Camera Obscura

by yellowcottondresses

There were a lot of moments those reality TV cameras didn't capture. ONESHOT.

Author's Note: Takes place between "All or Nothing With Me" and "On The Other Hand".

I don't own Nashville.

I.

The magnolia tree is blooming, white blossoms that wink in the darkness. Small and tender, they look at him like wide, wondering eyes.

He knows what kind of tree it is because Scarlett knows; when the three of them all lived here together, sometimes she would snip a few white flowers from a low-hanging branch, and set them in a mason jar to sit on the windowsill. She always did this apologetically, saying that she knew they weren't meant to be taken off the tree, but they were so pretty, and she couldn't help herself sometimes.

Once, he came downstairs and saw Gunnar offer her a blossom in his cupped hands, the petals tickling the top of her nose. She giggled, kissing him in the sunlit kitchen they all used to share.

The camera crew took some of the flowers off the tree yesterday with scissors, and fastened them in Layla's hair. Part of her costume, the white flowers and the white dress with her wedding band. She'd kept reaching up one hand to touch them, patting them into place. The petals kept falling out and on his shoulder when he had to pick her up, until they fell scattered and dirty under the soles of his shoes. The crew kept having to sweep them up, and cut new petals down when they had to re-shoot the scenes.

He sighs, head in his hands. He may be going to the one room where he's safe from the blinking view of the cameras, but he still has to step through his own minefield of a house to get there. Tearing just one out of the wall won't make them go away.

He gets up, feeling heavy. Fallen petals crunch under his footsteps, as he closes his eyes and opens the door to his house.

II.

He could hear her crying when he left. He waited until he heard her footsteps walk away bathroom before he finally came out, and when he grabbed his keys he saw the bedroom door open. Her head was bent in the pillows as her shoulders shook.

He didn't say anything. Made his footsteps heavy, like he couldn't hear her over the sound of his boots hitting the floor.

This time, he tiptoes through the house. His footsteps shake the darkness, like they're trying to alert it of an intruder. He almost reaches for a light, but then sees the blinking cameras mounted in the corner, and the hole he made in the wall. So instead he gropes in the darkness, reaching blindly ahead.

When he passes the kitchen, he sees the countertop is lined with beers he didn't drink. He stares at the empty glasses for a long moment. If the camera crew had been helping themselves, he really would throw them out of the house, contract or not. Or just rip all the rest of the cameras out, and dump them in Gina Romano's lap when she showed up tomorrow morning.

He's inches away from the one room in the house where he's free from their eyes. He stares at the closed door, wanting to escape and never wanting to go inside. But the cameras wait, too patient, so Will ducks into the bedroom, head bowed.

Layla's sprawled out on top of the covers, wearing a t-shirt and nothing else. One bare leg is tucked underneath her body, and the other lies across his side of the bed like a question tossed out in the darkness.

He sits down on the edge of the rumpled covers, watching her. She doesn't move when his weight hits the mattress, at the sound of the springs creaking. There in the dark, he watches her breathe.

Her wedding dress is hanging on the closet door, left over from yesterday. It glows in the almost pitch-black of the bedroom, and the bottom ruffles out from the ceiling fan, like the skirt's caught in mid-twirl.

It's not even her real wedding dress. The producers made her wear it, because Gina insisted they act out the whole pantomime of carrying her across the threshold, like that actually happened. In reality, they got married in jeans and he carried Layla through the doorway of their hotel room the night of their honeymoon.

She never wore a dress. He never carried her in their home.

He reaches over and grabs her foot, the one dangling on his side of the mattress. Holds it in his lap a moment, her heel in the palm of his hand.

Layla shifts on top of the covers, and he holds still. Then she blinks, peering at him through sleep-matted hair.

"You're home," she mumbles.

He traces the bone of her ankle with one finger. "Yeah."

"I didn't think you would," she says. "I thought –"

She winces, holding her head in her hands.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice thick.

Will stares at her foot.

"There's nothin' to be sorry for," he says to the darkness. "You didn't do anything wrong."

She looks up at him, eyes red-rimmed. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and when she closes her eyes to take a breath more of them leak out, heavy and exhausted.

