Once Upon an Afterlife
All right, here goes a first try at David and Maddie. I like happy endings; I hope you do, too.
Footnote—ok, headnote—for the future:
*Casablanca. Warner Bros, 1942. Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. (1. It's a fantastic movie, and 2. I clearly have Remington Steele on the brain, just ignore me…)
Disclaimer: I don't own Moonlighting either—you can't imagine how distraught I am. Actually, you probably can…
Thump.
A clump of dirt hit the tiny box below with a hollow sound—an empty sound—like the echo of a rock slide in a canyon or the final peal of a death knell, which was fitting, come to think of it.
Maddie Hayes didn't want to think of it. The sound was sickening; every tone tore another hole through the void of her stomach; every thump sent the pain echoing through her body. He was gone—as in going, going, gone—and it hurt, so much more than she'd ever thought possible.
She wiped the soil from her hands with a handkerchief, doing her best to still their trembling in the process. He'd always said she was going to be the first one to throw a clump of dirt on his grave. She never anticipated that he would require the service so soon.
It'd been five years since they dissolved the Blue Moon Detective Agency and parted company. In typical David fashion, he landed on his feet again. After a few false starts at several detective agencies, he inherited a bar from an uncle back in Philly. He skipped town without a word; she wasn't that surprised. It wasn't like he'd told her what he was up to when they were working together—living together—loving together…. Why should it be any different now that they barely saw each other?
He did send a postcard. Just two lines: a falsely cheery 'I've moved!' followed by the address. There were a few black scribble marks below that message—obviously he'd quarreled with the pen. It looked like he tried a few different ways of signing it until frustration and desperation had left a reluctant 'David' scrawled along the bottom edge. The possibilities of the black marks were heartening, which showed just how much she missed him. She was reading affection and longing into ink splotches; it was time for drastic action.
As fate would have it, the opportunity for action was far off. In her time between weeping and wistfulness, she managed to create a new life for herself—a new agency all her own. She was back in a world she knew all too well, a world she'd done her best to avoid for more than a decade. The world of fashion, flare, and false smiles beckoned her home, and this time she answered on her own terms.
What the world of lights needed was grace: the grace to grow old—the grace to get out—the grace to give back. All things should end with grace; losing David and the Agency had taught her that. So she was providing graceful options for models bowing out of the business. A combination of night classes, internships, moral support, and lots of chocolate sent many retiring models back into the world equipped for its cruelties and its joys, ready for the next step instead of the next close up. All in all, she was pretty proud of her efforts and her pupils; success felt good, even better knowing it came from where she'd failed before.
But starting fresh didn't allow a lot of time for sorting out the past. She threw herself into her work, and the years slipped away under her very nose. It wasn't until her work with the new Agency called for meetings up and down the east coast that she permitted herself to think of what else might be waiting over there. The trip would start in Boston, hit New York, wander though DC, and then make a beeline for Miami. Philadelphia was right on the way. Kinda.
In any event, she spent a night there, wandering a little absentmindedly. She was looking for his bar, but she wasn't going to admit that to herself, not then anyway.
In the end, it was pretty hard to miss. The large neon sign outside simply read Davy's in flashing red letters and walking inside she realized exactly how Ilsa Lund must have felt walking into Rick's Café American for the first time.* She was treading on hallowed ground, tiptoeing her way into his space—his solitude. She felt like an intruder, an interloper, but she couldn't help herself. She had to see—had to know—what? Something. She had to know he was all right; that she would be all right; that it was possible to recover, no matter how painful. Someday—eventually. She had to know.
Every step, every click of her heels across the red stone floor sounded like an accusation, but she kept going, heading for a black covered bar stool as if it alone could prove her salvation. She slumped into the seat and took a few deep breaths, hoping to slow her heart down before it ran off with her ribcage.
