built to fall apart (then fall back together)
What a night.
In the space of a few hours he's felt every emotion known to mankind and then some more, of which he apparently was the unfortunate one out of millions to be chosen as a breeding ground for; some kind of lab experiment. Right now, he's depleted.
Except there's something else, a raw aching. A hollow that's opened up in his chest, reaching down to the pit of his stomach, that won't give him a break, not for five fucking seconds.
The star of the show doesn't get that. Faces and bodies, both familiar and new, crowd around, eager for a bit of conversation or just to shower him with compliments. He nods and makes replies in return, though he has no idea what's leaving his mouth. It's a struggle to get the words out. His throat is tight, head pounding. He thinks he can feel the shivers, surging up from the base of his spine, ready to take hold and cling on until they brought him to his knees.
That's the last fucking thing he needs.
All the while, she's there.
Not physically, although he's sure that if he turns to look over his shoulder he'll find her right behind him, looking up with those eyes. Those eyes that could make him do anything, lead him over the edge of temptation and right back again.
She's been there in his mind for weeks, months. Fucking years, he couldn't fool himself any longer. Since that night, her presence has solidified. He'd close his eyes for a couple of seconds, that was all it took, and he'd see her. It had convinced him that he was insane, but mainly, it was nice. Nice was not a word that paid anywhere enough justice to everything that she was.
She was there, lying next to him in the sheets that, regrettably, had stopped smelling like her (the Mayflower were incredibly meticulous about freshly laundered sheets, fitted every morning). Backstage, as he paced the floor, certain that the world was about to end. Holding his hand when he wanted to make a run for it. Arms around him when he stepped off the stage, face pressed into the crook of his neck.
That night, which though it had only been a matter of hours, felt like it was years ago. When he heard that she'd turned down the Bennett gig, one of his first thoughts was that he was pleased that she'd get to be there to see him, before it all went downhill, inevitably. Stupid and so fucking selfish. It wasn't too long before the frustration and anger and devastation hit. He'd held onto all of that, the few seconds of being elated to see her - the real her, not the beautiful illusion he'd been carrying around - evaporating far quicker than he wanted it to.
He hated himself for saying all that he had. He knew it was long overdue. If it meant she would listen, he'd say it all again, loud and unrelenting, however many times it took.
It couldn't have been more than a half hour since he left the stage for the second time, leaving her behind. She hadn't left him, though. He'd look round now and see her there, but not like how she had been there, not even hours ago.
She was a ghost, haunting him.
How he had any right to lay into her when he was just as intent on fucking things up, just in another direction.
He hadn't used for days, wanted to have a clear head for the show, even if meant being racked with nerves so bad that they made him want to escape his skin. It had been the intention to see to it sooner, but then, that night. There was the further evidence that he hadn't planned it. If he had, he would have been a lot more clever about hiding the bag, anywhere where she wouldn't have the chance to stumble upon it.
Now, every time he thought about using, she was there. Sometimes, asking a million questions, none of which he could reasonably answer.
Other times she said nothing, and that was so much worse.
Someone else was talking to him, and if another person came along to say something after they'd finished, he was certain that he was going to explode.
Fuck it. She's disappointed me, torn me to shreds.
What she didn't know couldn't hurt her, and she wouldn't know about tonight. Probably not about any night after, given that he couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that fate had made a cruel but much-needed twist and that the last time they'd see each other had already passed.
He'd go back to the hotel, leave enough time to shoot and let it have the desired effect. With any luck the blizzard would have calmed and he could get back in time to soak up the remains of the atmosphere before it became nothing but a memory, only a little irrevocably tainted by her absence.
Luck was not on his side; the snow was still coming down, maybe even worse than it had been before the show. He thought about going back to let someone know that he was calling it a night, but he'd reached a point of desperation previously unknown and the yearning that had sunk to his bones won out.
The street is empty, because what kind of sane people would be out at this time in the middle of a snowstorm (the mental patients that had made their way to see him had long been picked up by now)? He flicks his collar up and folds his arms tight against himself, as if either is any real defense against the unrelenting elements. Thank fuck that the Mayflower isn't too far away.
