’t take long for you to remember how considerate and kind he is.

He wants to spend the rest of his life with you. He never once has thought of you as a prize to be won. Not some trophy. You’re his best friend. The person he loves most and would do anything for. It dawned on him not long after your discussion why none of his relationships ever worked. He was waiting for the right person. He’s had the right person right in front of him the entire time and he’s so glad that he realized it before it was too late. He’s never once taken you for granted ever again. Sure you have little fights and squabbles here and there, but it’s always the two of you against the issue you’re facing and you’re always able to overcome it. When you’re together with him, it’s like you can overcome anything.

You had been afraid that you would be nothing new to Dieter, that he would quickly toss you aside, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. You’re exciting and fun and completely you. Everything he’s always wanted. And you never doubt it for a second.

The End.

--- taglist in reblog

#dieter bravo x reader #pedro pascal #dieter bravo #the bubble #the bubble movie #my fic #my writing #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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thewayofthemandalorian · 2 years

Text

burst your bubble - chapter one

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Series rating: M

Chapter rating: M

Summary: After a booking error, you’re forced to share an adjoining room with Cliff Beasts star Dieter Bravo, who seems hell-bent on making your life miserable. He’s soon to find out that you give as good as you get.

Word count: 4,532

Notes: I’ve had this one in the works for a while! It’s a true enemies to lovers style fic as they really can’t stand each other. Or at least, Keys (our reader) can’t stand Dieter. They’re both gremlins in this and aren’t afraid to fight dirty. This is likely going to be two parts. It is unbeta’d but I’ve spent weeks annoying @ezrasbirdie about it, thank you for allowing me to go on and on about my plans and ideas for this, lovely.

This fic is cross-posted to AO3 under the same name and my taglist can be found linked in my bio as well as my masterlist which is linked below.

Comments/reblogs appreciated.

Chapter warnings: Mentioned drug use, prejudice, enemies to lovers, swearing, fighting dirty, getting even, miscommunication, sex mention, divorce mention, food/drink mention, insecurities

next chapter || masterlist (main) || masterlist (dieter bravo)

When you were told that you would be script supervisor for an important, game-changing, necessary movie, your first thought was that it would be a new, modern classic like Citizen Kane or Gone With the Wind.

You were wrong.

No, the first movie you’re working on as a script supervisor fresh out of film school isn’t a new, bold classic. But the sixth movie in a franchise that no one, not even the producers give a shit about except to save their floundering studio. Cliff Beasts 6: The Battle for Everest: Memories of a Requiem. You had to hand it to Omnipresent Studios. Not only had they conned you into agreeing to do it with their deliberate bad-faith take on their own movie, but they also came up with a title so long and so pretentious it circled around to being impressive before circling back into even more pretension.

And you fucking turned down working on Retribution for this. You suppose you only had yourself to blame, really. Here you are, a fresh graduate from NYU’s film school, eager to impress. You’d submitted your resume to literally every film studio you could think of, even the big ones like Netflix and Warner Bros. You’d gotten a few nibbles of interest here and there before directors went with other people. More experienced people. Two directors had replied with promising interest: Darren Eigan and John Remington. Your thought process, along with the fucking con that Paula the producer had fed you, was that Darren is on a hot streak right now. And, wanting to be a screenwriter one day, you thought, stupidly, that working on a movie of “cultural importance” (cultural importance, your ass) would get your foot in the door.

Which is how you find yourself here. Here being Heathrow International Airport. You had said goodbye to New York, your friends, your life for three and a half months of this. Of fucking Cliff Beasts. Your first order of business had been sprucing up the script. Darren had told you to take a chisel to it, not a sledgehammer. You needed a fucking wrecking ball. But you had diligently followed his instructions. You need him as a mentor. If you get in good with him, he can open the door to bigger and better things.

Looking over the cast list as you wait in line for customs, your eyes freeze on the fourth name from the top. Dieter Bravo.

Oh, fuck no. Anyone but him.