She focused on the background to clear her mind. All the walls were painted red with one dark grey stripe running around the room halfway up, except for the red brick wall behind the bar. There was a blackened fireplace in the center of the wall, but it looked dusty from disuse. Probably just as well; it was a miracle he had a liquor license, never mind the paperwork he'd have to go through to be able to start a fire back there. All the booze would have to go for a start…
The lighting was low and the music was soft—definitely something in the jazz family. There was a piano in the back corner opposite the bar, but the bench was empty that evening. The way things were going the next person to touch the keys was bound to be Agnes playing "Blue Moon," so that thought was better left unattended for the moment.
She didn't recognize the bartender, and she thanked God for small mercies before remembering she didn't believe in that sort of thing. But then there are exceptions to every rule, and David had always been the source of hers.
She ordered a white wine and then changed her mind. "Scratch that—I'll have anything you suggest so long as there's tequila involved."
The bartender's brow furrowed in confusion. "What did you have in mind? Straight shot? Margarita?"
"Somehow I don't think the lady's up for foreplay tonight, Mac. Better go straight up."
His voice was exactly the same and so close she could feel the vibration resonating through her like a tuning fork. The bottom of her stomach fell out, and she froze, trying to reign in her galloping heart before it ran away with her.
She turned to meet his eyes, steeling herself for the pain and cringing under the blow anyway. There was no way she could have prepared for his eyes—distant and yet so very familiar—or his crooked smile—rueful, but still endearing. He looked the same, sounded the same, smelled the same, and it sent her mind reeling down paths she couldn't afford to traipse down again, paths she barely escaped from the last time. She shouldn't have come; she had changed, life had changed, but he hadn't—he never would. That was the problem. Wasn't it?
Except for the earring. He was wearing an earring again. He'd always had the hole, but the last earring she remembered seeing there was of the dangly pig variety—a souvenir from a long weekend on the town, or out of it, as the case may be. This one was a stud—a sliver crescent moon, and it winked at her tauntingly even as its owner slid onto the bar stool beside her.
"New earring?"
"Gift from a friend."
"How nice."
He stared at her for a moment before nodding slightly. "Yeah, it was."
He continued to stare at her; she shifted in her seat feeling uncomfortable. "What? Why are you staring at me like that?"
"Nothing. Just waiting for the crack."
"What?"
"The crack—the joke. You know—'a friend, huh—so you have many of those?' or 'I didn't know imaginary friends could buy accessories.'"
"I'm sorry; I guess I'm out of practice. I didn't come here to poke fun at you."
"Why did you come here?"
"Stopping through. Being friendly."
"Friendly."
She looked at him sadly. "We are still friends?"
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah, Maddie, we're still friends. And you rehired Dipesto, and Santy Claus exists, and love really does last forever."
"I see." She sighed and crossed her arms over the bar, pressing her palms to the polished wood to steady her hands. "Well, I'm here anyway. Wanted to see where you ended up."
He looked around and shrugged. "Not much to see. This is the bar—you've met Mac." He gave a little finger wave to the bartender setting a shot glass of tequila in front of her. "I live a couple blocks over; I play poker with Dad and Richie every Thursday night, and I do my best not to think about you."
"Does it work?"
"Most of the time. Of course you actually being here makes it a little tricky, but I think it's going pretty well."
"Congratulations."
"Thank you. Tequila, huh? Must be serious. Another marriage go belly up?"
She sighed, feeling at once on familiar ground. "Celebrating. I just brought the New York fashion scene to its knees. How about you? Leave anyone lately?"
He smiled and shrugged noncommittally. "No one worth mentioning. I'll take one of those too, Mac."
Mac nodded and set out another glass before pouring in the tequila.
"I don't think I've ever seen you drink this stuff," said David, reaching for his glass.
She picked up hers and shrugged. "There's a first time for everything. Besides, it got such rave reviews in your hangovers."
"I'll drink to that." He clinked his glass to hers and downed the contents in one go. Maddie followed suit and immediately regretted the decision. It burned all the way down and then out through the rest of her extremities. She should have known better than to follow David Addison's lead on anything.