"Are you still mad?"

"I'm not mad at you."

"I'm sorry," she says again.

She looks at him and he feels like the cameras are still rolling. Like Gina Romano's standing in the corner, ready to jump out and gauge his every move. Like she's going to tell him that it falls too flat, that it feels too strained; that if she doesn't believe him, how can anybody else.

Layla turns away, and sobs into the covers. He keeps tracing patterns into her bare skin, swallowing words he doesn't have.

"You hate the show," she wobbles.

Will sucks in a breath.

"S'not your fault," he says numbly.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I thought it would help. With the album, and your career, and everything. I thought it would help us."

She hunches the blankets over her, bundling herself together.

"I love you. I wanted you to be happy." Fresh tears pour down her face. "That's all I want. That's the only thing I want."

He can't look at her.

If he were a good husband, he'd lie down beside her. Pull her into his arms and hold her until he could make things okay. He'd touch her hair and kiss her and tell her everything would be all right. Be good, be decent. Have and hold and honor, and cherish.

That's what he swore, when he put that ring on her finger.

He pats her ankle instead.

"Shhhhh," is what he says. "It's all right."

With one finger, he starts tracing the veins in her foot. He drags one nail slowly along the faint trail of green outlined under her white skin. It's like following lines on an atlas, except they disappear into thicker skin, roads leading nowhere.

There's a cup on the nightstand. He reaches for it, and then stops. Swirls the contents, remembering the familiar smell.

"Wait." He leans closer. "Have you been drinkin'?"

She blinks, her eyes bleary.

"I did," she says, and then groans as she sinks down into the pillow.

She hadn't just finished off those beers. She'd gotten into the whiskey he and Gunnar kept on the top shelf of the pantry, the one he didn't know she knew about.

He smells the cup again, then sets it down on the bedside table.

"That stuff's, like, one shade above lighter fluid," he says.

Layla buries her head in the pillow.

"It tastes like regret," she mumbles.

He almost smiles at that. Maybe she'd hurl all over Gina.

The only other time Layla ever drank was on their honeymoon. He bought her the girliest drink he could find on the menu from the hotel bar, and made sure the waiter put three of those stupid umbrellas in it. She got giggly after drinking about half, and didn't even finish it. When they made their way up to their room at the end of the night, she was walking like her feet were made of glass, and got really handsy with him in the elevator. She started reaching for his clothes almost before the bedroom door shut behind them. She wasn't even drunk, just tipsy.

The next morning, she woke up with a headache and a million questions.

"Is this what a hangover feels like?"

"You don't have a hangover."

"I have a headache. Isn't that a hangover?"

"You don't have a hangover," he repeated. "You had, like, three sips of that thing. You're fine."

"I don't know."

"Do you feel like you're gonna puke?"

She closed her eyes, considering this. "No."

"Then you're fine. Just drink water. And take some Advil, if you think you need it."

"That was a lot of fun," she said, grinning at him. She burrowed closer to his side under the covers and pressed a kiss into his shoulder. "Now I know why people like that stuff."

He made a face. "That was hardly alcohol. It was, like, ninety percent sugar and those foofy umbrella thingies."

"Maybe next time you'll let me work my way up," she said, taking his hand. With her thumb she traced his wedding band. "Try something a little more badass."

He smirked. "That might take awhile, if you think you're hungover after three sips."

She swatted his chest, but was still smiling.

"Good thing I have you, then," she said, and leaned up for a kiss, one that tasted like stale sugar and late, lazy mornings, and the muggy air outside their window.

They hadn't planned a honeymoon, of course. After they left the chapel, the limo took them to the airport, where Will told Layla to pick a flight – any flight, so long as it was someplace warm and in this country. She picked "Hawaii– no, wait! I changed my mind, Florida! Let's go to Florida! I always wanted to go to Key West! No, wait, Hawaii has volcanoes! Let's go see a volcano!" and there they were.

They hadn't seen any volcanoes, but when he stepped off the plane he was standing on a glass floor, and beneath him was a giant pond of brightly-colored fish. They scattered wherever he stepped, flickering like tails of a comet.