In school, in order to pay the bills not covered by your scholarship, you’d worked as a barista. This asshole had come in on a near daily basis, ordering the weirdest drinks and just generally treating you like shit. Like you were his own personal assistant. When you had politely called him out for it instead of spitting in his drink or spiking it with a laxative like you had wanted to, he’d just laughed in his stupid fucking sunglasses and loungewear, strung out on whatever and said, “It’s your fucking job, sweet cheeks.”

You’d just smiled your tight fuck you smile as he handed over his black Amex card (that he had probably used to snort lines with earlier) and charged him triple, pocketing the remainder as a nice tip for yourself.

Christ, you really should have gone with Remington instead. A tension headache is already beginning to form and you haven’t even done anything apart from a few revisions on the script.

Exhaling deeply, you hope that he’s grown up since then. You have authority over him; you don’t have to worry about him. It’ll all be fine, you tell yourself. Nothing to worry about.

The gate agent waves you forward. Handing over your passport and your work visa you wait while they verify your information. It doesn’t take long and before you know it, you’re in the black car that the studio had sent over, taking you to the hotel where you’ll be staying for the duration of the shoot.

Forty-five minutes later, the car pulls up on the hotel property. You take out your wireless earbuds, putting them in the charging station. “Wow,” you breathe, stepping out of the car. You’re just about to grab your suitcase from the trunk but the driver is faster. You’re not used to people doing that for you.

“Right this way ma’am,” a staff member says. “Welcome to England. I’m Bola, the… well, everything.”

You wave, telling him your name. “But you can call me Keys. Script supervisor.” Before Bola can say anything else a lanky looking man strides over, swab kit in hand.

“Gunther, hi. You must be the script supervisor. I’m the health officer. And we’re just going to do a quick Covid test. You know of course that we require all the cast and crew to self-isolate for two weeks.”

He sticks the swab up your nose, forbidding you from saying yes. You just make a sound that you hope sounds affirmative. He sticks the swab in a container thingy.

“Right this way,” Bola says, leading you to one of the check-in desks where a woman maybe a year or two older than you is waiting at the ready.

“Name?” she asks with an Eastern European accent. Her name tag reads Anika. She seems sweet. You tell her and she types in a few keystrokes, her smile fading, replaced by a frown. “Hmm, that’s odd,” she mutters to herself. “Ronjon?” she calls her boss. A man wearing a smart suit comes over. “I thought there was only supposed to be one person per room,” she mutters to him.

Ronjon puts his glasses on and peers at the screen. “No, you’re right. But that’s not the same room. He’s in 702A and she’s in 702B.”

You’re starting to worry. “Is everything okay? I know we’re supposed to self-isolate.”

The manager gives you a smooth smile. “Everything is fine. It’s just a bit of a booking snafu. Would you mind terribly if you were in an adjoining room to one of the cast members?”

You frown. “No. There would be privacy, right? Like they couldn’t come into my room?”

“That’s correct. There’s an adjoining door inside each of the rooms that connects them, but it needs to be unlocked on both sides to get in. In addition to the hotel room door. It’s totally private for both of you.”

With a sigh, you nod as you readjust your laptop bag on your shoulder. You just want to go upstairs, unpack and lie down. International travel always wipes you out. “Sure, yeah. Fine. Who is it?”

“Is anyone going to tell me the meaning of this? Having to share a fucking room?” a voice you know all too well shouts at the other check-in desk.

Answering your question.

Dieter fucking Bravo.

- - - -

You’re lying on the bed face down. Just your luck that you would have to basically share a room with the one person on this production you had wanted to avoid.

Idly, you wonder if it’s too late to quit and see if John Remington still needs someone.

You’re not a quitter. And it’s only three months. Three months. You can do this. You can kick ass, learn as much as you can and move onto something else. And with any luck you can work on your script while you’re here. You’re only twenty minutes into your two week quarantine period. You brought a lot of reading material, a lot of movies to watch as well. You’ll be good to go. Two weeks will go by in a flash.