Of course the next warm, tingly feeling wasn't so bad…
Get a grip, Maddie.
"So New York, huh? What'd you do, insult their choice of fabric?"
She shook her head. "Insulted their choice of lifestyle—I think they would have cared more about the fabric, really."
"Sticking it to the fifth avenue broads?"
"Something like that."
"Another one of Maddie Hayes' one woman crusades—sorry I missed it."
"Well there's a brochure if you're really disappointed."
He shrugged again and tapped the bar to get Mac's attention. "What the hell. What's the newest self-righteous campaign? Another over here, Mac."
She opened her purse and handed him the pamphlet on top, smiling as his expression altered from apathy to amazement.
"Poster People: The Unknown Dangers of the Modern Fashion Scene," he read, laughing in surprise. He turned it over and laughed again. "I'm in the credits—what you couldn't think of anyone else?"
"Well, the title's yours."
"Yeah, I guess it is. How'd you end doing this crap?"
"I had to do something. This project seemed as good as anything else. It's nice to be good at something for a change; it's nice to be needed, too."
He handed back the pamphlet and shook his head. "You don't need reassurance from me. If that's what you came for, forget it. You were a fine detective; you were an ok boss, and you were always needed—that's all the ego padding you're going to get."
"An ok boss, huh?"
"So I lied, sue me."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"The ego padding. And putting up with the mediocre boss—well, some of the time, at least. You were always needed, too. I may have forgotten to tell you that at the time."
"Yeah, well, lot of water under the bridge since then. Lotta tequila under the bridge, too. Hurry it up, will you Mac? I'm dry over here." He reached for the shot as soon as it appeared.
"David, don't—" She reached out a restraining hand and froze when she found the warm muscle of his arm under her fingers again. He looked down at her long, delicate fingers blindly, all too aware of all the places on his body those fingers had traveled. His head swam with a rush of memories—Maddie punching him square in the jaw the first day he met her, Maddie brushing his hair back gently and kissing his cheek, Maddie smacking him right before they made love that first time, and later dragging those same fingers down his spine and driving him to distraction. Maddie, Maddie, Maddie…
She was everywhere—images of Madelyn Hayes wallpapered his memory, and the smell of her, the feel of her hand on his arm—so close and yet untouchable—tortured his mind. He looked away and downed the shot, knowing the pain wouldn't fade with the alcohol and still hoping for a miracle anyway.
She removed her hand carefully, watching his head fall toward his chest in relief. She shook her head and sighed. "You don't need to do this, David. Not on my account. We've hurt each other enough as it is—there's no reason to kill your liver, too."
He opened his eyes to stare at the grain of the wood. "It's my liver. Another for the missus and me, Mac."
Maddie looked to the bartender and shook her head to negate the order. "You look like a wise man, Mac; he's had enough."
"Don't listen to her, Mac. I pay the bills around here, and I want to get drunk."
Mac met her eyes and shrugged. "Sorry, miss, he owns the place." He poured another shot, and the glass was emptied in short order.
"This was a mistake," said Maddie, standing up to leave. "I don't know what I was thinking. We've obviously done too much damage to each other to ever just sit and reminisce like normal people."
"You wanted to reminisce? That's why you came here?"
"No! I came here for, I don't know—closure, I guess. I came here to see how you were, to see that you were ok. I thought if you were, then I could be, too. Well, I was wrong. You're not ok—you're anything but ok, and it's too painful to watch knowing there's not a damn thing I can do about it." She turned, prepared to stalk away, when his hand caught her arm and dragged her back onto the bar stool.
"Ok? Of course I'm not ok. The woman who broke my heart several times over just walked into my bar after four and a half years of silence. I'm not ok—I'm furious and confused and going crazy over here because any moment you're going to walk out again. You always walk out, Maddie. Just when I think, this is it, we're going to figure it out this time—you walk out again. Well I don't need you breezing by to check up on me—I don't need you stopping in to see if I'm ok—you're the only thing that makes me not ok!"