What the cameras didn't capture: Layla giggling when she purchased one of those flower necklaces. She bought one for him, but he refused to wear it, saying it made him want to sneeze. He put it around her neck instead, taking one of the blossoms and tucking it behind her ear. Then he spun her around in the glass floor before bending her down for a kiss. Some of the attendants caught a glimpse of their rings and whispered to each other, smiling as they walked through the airport. A few of the guys gave Will a thumbs-up.

Layla peers at him, hidden by her hair.

"You sure you're not mad?" Her voice is tiny.

His hand freezes on her foot. The softest skin on top, raised where the veins are visible.

She shrinks into the covers, away from him.

III.

He ducks into the bathroom. No cameras, but the feeling never goes away.

He feels them staring at him in the mirror, in the beam of the nozzle. They're behind the shower curtain, slippery shadows that are waiting to cluck their tongues and fix his hair and tell him that he needs to do it again, that they need more; Gina Romano with those sharp, probing eyes that never miss a single motion.

He showers in the dark. Steam rises in a cloud above his head.

He can't make out which bottle is his shampoo, and he doesn't want to rinse his hair with Layla's fruity-body-whatever-girly-shit, so he just reaches for the soap instead. It's a new bar, and when he runs it over his skin the smell takes over the whole bathroom, new and fresh. It's overwhelming how spicy it is, the smell of clean.

A few days before the camera crew showed up, Layla went on a cleaning rampage, scrubbing every inch of the house. Even the bathroom, even though they both agreed to no cameras in there or the bedroom, and made Gina sign the contract stating so.

"But they'll still be here," she insisted, scrubbing at the shower wall with a sponge. The whole place smelled like bleach and lemons. Even with the ventilation fan whirring overhead, it was still overpowering. "And it needs to look like we give a crap."

"Nobody's gonna be coming in here, though."

"That's not the point."

"Then why are you freaking out?"

She yanked the shower curtain open. "Because it has to look nice!"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm just sayin'. Nobody cares if the floor's spit-shined. It smells like you're cleaning up a dead hooker."

She tried to look angry, but the frown kept sliding off her face. Maybe it was the fumes. They were giving him a headache, too.

"If you want everyone to think we're pigs," she'd snapped, "then fine."

He didn't want her to be pissy with him for the rest of the night, so instead he grabbed a wash cloth, and then a sponge when Layla told him to put the wash cloth away because it would only make things dirtier. He was relegated to Windexing the tiny mirror perched on the wall. Then he washed the sink out, scrubbing the stains Layla's make-up and his toothpaste had streaked on the inside of the bowl. The whir of the vent fan and the squeak of Layla's bare feet on the scrubbed floor were too much noise, so he pulled the radio into the bathroom and plugged it into the outlet Layla usually used for her hair dryer.

Layla looked up from her crouched position in the tub, arching her eyebrows.

"Radio game?" she asked.

He made a face at her.

"I pick the station this time."

It was something the two of them started, when they were on the road together. Long hours in cars and busses and planes, rides that felt like they would never end. They didn't like the same music, and could rarely agree on a radio station – Layla liked Top 40 and the "soft rock" station, which Will called "Mom Music" because he thought nobody except soccer moms actively wanted to listen to Uncle Kracker sing "Drift Away" or hear Train singing "Drops of Jupiter". Will listened to what Sirius XM depressingly labelled "outlaw country"; songs deemed too country for country music. Occasionally he could be persuaded to listen to the mainstream country radio stations, but that was more for checking out the competition and listening for his own name rather than listening for something he wanted to hear.

Layla usually let Will put on whatever he felt like, but sometimes she wanted a turn, turning on Beyoncé or more crappy auto-tuned garbage sung by some British boy band in tight jeans and guyliner. There was only so much of that he could take, but Layla argued that she hated being stuck in a car for hours with nothing but Willie Nelson's B-sides to keep them company.

So they developed the radio game.

It started the fairest method Will knew – rock, paper, scissors, and since Layla rarely picked rock he won more times than not. Whoever won would put on whatever station they wanted, and they could listen to it as long as they wanted. The only rules were that you had to sing along, and the channel would change when you came across a song you didn't know. Or if they came across one so terrible they HAD to change, which so far was the immediate rule for two instances: Blake Shelton's "Boys Round Here" and anything by Miley Cyrus.