You hear a crashing noise from your quasi-roommate’s room. Fuck me with barbed wire, you think. It’s tempting to just pretend that he isn’t here. To just ghost whenever he’s in the same room as you. But three months of that? Plus the accusations of unprofessionalism would stick to you so quick your career would be over before it could really start.

Gritting your teeth, you pull yourself up into a sitting position. You just have to introduce yourself, maybe bury the hatchet if you can. Maybe he was just having a bad day… or weeks, when he was in New York filming that movie. Doesn’t excuse it but it sure does explain it.

You open your part of the adjoining doors and knock. You wait a minute. Two. And then you knock again, louder this time.

It takes him forty-five seconds to open his part of the adjoining doors. He’s wearing an open brown robe and a pair of boxers. Nothing else except for some socks. Charming.

Professional, Keys, you tell yourself.

“Can I help you?” Dieter Bravo asks.

You stop short. “Um… I’m your roommate. In a manner of speaking. I’m the script supervisor.”

Dieter frowns, clearly thinking something over. Does he recognize you? “That’s basically like a PA right?” He ignores your no. “I don’t… I have a rule. I don’t fuck the cast or crew of any movie I’m working on.” He makes an exaggerated grimace and wink.

Your skin crawls. “Do you….? No, that’s not why I’m here. No. I just — I recognized you, I don’t know if you remember —”

Dieter continues as if you hadn’t been saying anything. “Never had a self-proclaimed fan of mine work on a movie and hit on me. They usually hide it. You’re kinda hot. Maybe I’ll make an exception just this once.”

Your eyes nearly roll to the back of your skull. “If you would just shut up and listen for once. I’m not here trying to fuck you. I just wanted to say… water under the bridge. I’m sure you have a very good explanation for treating me like garbage that time in New York.” It’s a lie, but at this point you are fully aware of how collosolly stupid this is.

“What are you talking about?” Dieter asks. Of course he doesn’t remember.

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“Hey wait a minute,” Dieter says as you’re about to shut the door. You pause. “You’re a PA, right? Can you get me a coffee?”

“Not my position and even if it was, I’m not getting you another fucking coffee ever again. Get it your fucking self if that’s not too hard for you to do. Bola said that UberEats delivers.”

Slamming the door in his face gives you a moment of satisfaction before you realize just how horribly bad that went. “Ughhh.” You scrub your hands over your face. Three and a half months. You can do this. You can.

Vaguely you can hear a snorting-sniffing sound come from next door. If you didn’t hate him so much, you’d ask if he can share.

You can do this.

- - - -

As it turns out, Dieter Bravo makes the worst fucking roommate ever. At odd hours of the night he will ask if you can get him stuff or if he can charge his… toys in your room. He has no respect for your boundaries, always wondering why you don’t keep your side of the door unlocked.

Just think about the experience and the money you keep reminding yourself. Sometimes the mantra needs to be repeated multiple times. Like when he decides to test out the karaoke machine at 11pm. You bang on the door but it goes unnoticed. It’s day eleven of this.

Maybe he has a lot of pent up energy, you tell yourself. But you’re not going to be the meek pushover who’s only there to stroke the actors’ egos, least of all Dieter Bravo’s. He can stroke his own all he wants to. He needs no help from you.

Grabbing your laptop you begin to type a strongly worded email. It toes the line of professionalism and bitchy perfectly.

You have only met Darren once officially in person and it was when you checked in. The only other time you’ve corresponded has been over email or zoom. And it’s always been polite and excited. You’d been hoping to avoid this but it’s getting past the point of absurdity.

Shoving your noise-canceling headphones in, you put on a “go to sleep music” video on YouTube and hope that that will work its magic.

It must because next thing you know, your earbuds are yelling at you to charge them. Groggily you take them out and scrabble for the charging port in the dark, putting it down in the bed. It’s silent next door, thank Christ.

