I'm sorry for the long haitus between chapters. Self-indulgent excuses at the end, but I wanted to say that this story isn't abandoned, I do know how it goes from here, and I haven't, despite it all, quite given up on this show.

She and Derek became something that was almost, but not quite, exactly what they'd been before. It wasn't just her who had changed, though that was a lot of it. She'd been upset and out of work for most of the time she'd known him. Not anymore. But the things Derek did were a little different. Little things.

She'd been sitting against his pillows, watching him work. She'd always liked watching him work, the irritated line of his back, shifts of his shoulders and varying tone as he put it together. Sometimes he'd think aloud, sometimes he'd overtly ask, and she'd pipe in to the back of his head. Sometimes he'd turn around. Sometimes he'd get up for a drink, and sip at it while his eyes never left her face.

Not a great situation, laid out like that, but he was focused and she knew what that was like and that he paid her any attention at all was more than a little amazing. And anyway, she wasn't just sitting there. She had work too, and questions of her own.

"It's still a waste of the song." He was leaning against the wall, frowning at his script.

"You could extend the scene." It was something to say. Drawing out Marilyn's death to cram in Second Hand White Baby Grand – it felt like a reprisal as it was. It was too hopeful, looking backwards but within the context of a present, and a future. The scene would need to become even more of a tragedy, reworked as the death she hadn't wanted... Even if it was closer to the truth.

"No." Setting down his glass, he crawled across the bed without looking at her, flipping pages and resting his thigh carelessly against her knees. "It should go here," he stabbed the page with a finger, "but Julia is refusing to rewrite the scene."

Not having any way of knowing where he was talking about, she gave a noncommittal encouragement, drifted her eyes down to her own script, and waited.

He was still and silent head bowed scratching lightly at the page and there was something familiar enough that she gave up pretense and slipped alongside him, moving his hand so she could see.

Julia was attached to this part of the book. It hadn't been touched in weeks.

"What about putting it back in the Strausberg scene?" That would mean she didn't get it, not all of it anyway, but it was too good to lose.

He sighed. "It didn't make any sense there to begin with. That was when we were trying to keep Rebecca from singing."

And the new song was a better fit.

It sounded like he was done for the night. He always talked more, and less productively, when he was tired or out of ideas and was ready to move on to other activities.

She pushed her nails through his hair, tickled her way down his spine, between his shoulder blades to the dip in the small of his back to catch on his belt. Watching for him to let it go and relax.

He wiggled fitfully.

She gave it some more thought. His solution made sense, for the show, and he wasn't in the mood to consider any others. The only real problem was with the creative team.

"You could trade her for it. Julia," she clarified to a glaring eye.

"What?"

"Give her something she wants so she'll give you what you want."

"I do know what the word means," he grouched, shifting away.

Okay, yes, she'd been teasing him a little. But it was hard to take his wrath seriously when he sounded, and looked, like a petulant child.

"You know," she set her head down on folded hands to see more of his face, "it wouldn't kill you to compromise sometimes."

With that he rolled off the edge, turning straight back to his mini bar. "I'm forever compromising with the their whim of the day."

Sighing, she flipped though the pages as he stood outside her line of sight, knowing he was waiting for her to turn around and invite him into bed. She would have, before. But that was before.

"Here," she commanded, once she'd found what she was looking for. He growled, but eventually curiosity, or frustration, won out. There was a bang of glass hitting wood, the slosh of liquid, and he was leaning over her to look.

"That staging is brilliant."

"It's very good," she conceded.

It was one of the DiMaggio scenes, right after the USO number – when Marilyn had cut and run on their honeymoon. The dialogue was always ambiguous, but they'd been playing with it close, love and affection with tragic conflict already building beneath the surface.

Julia wanted more awareness, more pain, more distance neither character could bring themselves to bridge.

"You know why she wants it. You k now she's thinking of-" By the end of Previews they'd all known, the tension and arguments had torn through the building. But the topic was taboo, no one spoke of it, even vague allusion relegated to whispers in noisy, crowded bars.

"And that is exactly why this is not her decision."