(Except for the time she cranked up "Party in the USA", trying to coax him into a sing-a-long. It didn't end well.)

Will had lost count of which one of them had gone the longest without missing a song, but he was pretty sure it was him. Once he made it through three radio rotations on some local country station while they were driving through the Midwest, the anonymous strip of black highway against blue, white, and gold on either side stretching farther than they could see.

What the cameras didn't capture: Will turning the radio to the oldies station, something they both actually agreed on. The Beatles and the Beach Boys, Bill Withers and Hall & Oates, "Brandy, You're A Fine Girl", "Let's Stay Together", "Only The Good Die Young" (Will sang along in his head, because fuck it, it's Billy Joel) and Layla swaying and slinking through "Son of a Preacher Man". She had bleach speckled down the front of her shirt and soap flecked on her nose as she swung her hips from side to side, batting her lashes to the sponge like it was a microphone. He smiled, in spite of himself.

"We need to replace the shower curtain," Layla told him, holding the sheet of plastic away from her as she wrinkled her nose. She was still crouched over the bath drain. "This one is seriously growing its own colony of mold."

He arched his eyebrows. "Its own colony?"

"Yeah." She stood up; the fumes must have been getting to her, because she put a hand on the shower wall to steady herself, and shook her head a few times. "They've got a city hall and everything. They're electing a mayor. Mayor of the mold."

He stared at her.

"You should sit down and get some fresh air," is what he said.

Except they finished the bathroom over the soundtrack of the Spinners and James Taylor and Creedence Clearwater Revival, and that one song from Grease. They were both a little light-headed and high on bleach fumes, so when she held out her arms during "My Girl" he sighed, grinning, and spun her in her bare feet. She tilted her head back to the ceiling and opened her mouth and laughed, and kissed him tasting like lemons and soap, her dizzy mouth slip-sliding off his chapped lips.

"Save it for the camera," she said when she finally let go of him, and just like that, it was as if someone rushed all the air out of the room. They'd gone back to cleaning, but the radio played on, and neither one of them danced or sang or bothered to change it, even when the Monkees started singing "I'm A Believer".

He opens his eyes in the darkness. There's an itch under his skin, and maybe he should run. Hit the street and not stop, he feels like he could keep going forever, running, dark and cold air and nothing to hold him back. Just the wind against him as he pushed through it, daring it to stop him, daring anything to get in his way, daring anything to fuck with him, try to bring him down now.

He hits the wall of the shower instead, with an open fist. It doesn't do anything because it's stupid and useless, but it lets him breathe, just before he felt like his chest would explode and holding that in would finally be what killed him.

IV.

Layla's either asleep or pretending to be, lost in a boozy dreamworld he can't imagine and doesn't want to and wouldn't either way.

Once on a red-eye flight, she fell asleep on his shoulder. On purpose, because she'd had her headphones on, playing some pop-sounding crap he could hear through the ear buds and tried to ignore as he closed his eyes, trying to shift as far away from her as he could without being obvious. But soon she was asleep for real – he could tell by the deep, even breaths she was taking, and how her head felt heavier, and she was drooling a little on the sleeve of his jacket

He peered over at her, noticed the buds slipped out of her ears. He took them off her neck, tucked her iPod into his jacket pocket for later, and then put her tray table up so she'd have more room to rest.

Out of curiosity, he looked through her songlist. There was the predictable Top 40 crap and old 90s boy bands songs, the occasional Tim McGraw or Taylor Swift. Also, a Guns n' Roses song that wasn't "Sweet Child Of Mine" or "Paradise City". It baffled him.

There was one playlist labelled "Will". After a moment's hesitation, he started flicking through it, and saw a list of songs he knew. Stuff by the Robert Earle Keen, Kris Kristofferson, Dwight Yoakam, Steve Earle, Buck Owens.

Will had looked over at Layla, still sleeping. They never talked about music, strange as it was, aside from the business aspect of it; tours and labels and press releases, and needing their next singles to chart. This whole playlist was made of songs he remembered from those long hours playing the radio game to amuse themselves as they drove through nowhere, trying to get from one show and press junket and interview to the next.