At first, when he makes out the petite, dark-haired figure as he rounds the corner, he thinks that he's gone delirious. He looks up at the billboard, then sees her, one hand clutching onto her purse and the other holding her coat tight to her frame. He couldn't have imagined that she would have come out without a hat, but it's gone now, probably lost to the wild wind.
She's dazed, it takes her a minute or so to recognize him. He hopes that the chill hasn't already made a lasting effect upon her.
The force of the cold had certainly lessened his craving, but it was being confronted with the reality of her, standing out in what was likely the worst blizzard New York had ever seen, that dealt the blow to him.
"Midge," he said, "what the fuck…?"
"I…" she stuttered, and that same selfish part of him that had been overjoyed that she had made it out tonight also hopes that she's fumbling for words because of the cold, and not because she's afraid of him, now she's seen what he's capable of. "There are no cabs on the road, so I figured I'd wait it out until it dies down a little."
"Waiting out here is not a good idea. Neither is thinking you can walk home tonight."
Those eyes looking up at him. At least they were holding a different kind of disbelief, one which didn't shatter his heart so swiftly.
Then again, if he didn't get her out of the storm soon…
"I have to…they'll be worried…"
"You're gonna come with me, back to the hotel."
The thoughts he might have had, before the night blew up in their faces, were replaced by far more practical ones, even as he holds his hand out towards her.
She takes it after a few seconds, mumbling a quiet 'thank you' that threatens to get swept away in the same way that her hat must have been. He closes his eyes for a couple of seconds further, unable to halt the memory of her skin pressed against his.
He thinks that perhaps he ought to carry her over his shoulder, the way she had suggested that night, but he knows he doesn't have the strength. He'd be crazy to wish for another snowstorm just for the opportunity to do so.
The mood is markedly different as they make it through the revolving doors into the lobby, the weight heavy upon his shoulders. They move in silence to the elevator, where he gives a polite nod to the operator, who might even be the same one. He can't think of anything, funny or otherwise, to say.
He can think of too much.
He opens the door to the room, stepping back to let her through and flicking the light switch. She stands aimless by one of the chairs, still the same when he comes back with several towels and a ridiculously fluffy bathrobe that he hadn't touched since he'd been there. He guides her to sit down, kneeling on the floor to take her shoes off. He feels a mixture of emotions, guilt and uncertainty being the dominant ones.
It's, without any doubt, the longest he's known her not to have spoken. He imagines what's left of the night passing in the same way, and finds himself longing for the morning. Something he thought he'd never do in her company.
"Thank you," she says again, her voice calling his eyes to look into hers. "You didn't have to, not after tonight."
"I'm not an asshole." He stops himself from letting out a bitter laugh. "Not all of the time, anyway."
He feels her gaze keenly on him as he gets up, having put her shoes together next to the chair she's sitting in. He tries a smile, leaning down a little to put the robe around her shoulders. "We gotta get you warmed up."
"I'm okay."
The shuddering of her voice says otherwise. If she ends up getting pneumonia, he'll never be able to live with himself, even if the outcome is a favorable one.
"What do you say to a hot shower?" It wouldn't wash all of the mess away, but it'd get her feeling a bit more like herself. He hoped.
"I need to call home," she stood up, "if that's okay."
"Be my guest."
He goes into the bathroom, getting the shower started and hearing her soft voice, catching the odd word here and there. He does a little sweep, seeing the bag in the same place as he'd left it when he'd taken it out of her hands. He moves it somewhere out of sight, fingers on the zip for a few seconds too long. The sensations were still roiling through his body and he felt utterly ashamed that the thought of following through was one which he hadn't ruled out completely, even with Midge on the other side of the door.
They pass each other and he's beyond relieved to see a small smile on her face before she turns for the bathroom, clicking the door shut behind her. He sits on the end of the bed, thinking about what a despicable junkie he is, exhaling a long, deep sigh. He makes a call of his own, reaching Jo-Jo to say that he's safe, back at the hotel and ready to get some sleep.