It wasn't her say, she ran what was set until instructed otherwise, but she'd thought about it, at night, picking apart emotions and comparing them to what she knew from her research.

"But she's not wrong." In that second she had a flash of insight and blindly caught at his shirt before he could shut down. "And you know it." She'd used her sultry voice, the one he always responded to, and let go of his shirt to flick at his waistband before drawing a path down his thigh.

There were things every girl could learn from Marilyn.

He wasn't relaxed but he was relieved, kneeling on the edge of the mattress to meet her when she turned onto her side. She tilted her head away from his mouth, leaving her neck exposed.

"I know" he kissed his way down from her jaw, "many things."

"You know Marilyn loved DiMaggio. As much as she could. As much as she'd let herself." This was iffy territory, they usually talked technicalities, in his bedroom. And motivations, with a crowd in the practical rehearsal room, always felt a little academic.

He paused, holding very still, before dropping a kiss next to the strap of her teddy. "But she always need more," he hedged, "was always searching."

"For an ideal," Ivy allowed. "But Marilyn wasn't an ideal. Not to herself."

It went against her better judgment, but then they were professionals first, weren't they? That's what he'd said. His forehead slid over her shoulder as she sat up on her knees and crawled off the bed, pulling him along with her into a hug.

Confused, he let her tug him around, but left his arms at his sides.

Of all the things they never said or did, they'd never hugged. Maybe that wasn't so odd.

But this was how the scene went.

"They tried. In their little imagined house just big enough for two, if they were very still and held on." She squeezed him tighter. "Because as soon as they let go the world would tear them apart again." She twitched despite herself when he hesitantly put his arms around her. "They were desperate."

She left the moment past dramatic point, because she wasn't Marilyn and he wasn't DiMaggio and it felt nice.

"But they weren't. Not like this. They called it them against the world but that's a cop out."

It was too easy to break away; as soon as she started to let go he let her. Without looking back, she crossed to the other side of the room, a stage-worth of space between them.

"They were an ocean apart. They chose it. They might have been desperate when they married but days later that's where they were."

He was where she'd left him, watching her blankly.

"It was the beginning of the end. They were already over, and they knew it. Maybe the public didn't know, but they did. And they were angry."

She let herself fall into it now, a hollow anger, not just at him, but at herself. She'd thought – Marilyn had thought – Marilyn had hoped that one moment could change everything.

"They loved each other, but they couldn't make it work. They were only together, really together, in dreams."

Mr. & Mrs. Smith. Perfect couple, perfect life.

"They'd promised each other it would. And they were scared."

Derek met her eyes, and they were glinting with irritation, anger, fear maybe, but she was still picturing him as DiMaggio and the scene wasn't over.

"Scared they'd run. Scared the other wouldn't come after them, that they couldn't go after- Scared if they tried, there'd be nothing to find when they got there."

Everyone was afraid. But with Marilyn the legend, the reason everyone watched her, everything was larger than life. Pour in all your worries and longings and she'd swallow them and show you what it was to have more.

"And maybe there wouldn't have been," she whispered. "DiMaggio always went to her, even after she was dead. It was Marilyn who could never get past her fear."

In the scene, DiMaggio should cross the stage, slowly, like Marilyn was a scared rabbit.

Stop.

The memory of the USO number would be fresh in everyone's memory, the laughter, love of hundreds, thousands. Life in the spotlight. She'd stand still, this time, he'd catch her. But the embrace would be so much more fragile.

Fade to Black.

She wondered if Marilyn could have been happy, if she wasn't too scared, too damaged, to try. Or if it would always have gone the way it did.

Derek was staring at the floor, not meeting her eye, but his chest was rising and falling faster than normal. At least she thought it was. But the light was dim, and one always could see what they liked, in the shadows.

Cue the uncomfortable thought that he might be uncomfortable. She had been (still was) feeling emotional. It was her job, her forte, she was an actress but he'd never claimed to be an actor, so she thought it would be best to give them both a moment.

Unless she was just scared.

STOP.

That was theatre, not them. In Real Life Marilyn and DiMaggio hadn't been that simple either.

Already near the door, she was halfway through it when Derek spoke, making her jump.

