A/N - This story dedicated to marieYOTZ, who in all non-violent senses of the word, played muse. I will post the five brilliant things she said at the end of the last chapter.

Now I'm walking again to the beat of a drum / And I'm counting the steps to the door of your heart / Only the shadows ahead barely clearing the roof / Get to know the feeling of liberation and relief - Crowded House, "Don't Dream It's Over"

If he wasn't drunk when he arrived, he was by the time she did.

"Derek."

He raised his glass – probably vertically – towards her voice. "And a lovely evening to you too."

"I don't normally allow unsolicited pitches before lunch, you know that."

"Why said I was here to beg?" He pushed himself upright, on the third try. He knew. He'd thought he did. "I wanted to congratulate you."

"And here I was thinking that if you wanted to toast, you would have chosen a more convenient hour."

Eileen had situated herself behind her desk. He made his unsteady way closer, trying to read her face. Her tone. But there were too many of her. He gave up.

"Tom's a bit inexperienced."

"Yet more successful, it would appear. He managed to get us to Broadway." Icy.

Cold. "Yes." Not right, never right. "And Ivy-"

"-Is none of your concern." She wasn't. She was.

"-Is wonderful," he finished, gesturing too incautiously with his glass.

Silence. She was staring. Evaluating him. Eileen. He fell into a chair. It had all gone wrong. With him. Without him, they were fine. "I never thought she couldn't do it," and it wasn't a lie but it was, because what he'd watched on stage hadn't been what he'd always seen in his head.

"Stay away from her, Derek," with all the quiet force of, of Eileen, the tone that made him sit down and shut up and plot a way around without explicitly contravening her order. Except he believed what he believed.

"It's too late anyway." And that was bitter and bitter was right but it was his fault not hers and words echo ghost of her hand on his throat and if he'd listened and obeyed then then maybe... Maybe he wouldn't be here now.

He shouldn't and she'd judge him for it but he swigged the rest of his drink she hadn't offered and left the empty glass somewhere on her desk.

When she spoke again, it was more gentle than he deserved. "You have Hit List. Karen. You may not be taking them to Broadway this year but you'll find something else."

"I don't want something else" he exploded, with a violence that surprised him too, uncomfortably aware he was charging her with repetition she wasn't guilty of. "I want-" but what he wanted wasn't something he could get. "You know Hit List is good. Someone should have signed on."

"Broadway is a tough business." A pause. "You know that. Disappointments happen every day. We get used to that, if we want to last."

He did know that. Rarely accepted it, but knew it. They all knew that. All except-

"It's good."

She'd never had the chance to learn. He'd made sure of that.

Papers hit the desk. He could hear them, feel them. He opened his eyes to a tilting world.

"If there's nothing else, I have work to do." Pointed, even without looking at him. Kind, even without a smile. Businesswoman. Friend. Those were in short supply, nowadays.

"I don't know what to do?" That was as honest as he knew how to be.

The silence stretched.

"Perhaps you should tell her that."

And he didn't know if she knew, what she knew, everything probably, this was Eileen and she could play her cards at her vest as well as any of them. He searched for a hint. "What if she won't listen?"

"Then," she remarked, opening a folder in a final sort of way, "you either fight for her or you let her move on. It's a common misconception, I find." Now there was a smile, directed into the distance. "Women like the romantic gesture, but they prefer the respect." Whatever the thought was, it passed. "Actresses are a dime a dozen, in this town. As are directors."