He glared at her, and she stared back transfixed by the pain and the rage reflected in the depths of his eyes. He let go of her arm and turned back to the bar slowly, letting the breath he was holding go with a long sigh. He traced the grain of the counter with one finger, watching his fingernail move instead of her.
"Sometimes, I think we're the only people who can make this right for each other; we're the only ones who can fix all this damage we've caused."
"You may be right."
He snorted. "Yeah. But then I see you again, and I realize that it's just a pipe dream—some rationalization I've concocted to justify abusing my heart again."
"Not to mention your liver."
"Yeah, well, I can't do it anymore. I can't just wait around for the next blow to broadside me. It's too painful—seeing you is too painful."
She nodded slowly, reluctant to leave him in this state, but at a loss as to what else to do. They were both walking wounded, but sticking around wasn't going to change that fact. She'd come for peace of mind—for comfort of some sort, and she was going to be leaving a part of her heart behind instead. She stood and eyed his hunched back for a moment.
"Well, you won't see me again. You can go back to your bar and your booze and forget me the best way you know how. I won't stop you, and I won't save you. I have to save myself."
"That's a surprise," he muttered under his breath.
She sighed; she'd become immune to the sting in that thorn a long time ago. "I suggest you do the same, David. This is not healthy."
"But it sure is fun."
She shook her head, turning to look for Mac. She saw him halfway down the bar and raised a hand to catch his attention. "Look after this idiot, will you? He's going to need all the help he can get." She turned back to find David watching her with dull eyes and pursed lips.
"You're leaving."
"Do you think it'd be any good if I stayed?"
"Nope."
"Then yes, I'm leaving."
He nodded. "Bye bye, blondie blond. Forgive me if I don't make it to the next lecture."
"I'll forgive you." The way she said it made it sound like she was talking about more than some hypothetical lecture. On an impulse she reached forward to touch the stud in his ear, ignoring his attempts to escape her hand. "I'm glad you liked this. I was nervous when you never wore it after that birthday party. It suits you."
"What can I say—you've always had impeccable taste."
"Yes, I have." She patted his shoulder and leaned in to brush her lips against his forehead gently. One moment passed as her lips touched his skin, and then all his years of restraint flew out the window. In one smooth movement, he was up from the stool, holding her tightly and pressing her back against the bar. His lips devoured hers hungrily, and his fingers dug into her hips, painfully possessive. It took a moment for her to register the change in position, but then she began to press back, fighting back with hands and lips lest he consume her too with his passion and agony.
Her fingers found their way into his hair, stroking the back of his neck and the side of his cheek. Her intimate caress drew him back to himself, and he broke the embrace almost as abruptly as he'd started it. He backed into the bar, catching his breath and watching her straighten and pull herself back together.
She cleared her throat. "Well, then… I'd better be going."
He nodded, bracing himself against the edge of the bar. "Yeah."
"Goodbye, David."
"Here's looking at you, kid."
He watched her walk toward the door, torn between chasing after her and running in the opposite direction. Maddie Hayes was his own personal hell, and yet sometimes eternal suffering seemed like a small price to pay for the pleasure of dancing with her in the firelight once more.
She turned at the door—wouldn't you know it? He wasn't getting clear of her without one last parting shot.
He waited, but the volley never came. She smiled sadly and reached for the door.
"By the way, I did hire Agnes. She runs my daycare facility. I think she'd like to see you, if you're ever in LA."
And she was gone—as in going, going, gone.
And now so was he, this time for the last time. They'd never have a chance for the fateful reunion scene—never have a chance to make amends for the pain they'd inflicted on each other. He was gone and she was at a loss; the world suddenly seemed a lot colder knowing David Addison was no longer in it to organize spur of the moment limbo competitions or talk her into one last dance for the road.
According to Mac, David left Philly for LA three weeks past, driving cross country on a soul searching mission that was supposed to end on her doorstep.