"Where are you going?"

Hardly far, was she, half naked. It was a hysterical thought, she pushed it down. "Kitchen," she answered instead, brightly. "I want some tea."

It wasn't until she was climbing the stairs on her way back up that it occurred to her that he might have wanted her to leave. Forget all the emotional baggage she might or might not have brought up, she'd basically tried to restage an entire scene, one he didn't want to change, and there were lines, blurry as they may be.

Before entering she peeked through the bedroom doorway. He was lying on the bed, papers removed, shirt off and hands behind his head. She was hovering uncertainly when he turned towards her, eyebrows raised in friendly inquiry.

"You're out of milk." It was the most benign thing she could think of.

"Leave a note and they'll take care of it." "They" being whatever service magically came by when no one was there, cleaned and laundered and kept the fridge stocked.

She tried to kiss him while crawling over to her side, and he tumbled her down until her head rested on his shoulder.

"I doubt she'd take it. From me," he remarked.

Ivy thought she would, but then she didn't know much about their relationship. And after his little coup, you could hardly blame Julia if she was suspicious.

"She will if you have Eileen suggest it." That was true. "Anyway, that's what she's there for."

She didn't know she might not be, in the subsequent silence, until he asked: "are you okay?" and found herself watching her fingers play over his chest.

"Of course!" Almost always, that was how she answered that question: chipper, reassuring, and a complete lie. This time she wasn't lying, not really. She was getting the song she wanted and the scene she preferred, and had a hand in making it happen. She was feeling a lot like a star.

And then she was abruptly dislodged.

"Good." A smile in a husky voice against her lips while he tickled her ribs.

She giggled.

Marilyn had never been very hap;y with her career. Her control never stretched very far, or at least not very productively.

There were a lot of things a girl could learn from Marilyn, really. Like to never expect to have everything.

She and Peter had reached a sort of steady state too. Her life had been increasingly consumed by Bombshell, and he was pushing himself every bit as hard to get ready for his opening. After a week of missed calls and canceled dates, one hasty breakfast became two, until they had a standing time: 7am at their diner.

They'd literally fallen into it one rainy afternoon, and then had fallen in love. It was the sort of tiny hole in the wall where even among all the people and bustle of the city, it felt like a small town. Like family, where everybody knows your name.

Open 24 hours, performers were a staple clientele, and they served everything from wheat germ and kale to the greasiest of comfort foods. Best of all, everything was cheap and plentiful.

Each of them would go there anyway, which was why they never took it personally if the other didn't show up. Like if Peter was in the middle of inspiration, or Ivy had early call, if she'd overslept or he'd drunk himself into a stupor after tearing up a bad idea.

A coffee mishap had her running late, and she slid into the next stool, kissing him on the cheek before he had time to look up from his pancakes.

"Parfait, honey?"

"Yes please." Ivy smiled brightly at the waitress. It was a 'build your own' order, but she was here more often than not, and they didn't just know her name. If she wanted, she could have asked for an omelet, and a plate of egg whites, spinach, tomato and mushrooms would have appeared.

"Early morning or late night?" She rubbed his arm, scratching lightly at the flannel. This was a standard question.

"Depends. What was yesterday?" He looked worse than he sounded, and he smelled like turpentine.

"Can you really work like this?"

"No." He collapsed dramatically against her shoulder. If he was leaning his whole weight they would have fallen to the floor, but Ivy wasn't sure it was entirely a joke either. "Food, and then I'm going home to die."

She played with his hair as her breakfast arrived. "Thanks Marie." Tipping Peter back upright, she dug a spoon into the old-fashioned glass. "So it's going well?"

He stuffed the rest of a pancake into his mouth, and pointed innocently to his chipmunk cheeks. The only appropriate response to that was an eyeroll, then a quick turn of the head to disguise a grin.

"We've got a few minutes." Food swallowed, he tugged at her sleeve. "Let's play. What if I do die of overwork?" She was already turning, but he kept convincing her anyway. It was part of the game. "Don't I deserve some fun in my last hour?"

"Oh absolutely." She kicked at the base of the stool. "Though if I were you I'd be looking for a different kind of fun."