You get an email from Darren the next afternoon after fielding yet another request for food delivery. It just says some inane wishy-washy bullshit about how he values your opinion and will look into it. Maybe you should talk to him in person. You’ll see how things go when shooting starts in a few days. You know there’s a cocktail party for the cast and crew in two days. But you won’t bother him with it then.

- - - -

Once filming starts, Dieter’s shenanigans seem to calm down. All of his energy is put into filming. You’ve heard him rehearse for the movie every now and again, usually when he’s run out of things to do. You don’t question the accent. It’s Cliff Beasts 6, you’re not aiming for high art. At least not in the traditional sense.

Dustin Mulray is a thorn in your other side. He won’t stop pestering you about script changes. Finally you say to him, “Don’t touch my fucking script. I know it’s shit but we’re literally making a sixth movie in a franchise that no one cares about.”

Sean whistles approvingly and low-fives Howie. Apparently you’re not the only person Dustin has pissed off. Or more likely no one has ever dared to fight back against him.

Other than a few hiccups here and there, filming seems to be going well so far. But then, three weeks into production, there’s a positive test. And it’s back into isolation you all go. It gives you a chance to work on your script when you’re not having to put up with Dieter’s bullshit. He never listens, always talks over you, implied that you slept with someone to get this job the other day. You had responded with, “You know the song Fucked My Way Up to the Top?” Dieter had nodded. “I always thought Lana wrote that about you.” And without another word, you had stalked off to the craft services tent. Later that night you had gotten out your pencil crayons and written in elaborate print I am a dragon, you’re a whore and left it outside his door.

On night four of the second isolation, you’re lying in bed, drifting off. It’s late and Darren had just sent out a group text saying that filming is back on again tomorrow. Word on the street was that Dieter had been going around asking people if they wanted to have sex with him with no takers.

You’re nearly asleep when a deafening sound comes from next door. From the sounds of it, Dieter has found the fitness mirror. Only the problem is, he has it at full volume so it’s like you’re getting fitness training too. You crack your eyes and look at the time on your phone. Jesus Christ, it’s two in the morning. Your earbuds are dead, in need of charging.

“Change me!” Dieter grunts and you jump, not expecting to hear him. You can hear the fitness trainer just fine, too. A few minutes later you can hear moaning and panting and grunting. Is he…? That doesn’t sound like any exercise sounds you’ve heard —

Jesus Christ on a bicycle.

It doesn’t stop. It keeps going on a loop. With a truly beleaguered and aggravated grunt, you throw the blankets back and storm over to the adjoining door, pounding on it as loud and hard as you can stand it. “I’m sorry – I’m sorry – I’m sorry,” Dieter repeats.

“I’ll give you something to be sorry about!” you shout.

Sometime around three-thirty the sounds stop. But there’s no point in trying to sleep now. The call time is at five. Even if you fell asleep right now, you’d need to be up in an hour. You want to hide under the blankets and not have to go to work on Cliff Beasts ever again. But this is allegedly your dream. So you get up and turn on the shower and stand under there for as long as you can. At one point you can hear Dieter pound on the wall. “Some of us are trying to sleep!” And you kind of want to kill him.

You’re not going to kill him. You’re going to get your revenge. Bola had told you the other day about the bluetooth speakers in each room. He has stories about Dieter too so he’ll be easy to convince for his help in the plan that you’re concocting. And of course, Dieter has no idea how to work bluetooth.

But first, you’re going to talk to Darren. This will be fine.

An hour later, Krystal is staring at you half-awed, half concerned. “What happened to you?” she asks.

“Ask Dieter,” you say as the man of the hour strolls into make-up.

“What did I do?” he asks.

“You mean you’re not a changed man? You certainly wanted her to change you.”

Dieter looks at you blankly.

Krystal is completely disinterested in your back and forth. She takes you by the hand. “Come on. You look like a zombie.” And she sits you down in the makeup chair, telling Donna to do some work on you before shooting starts.

You manage to catch Darren. “Hey, Darren. I was wondering if I could talk to you about something?”