What the cameras didn't capture: He switched the iPod off in his pocket. Then leaned back in his chair, careful not to jostle Layla's head and wake her. He stared out the window for the rest of the flight, above the clouds in the darkness. Like they were careening through empty space, with nothing above or below them.

Now, her leg is still tossed over his side of the bed. Hair rumpled over her face, mouth wide open, snoring lightly.

He rolls her in the loose end of the top sheet. Her face gives him nothing, no dreams or needs or tears. He tucks her in the edges of the comforter, leaving her bare white feet sticking out the bottom.

He stares at the bedroom door. It stares back.

Will ducks through the living room, back hunched and head staring straight at the floor. Runs through the front door, out to the yard. He stands under the branches of the magnolia tree, their warm, shining silence, and it's not really any easier to breathe but at least there aren't cameras so he can at least gasp and reach for air in silence, and nobody has to see him fighting for the next moment.

He bends over, grips his jean legs, stares at the ground, the muddy grass beneath his boots. In and out, in and out, breathe, you stupid fucking idiot, breathe, just let yourself, already.

The white blossoms wink above him in the darkness. Sweet and waiting. Patient as Tony's card, sitting expertly crumpled in his pocket, and the hours that stand between now and their private session.

V.

There was one night when she cuddled up to him after they were finished, and he was trying to pull his boxers back on but she was resolutely trying to get her arms around his middle while he tried to ignore her without actually ignoring her. Eventually she gave up, getting out of bed with the sheet wrapped around her, searching for her clothes on the floor. When she climbed back into bed beside him, she fell asleep curled into a ball on her side of the mattress, her back to him, limbs tucked under herself and trying as hard as she could not to touch him at all.

He worked his jaw and clenched his teeth all night, staring at the ceiling. When he woke up with a start the next morning, the space beside him was empty, the curtains almost untouched, and it looked like he'd been sleeping alone.

Layla's still sprawled out, so he has to maneuver a little not to touch her in the bed. He'd rather just take the couch, but he can't sleep where there are cameras, so he stares at the whir of the ceiling fan and tries not to accidentally brush up against any part of Layla's body. He stays there until the windowless walls start pulsing the reddish glow of morning, making the shadows curl on his floor and stretch across the mattress like limbs unhurried to wake up.

Another time, she woke him up before dawn. They were out west somewhere, high in the mountains.

"Babe. Wake up. There's snow."

He didn't want to get up; he didn't sleep the night before. He rarely slept, mostly just laid awake beside Layla all night, staring at the ceiling and watching TV with the sound turned off. Good thing she slept like the dead, because she never woke up when he left the room at three AM to walk around the deserted hotel lobbies and pace outside the parking lot, trying to still keep breathing when his whole world squeezed itself to fit on the head of a pin.

"Baby." She shook his shoulders. "Look. Just see this."

He groaned.

"It's too early."

Her face fell.

"Just look? Please?"

He didn't want to, but she sounded like she was about to cry and he couldn't stand it when she did that, and his ring was on her finger and he married her as soon as he could, made her his reason, so no one could ever touch him.

So he rolled over.

"What is it?"

"Look at the snow," she said, and parted the curtains on her side of the bed so he could see. The frost-covered trees that looked golden in the sunlight, the endless sprawl of pure, untouched white, the glow of the streetlights and the dawn crawling over the mountaintops like a postcard.

He shrugged, already turning back over to his side of the bed.

"S'nice," was all he said.

"Did you even look?"

"I looked."

Layla sighed. He didn't know what she wanted.

He promised Gunnar he'd be good and decent, and Gunnar said he wasn't the one Will had to swear that to.

What the cameras didn't capture: she wanted to show him the snow. She opened the blinds like this was a gift she was giving only to him, because he was her husband; something to share with only him.

Layla doesn't wake up when he slips out of bed, pulling on his clothes from yesterday. He makes a pot of coffee, pouring himself a cup. He stares into a long time, then dumps it down the drain untouched.

The cameras angle towards him from the corner. Filming his back. He can feel his neck turning red, the veins in his forehead pulsing, blood rushing to his ears.