He never made it. He stopped by the old office building for nostalgia's sake, only to be hit by a truck crossing the street.
It seemed so asinine—five years of fighting and barely missing bullets, another five of appalling abuse to his liver, and what kills David Addison? Absentminded miscalculation and a bad pair of brakes. She hadn't even known he was in town until his father called to ask her to bring the ashes back to Pennsylvania. How could she refuse?
And so here she was at the Addison family plot, watching his family sprinkle handful after handful of dirt on his grave. It seemed impossible to think he was gone—that a man so alive could suddenly cease to exist.
She'd never believed in God, but then David always was her exception. It seemed fitting to pray for the man who had once done the same for her. If the man upstairs existed—and He had for David, at least—she thought He'd understand. God in heaven, I commit to you your servant, David. Let him know that he was loved.
She felt a hand on her arm and turned to find Agnes beside her.
"He was pretty great great, wasn't he Miss Hayes?"
Maddie nodded, turning damp eyes back to the small hole in the ground. "Pretty great great."
Her hotel room was dark when she finally got in. Those Addison boys knew how to throw a party; the whole lot of them should be admitted to rehab and dried out within an inch of their lives. She closed the door and flicked on the light, unbuttoning her blouse as she turned back to the bed.
David Addison Jr. grinned up into her shocked eyes. His eyes traveled down to her half unbuttoned blouse. "I guess this really must be heaven."
She screamed and fell back against the door, hitting her head on her way down.
He sprang up from the bed and rushed to her side, bending to explore her bump with his fingers. "Whoa, whoa, Maddie chill. This whole plan of mine's no good if you're brain dead."
"Ow!" She winced as his fingers probed a particularly sensitive area.
"Yeah, that's going to hurt for a while. On the other hand, two seconds has got to be some kind of record for a good head banging. I like to think that bodes well for our future." He grinned at her; she glowered back.
"Future? I've got news for you, David—you're dead! I buried you today; I offered condolences to your family--I threw the first clump of sodding, sodden soil on your miserable grave—what the hell kind of future do you think we have?"
"Try saying that three times fast."
"David!"
He pressed one finger to her lips and nodded at her calmly. "Well," he said, gently brushing wayward strands of hair back behind her ears, "I was looking forward to one hell of an afterlife with you."
She caught his fingers and pressed them to her lips and then to her cheek. "You're really alive, aren't you? Your brother Richie didn't slip something into my last drink, did he?"
He smiled, his eyes warm on her face for the first time in a very long time. "Richie I can't speak for, but yes, I'm alive."
Maddie felt relief giving way to irritation. "Forgive me asking, but just how are you alive, David?"
"I was afraid you'd ask that."
Maddie recognized the first swell of anger rising in her chest. "David, you wouldn't have set this all up so I'd come back here grieving for you, would you?"
"Well—"
"Because that would be the single stupidest, cruelest thing you've ever done in all the time I've ever known you, and that's saying quite a lot."
"Well you see, Maddie—"
"Tell me you weren't that stupid, David."
"Maddie—"
"Tell me there's some other explanation, David. Tell me I didn't spend a week and a half in hell just so you could enjoy the big resurrection."
"Then you did miss me?"
Maddie stared at him for a moment before lunging for his throat. "David Addison—I'm going to kill you myself!"
He rolled and landed on top of her, dragging her hands away from his neck to hold them above her head. He kissed her nose and grinned down lovingly into her outraged face.
"I know, Maddie. But look at the bright side—in twenty or thirty years, I'm going to be begging you to kill me anyway."
All right, I have a guilty confession to make—I haven't watched the last two seasons of Moonlighting. I know a lot of what happens, and I'm not sure I can take it, so if you see something out of cannon with seasons four and five, that's why, and I apologize for being a wimp at the moment…
In any event, I really enjoyed writing David and Maddie a happy ending. I hope you enjoyed reading it—thanks for reviewing!