"Ooh, dirty. Does your mother know you have those thoughts?"

Her next kick went wild, connecting with flesh. What if that woman was walking alligators instead of Pekinese?"

"Don't be silly. Alligators would look ridiculous in blue sweaters. She'd have to buy pink. What if the Times was printed on bubble gum instead of paper?"

"Farmers would start growing acres of gum trees. Wait, or are they just using fake ingredients now?" She wasn't big on gum.

Peter shrugged, while looking around for a new query. "No idea. But it sounds good, and that's what matters." He stole the last bite of her yoghurt. "Unless you're secret aspiration is to be a gum farmer."

Getting progressively sillier, and with sporadic input from from Marie, they played until there were only a couple minutes left until 7:40, and their bills were paid.

"About Bombshell." He was hiding behind his mug, overly casual. "I saw a poster when I was wandering the streets earlier. It opens the 23rd, right?"

It was their public opening. "Yes."

"So you'll be doing a show for the industry people on the 22nd?"

They were doing a short run of Previews the two weeks before, four shows altogether. After Boston, Eileen had decided not to jinx them. A lot of people would see it then, but nothing would match their first official performance, a black tie affair for the rich, famous, and important, as well as friends and family.

It struck her then that she'd always assumed Peter would be there, and for the even more exclusive party later on that night. But thinking back, she wasn't sure she'd ever officially asked him.

"I'm so sorry, I meant to invite you – as my date. You can come, can't you?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." His eyes slid sideways, and Ivy followed, to see Marie busily wiping a perfectly clean counter. He nodded to her, before pulling Ivy off her stool and out the door.

"What?" He was making her nervous.

"No, it's not... It's just that my gallery show opens the 23nd."

It wasn't until he wouldn't be there that she realized how much she wanted him to be. He did like Broadway, but it wasn't his passion. He'd have been there for her, only for her, the only one in the crowd who would have been.

"You can't come," she whispered.

"No," he looked pained. "I have to be in the space until 1, 2am. Maybe later. But I've already got a group together, we'll be there Saturday night – with lighters.

It still kind of sucked, but he always did make her feel better. He was always thoughtful, even when he was blowing her off. "Open flames are discouraged in the theatre, you know."

"Then cell phones. Most of us don't carry lighters anymore anyway."

It was time to split up and go their separate ways, but Peter still seemed oddly pensive, fingers resting at her elbow. So he couldn't make opening night. It wasn't the end of the world, and he had an unimpeachable excuse.

"What is it?" Which is when she figured it out. "Oh! But your show has a luncheon party on Saturday, doesn't it?" It had always been the whats, and never the whens. Her life, recently, living minute by minute. She poked him. "It's almost perfect."

He was chewing his cheek and she checked her watch. She really did have to leave-

"There something – I wanted you to see it before... Look, I know you'll be busy Thursday night, focused on your show."

True. She hadn't even let herself think about what that night would look like.

"But if you can, I'll be setting up until they kick us out. Just for a minute."

She kissed him, just a peck. "We should have an early night, actually." No one would sleep, but cramming too much at the last minute was begging for trouble. Unless there were changes... "I wish I could promise, but..."

"You'll try." He kissed her, lingering long enough to turn a few heads, fingers playfully poking into the braids of her hairstyle.

Ivy wasn't fooled. Not that he was mad at her, he wasn't that sort of guy. But he was disappointed in her. Another relationship falling prey to the Broadway Insider/Outsider divide. Even when they fit so well, there was that point where work was more important. They'd try, they'd leave messages and spend Saturday supporting each other and push back the end just one more day.

And hope that the push was what mattered.

I'm particularly sorry about this chapter, since I'd finished it months ago. But in the midst of several weeks of writers block, some real life stress, and ever-increasing frustration with the choices the show made, I'd lost the will to push.

Carla - I'm glad you liked it ;) And poor Ivy, her life would be easier without her mother, and yet with how much she craves her mother's approval...

Lizagirl - I don't have the best track record with chaptered fic, admittedly, but I'm too far invested to give up! Even if it takes a while ~*+!