If he wanted to convince Gina and the world that he was normal and boring and just what he said he was, acting like a camera-ripping giant wasn't going to earn him any favors. Or make Jeff stop looking at him like he's turning Will inside out.

He has to grip the counter to keep his hands from shaking. Don't throw the paper towel rack across the room, don't shove the coffee maker off the counter, don't break dishes, don't –

Will peers at the bottles piled on the coffee table, the ones Layla left there last night. He clears them away, burying them in the garbage under an old pizza box. Then he decides to take the entire bag out, even half-full, because he doesn't know if Gina and the rest of these freaks have decided to dig through their garbage, looking for god only knows.

Layla tiptoes into the kitchen fresh from a shower, walking like she's suspended from strings. She's holding her head in her hands, glasses perched crookedly on the bridge of her nose, and her damp footsteps leave a trail all the way to the microwave.

Will grabs a coffee mug and fills it for her. He holds it out, but she doesn't notice, so he taps her shoulder. She stares at the steaming mug for a moment before finally taking it from his hands.

"Thanks," she mutters, a beat too late.

He grunts a response. There's no food in the house, and his stomach feels like churning cement, but he can't just stand here doing nothing with his hands, so he grabs a half-finished carton of eggs from the fridge. If nothing else, Layla should have something on her stomach.

He peers over his shoulder at her, staring at the microwave while she re-heats her coffee. She lets the timer run all the way through, a first for her. Usually she can never wait the full thirty seconds, always pulling it out with twelve or seven or four seconds go to. It makes him nuts, for some reason – those seconds wasted by her impatience. He needs to finish things he starts.

He grabs a spatula and frying pan.

"Scrambled okay?" he asks.

She doesn't turn to look at him.

"Layla. Hey."

She winces.

"Yeah." Her voice sounds like gravel in an open wound.

"Scrambled eggs okay?"

This should be the time when she could make some cutesy comment about him cooking for her and beam at him, batting her lashes while she slides in for a kiss. Instead, she stares at the steam coming off her coffee. It's fogging up her glasses.

"Huh," she says.

He doesn't know if it's a yes or not and doesn't have the patience to care right now. So he cracks one egg over the pan, letting it simmer over the blue flame.

He's never cooked for Layla before. Can't remember a time he cooked for anyone, come to think about it.

Will sneaks another glance at her. She must really be feeling shitty, if she isn't trying to get him to talk about yesterday. Like that's an option. Like it'll help.

He peers in the fridge. There's nothing in there except what's left of his beers, and some soda that belongs to Gunnar. There's a carton of milk Layla bought and wrote her name on, like anybody but her is going to drink almond soy milk in this house. He checks in the pantry and finds a six pack of Powerade on the bottom shelf. He doesn't know how long it's been in there, but it can't be any worse than what Layla had already been drinking.

"Here," he says, handing her a blue one.

She stares at it.

"It'll help the headache," he says.

She keeps staring. He turns back to the stove.

"It's warm," she says finally.

He snorts. "Sorry, princess."

"No, it's…"

He turns back to her. She gropes at the air for a word, like one might just appear for her to use.

Then she gives up, putting her head on the table.

Will looks at the clock. The camera crew is showing up at ten; it's just after seven. Of all the days for Layla to be hung over. Of all the days for her to drink in the first place.

And of course she would be THIS pitifully, obviously hungover, too. She probably got drunk after one half of a beer, then decided that she had to really make sure she did the job, so why the hell not take in as much as she could, just to really make sure she was doing it right.

Because that's Layla. Always needing to make sure she does everything perfectly. Because her worst fear is that people would see her as anything less. Even when it applies to hangovers.

Then he reminds himself that the only reason she's hungover is because of what happened last night, and that wouldn't have happened if he hadn't yelled at her and completely lost his shit. And that wouldn't have happened if they weren't doing this fucking show in the first place, and then he thinks about what Jeff said to him, but he doesn't want to think about that so he pokes at the eggs some more and fiddles with the stove dials and wipes an imaginary spot off the counter with his hands.

Shit, shit, shit.