“Sure, Keys, what’s up?”

You hesitate, resisting the urge to rub your eyes. “Well it’s actually a followup to that email I sent to you a few weeks ago. The one about Dieter being disrespectful and treating me like trash?”

Darren sighs. “Listen, Keys. Being a script supervisor is very different to being an actor. We’re here to guide them, tell them about character and story. But we can’t disrespect the process an actor has. Each one is different but equally valid.”

Stifling a sigh, you say, “But this isn’t a process. This is blatant disrespect and insults.”

It’s clear, though, that Darren is done with this conversation. Okay, peaceful negotiations are now off the table.

Time to do things your own way.

- - - -

“Thanks so much for doing this for me, Bola,” you say that afternoon. Shooting had ended early. You were originally saving these days for script writing on your own project but today is different.

“Do not thank me, I should be thanking you.” Bola taps a few buttons on your laptop screen. “That man has been driving me up the wall since he first set foot in my hotel. There. All set. If anyone asks, I was never here.”

You nod and set to work on your playlist of revenge. You have the perfect first song. Relax, by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. A song about attempting to avoid coming prematurely. Appropriate, you think.

On filming nights, Dieter usually goes to bed at about eleven and is usually out no later than midnight.

Your own headphones are charged and ready to go if need be. At eleven thirty, you connect the bluetooth speakers in Dieter’s room, setting the volume all the way up as high as it can go before you press play.

The reaction is immediate. “What the FUCK!” Dieter shouts.

He jumps a mile high out of his bed. At first he thinks he’s having a bad trip, remembering a song that was playing one time he was high. But then a different song comes on. Just as loud.

It soon becomes clear that this isn’t a hallucination. He isn’t even high right now. Mostly.

“Can you hear this?!” he shouts.

Halfway through the playlist, right as the third What’s New Pussycat? gives way to the fourth he starts banging on the door. Either he’s figured it out or he’s checking to see if you’re affected as well. You don’t bother to press pause, just open the door.

“Turn that off!” he snarls.

“Say please,” you reply.

“What?”

“Say. Please.” Your voice is pure ice.

Dieter sighs. “Will you please turn that off! Jesus Christ. Can’t a guy sleep?”

You press pause and turn on your feet. “Funny. I said the same thing last night when you were doing your exercise.” You see the moment when confusion turns to realization.

“Oh Christ,” he murmurs. “I thought that was a dream. Anyway, you’ve proven your point. I hear you loud and clear.”

This you hadn’t been expecting. “You do?”

“Yeah. You wanna have sex with me. You didn’t have to go to all this effort though, honey.”

You blink several times in quick succession. “You… think I did this because I want to have sex with you?” you ask slowly.

“Well, yeah. Duh.”

Putting on a faux-thoughtful face, you say, “I’m confused. I thought that sex was something that was supposed to mutually beneficial.”

Dieter frowns. “It is.”

“So… what would I be getting out of it? You’d be getting sex and pleasure, but what would I be getting in return?”

It takes a second for Dieter to realize what you’re saying. “Funny. There’s one person I still haven’t asked and she’s working tomorrow. AKA our day off.”

Poor Anika, you think. “And here I was, going to work on my romance dialogue.”

“Listen to me, sweetcheeks, I got some advice for ya. If this is the best you can do for your first gig you’ll never make it as a writer, especially with your piss-poor edits.”

Turning away from him, you blink away the tears that have suddenly formed in your eyes. Dammit.

You are not going to give Dieter Bravo the satisfaction of knowing that he made you cry.

“And yet, here you are,” you spit out, turning to face him, changing your mind about not letting him see that he’s made you cry. Let him feel bad. “Mr. Award-bait movie star in the sixth movie in a franchise that is already six feet under so he can keep paying for his lifestyle.”

He sees the glassy look in your eyes and his snarl softens, whatever retort he had dying on his lips. “Shit – I didn’t mean –”

“Get the fuck out of my room and leave me the fuck alone.”

He doesn’t need telling twice.