"You gonna puke?" he asks. He's gripping the countertop with white knuckles.

Layla mrrphmhs into her arms.

"If you feel like puking," he says, "you should just let yourself. It'll make you feel better. Waiting to puke's always worse than the puking itself."

Layla groans.

"Stop saying puke," she whines.

Will switches the stove off, piles the eggs onto a plate. Slides them front of her on the table.

"Eat at least some of that," he says. "It'll help. And drink that Powerade. Trust me."

"The last thing I want right now is food."

"Yeah, well. You need somethin' on your stomach. Other than booze."

"I'm not hungry," she says.

Her voice is toneless, but her eyes aren't.

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

Layla puts her head in her hands.

"I can't eat it," she says.

He clenches his jaw.

"Fine."

In one swift motion, he grabs the plate from underneath her and shoves the whole thing in the garbage.

Layla chokes out a sob. She stumbles off the stool and hurries to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Will stares at the mess of untouched eggs in the garbage can, the overturned plate. He kicks the cabinet shut and then kicks it again, scuffing the surface with the toe of his boot. Then he kicks it again, and again.

VI.

It's supposed to rain.

He can see the clouds rolling over the streets. Thunder rumbles, somewhere. He can't tell which direction. It's so sticky and airless outside he can feel the sweat trickling down his back, pooling at his hips. It itches, and his t-shirt's soaked.

But it's better than being inside.

The cameras are off. They didn't see it, didn't hear it, and thanks to him getting rid of the garbage bag containing the evidence – the lone plate and smashed semblance of scrambled eggs – nobody will ever know about this morning except him and Layla.

He has to tidy things up before everybody gets here. Has to make everything up, before he can make up everything.

But even after getting rid of the trash and wiping down the stove top, it still isn't a tidy resolution and the plate's still broken and cameras are everywhere he looks and there's nothing he can do about any of it.

So he stands on the porch, sweating. Waiting for the rain.

The oncoming downpour is not helping him breathe. His skin feels pulled tight, the wet air choking anything that he tries to suck in. His chest hurts, his pulse going this insane rhythm, the same as his heart. He leans over and in, out, in, out, in. Out. In. Out. In –

Closes his eyes. Stares at the magnolia tree, its white blossoms open like eyes that take everything in. They hover in the still air, watching.

The sky is waiting to open up. Sweat rolls down his body like tear tracks. Waiting to breathe hurts.

His pocket vibrates.

He grabs the phone, stomach flipping when he recognizes the area code. Even faded from the wrinkles in that little index card, he still knows the numbers.

"This is Will." Casual. This could be anybody. Tries not to hiccup on his own name.

"Will. Hey. It's Tony."

His chest is so tight.

"I got your message." Is it possible to hear someone smiling through the phone? "I'd love to work you out."

His gut backflips somewhere into his throat. Or maybe that's his heart?

"Sure! Great, man. I'd love to."

"I'm glad to hear you say that."

Will can definitely hear him smiling. He tries to breathe.

"How's next Thursday work for ya?"

"Next Thursday?" Will pretends to consider this. "Think I'm just fine."

"Great." He makes the word about four syllables, and his voice drops on the last one. So does Will's stomach. "Can't wait to get to training you."

"Me, too, man."

"Already got some great ideas."

"Good. That's awesome. I'm really excited."

"Me too. You have no idea."

He's usually about five beers deep before Will lets himself feel this warm, this loose. Now it floods through him like a fever, or a rumor.

"So…" Will stares at the ground, trying to put himself together. "Talk to you later?"

"Definitely." Tony sounds more sure about this than Will thinks he's ever felt about anything in his whole pathetic life. "I'll give you all the details."

The phone reads CALL ENDED. He stares at the screen. Then shoves it in his back pocket, all the way to the bottom.

VII.

His feet struggle with straight lines, walking through the house. Even with his head down and staring at his feet, it's hard to put one in front of the other, keep walking forward. It's like the not-fun kind of drunk.

Speaking of drunk –

He can hear Layla in the bathroom, hunched over the rim of the toilet bowl. He steps closer to her, but doesn't cross the floor and actually go in. Instead, he just hovers in the doorway.

"You get it all out yet?" he asks, when she stops gagging.

Layla shudders.

"Nothing's coming up," she wheezes.

Will sniffs the air – he can't smell anything – so he dares a peek at the toilet. There's nothing in the bowl.

"Just let yourself do it," he tells her from the hallway. "Once you do, you're gonna feel a lot better."

As if in response, Layla heaves over the toilet bowl, and Will looks away. But apart from a few dry-heaves, he can't hear anything else coming up.

"All right," he says, stepping behind Layla. He puts a hand on the small of her back, fingers barely grazing her t-shirt. "All right. C'mon. Let's see what we got here."

Layla groans, hunching into herself, forehead pressed to the ground.

"I'm not gonna," she says.

"You sure?"

He's pretty sure she's going to, and she's just too afraid to let herself do it. He wishes she'd just let go, already. It'll suck, but it can't be any worse than she already feels.

Another groan from the body on the floor.

"Yeah," Layla mumbles.

He sighs.

"Can you stand?" Without waiting for an answer, he slips an arm around her waist, slowly helping her to her feet.

He can see it on her grey face – her stomach turning, clasping her hand to her mouth, and for a second he thinks she's finally going to barf, all over him. But then she slumps over, leaning until he's got all her weight on his side. He can tell she just wants to lie down on the cold tile floor but he tugs her forward, pulling her limp body up into his arms as he carries her to the bedroom. Her head is heavy on his shoulder, teeth chattering in his ear.

Will pours her onto the bed, under the sheets this time. Tucks the edges around her, pulls the quilt up to her neck. Smooths it down over her stomach, just barely.

Settled under the cocoon of covers, Layla curls into herself. She's still hungover, but doesn't look like she's going to be sick anymore. More like forlorn. Like she feels totally alone and abandoned, like nobody wants her.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. Again.

He closes his eyes.

"Don't worry about it," he mutters.

Layla shifts, tucking her head into her arms.

"I didn't want it to be like this," she says, hunching away from him.

He really scared her, he knows. Yesterday. Not just because he was yelling and ripping the camera out of the wall.

She's never acted like she might be afraid of him.

He's strangely empty of emotion, as he looks down at her.

"You don't –" he says, than stops. Rubs his eyes, and feels his whole body ache. "Just, don't worry about it, okay? I'm over it. Nothing's wrong."

"I'm sorry."

"You said that already."

Tears well up in her eyes. He tries not to sigh.

"Look." He brushes the hair out of her eyes. "Just. Sleep, okay? You'll feel better. I'll get you up when Gina's here. I'll tell 'em you're sick & maybe they won't do anything today."

He doesn't think that last part's true – if anything, they'll probably make Will shoot stuff on his own. Which, actually, might be better than filming scenes with Layla, whether she's sobered up or not.

Layla sinks into the covers, sniffling.

"I need to do make-up," she mumbles. "Before."

"Why, if they're gonna put it on when they get here?"

Layla sighs.

"They just put more on," she says. "I do the first coat, and they just add more."

He really has to try to not roll his eyes. Gina Romano's words, "just do what you normally do. Dirty drawers and all." And they gotta dress him and Layla up like clowns.

Yeah, well. Will grips the covers. What did you expect?

What the cameras wouldn't capture: Layla drinking his beers, falling asleep on her own. Fighting over coffee and scrambled eggs. Picking his wife off the bathroom floor, carrying her back to bed. Tucking her under the covers.

Tony's card, still in his pocket.

His hands make fists in the bed sheets. Outside, thunder rumbles, rattling the walls and floorboards under his feet. He hears the sky finally break and pelt the walls, the rain demanding to be let inside.

Layla turns her head, buried into the sheets. Groans, and then he hears her burp into the pillow.

"Ughhhhhhhh." She closes her eyes.

He's too tired, so he just says, "go to sleep", and she blinks at him, her face colorless, and tries to do what he says.

He gets up to leave her, but Layla's fingers wrap around his wrist. It's another "I'm sorry", one she wants him to feel under his skin. But he's past feeling anything, so he just stares at her hand on his. Wanting her to let go, but still not pulling away.

The rain's still coming down. It's relentless.