Huh. He does have the ability to listen to you.

- - - -

After firing off a quick text to Anika, who quickly agrees to your idea, you type up said “romance dialogue” and send it to her as soon as possible.

She’s going to say yes to Dieter asking her to have sex with him. Just as soon as he’s met and received the approval of Anika’s father.

It’s simple dialogue but it’ll drive home the last point you have to prove to him. Flipping the script of discomfort on him.

Your phone pings. He’s here.

Good luck, you reply.

Anika is supposed to reply back when everything’s done, mission accomplished. Instead she texts you Code red. He saw the lines on my phone screen.

Oops. You put down the arts and crafts project that you’re working on. A homemade version of the Hunger Strike poster that you’re going to burn in effigy. There’s a knock on the door.

You open it, homemade miniature poster still in hand. It’s the last person you were expecting to see.

“Can I come in?” Dieter asks. “I’m really sorry about… well… everything sums it up well, don’t you think?” You could be knocked over with a feather. Dumbly, you nod, opening the door so he can come in. His eyes are clear, his sunglasses nowhere to be seen. He catches the makeshift poster in your hand. “Fanart?” he asks.

“Effigy,” you hear yourself reply. “Thought buying a real poster would take too long.”

Instead of being insulted, Dieter smirks. “Hot.” There’s a pause and Dieter sits down on the couch. “See that’s what I like about you, Keys. You suffer no fools.”

“And yet here you are,” you can’t help but say.

He smiles to himself. “I deserved that. Because I’ve been an idiot this whole time. And the last time.” So he does remember. “Good trick, by the way, charging me three times the original price. I was an ass. But, um, not that it excuses anything, I was kind of going through it at the time. My ex-wife had just filed for divorce. Turns out she had been sleeping with her pilates instructor. Cliche I know. But I thought that it was the first solid thing in my life since my, as you called it, award-bait movie. And you know what she said to me?”

You can guess, but you shake your head.

“She said that I was just this pretentious, washed-up lowlife of a person. And she wasn’t the best person, I’ll give her that. But I believed her so hard that my persona of Dieter Bravo took over my real identity. And interacting with you has made me realize that. Because so many people just bow and scrape and nod and say yes. I know you complained to Darren about me. And that asshole’s the biggest pushover on this set, always goes for the highest bidder and I guess in his eyes the actor outranks script supervisor.”

You don’t know why he’s telling you any of this. “Dieter, why… What does this have to do with anything?”

Dieter sighs. “I just — I’m so used to being in persona mode that I forget sometimes. Forget that… David Lucas Bautista isn’t an asshole. He’s actually a really nice guy. And I respect you, more than any of these pukes on set.”

Your surprised snicker is quickly disguised as a throat clearing. “David Bautista? I can see why you have a stage name. But why change the whole thing?”

“Never half-ass two things. Whole-ass one thing,” Dieter replies.

“You stole that,” you accuse, understanding the reference right away.

Dieter’s eyes twinkle. “You don’t miss anything. Anyway, I was downstairs, propositioning Anika, who clearly wasn’t into it. And her eyes kept darting over to her phone.”

Busted. But he doesn’t seem mad.

“I’m sorry that I’ve been… less than pleasant, Keys. For insulting you and not respecting your boundaries.” His apology sounds genuine. It’s his eyes that tell you he’s being truthful, his words unscripted. It’s a lot of guts laying his cards on the table like this.

You swallow. “I appreciate you saying that, thank you. I forgive you. And I’m sorry that I was such a raging bitch to you. There were other ways to prove my point…”

Dieter snorts. “But none that would have gotten my attention. I’m a stubborn ass. And you’re creative. It wasn’t anything I didn’t deserve. You give as good as you get. Better, even. I respect that about you. Friends?”

He sticks out his hand to shake, his brown eyes hopeful. It takes a minute of contemplation; Dieter’s on tenterhooks the entire time, his entire body exhaling when you stick your hand in his. “Friends,” you agree.

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