He listens out for her.
She emerges wrapped in the robe, her hair not much damper than it had been before they made it out of the snow. There's color in her cheeks and she's dabbed off her make-up. Even in the strange situation (a real fucking understatement), he feels honored to see her this way, knowing how seriously she takes her appearance.
More seriously than she takes her career, apparently.
"Feel better? More human, at any rate."
She nods, raising her head to look at him after a few seconds.
"You need anything else? I can call for a hairdryer, some food."
"No, it's…"
It's all she manages to get out before her face crumples, her shoulders shake and she's burst into tears.
"Hey," he murmurs, stupidly, thinking about saying something else about things not being so bad. He stops himself, instead placing his hands upon her arms. He wants to pull her in towards him but doesn't feel he's in the position to, not after everything that's passed between them tonight.
She does that for herself, her arms circling around him and her head pressing against his chest, tears dampening his shirt. He exhales, moving a hand cautiously upon her back, just glad that he's there for her to lean against. Glad that she's safe and warm, and here with him.
She sobs steadily for a few minutes, pulling away from him as she catches her breath.
"Sorry," she says, her voice a little weak as she sniffs.
"It's okay," he responds. He wonders if this isn't the first time she's felt like she had to apologize for being human, being herself, and another kind of rage bubbles up within him.
Sure, she drives him fucking crazy a lot of the time, and definitely so tonight. Yet he'd never be without her, and he'd never want her to be anything other than she is.
"I ruined your night."
He felt his face contort, head tilting to the side to regard her. "Midge, you didn't."
"I just…don't know what I'm doing. With everything." She threw her arms out either side of her, her eyes looking a little frantic as she glanced around. "I mean, what am I doing? What the fuck am I doing, Lenny?"
He put a hand on her shoulder, gentle and brief. "You don't need to think about that now. Not at this very moment. Let's just call it a night, yeah?"
She thought about it for a moment, then nodded again. "That sounds good."
"I think so, too."
It's been a long day. An even longer night, at least in the last hour or however much time has passed.
"I'll borrow a pillow for the sofa," she says. He thinks that what he's heard, anyway.
"Midge. Not in any dimension are you sleeping on the sofa."
"This is your fancy, custom-painted room that you have earned by playing Carnegie Hall. You're definitely not going to sleep on the sofa."
"Okay," he nods, then gives her a chance to reconsider what she's saying.
When she stays standing there, he goes to the wardrobe and takes a shirt from its hanger.
"I'm not naked under here," she retorts, precisely when he's trying fervently not to picture her so. "And those covers were very - oh."
That oh twists and turns his heart, if it doesn't quite break it.
He thinks, for the briefest moment, about taking her face in his hands and kissing her. Kissing her like he always wants to. No matter if they're in a hotel room or out on the street or on the stage in the empty, echoing auditorium of Carnegie Hall. Kissing her because he wants to - fuck, does he want to, with every breath and beat and unbearable ache that goes past body into soul.
Kissing her to say that he's the one who's sorry. For how he yelled at her, sure. But mainly for letting her get so close, for not doing more to resist. It's not her fault, never her fault. The blame lies entirely at his feet, which can never keep from walking towards her. He told her that she'd break his heart, looking at her and holding back tears. Yes, he genuinely wants her to be the biggest star the world has ever seen, and if she throws it away, it's going to crush him. But he can't silence the part of him that knows it could be so much worse. He'll break her heart if she lets him by continuing down this path that is made up of holes that he can't stop from falling into and traps that don't even need to try to lure him in.
He can't drag her down with him.
He has this, lying in a bed that is graciously big enough to allow for a respectable distance. It's not what he wants but it's still a blessing that he doesn't deserve. It's what she needs, the quiet and the dark. The snow coming down in drifts outside the window and him to keep his hands to himself. He hears her breathing, inhaling like she's going to say something and then exhaling quietly. He closes his eyes, hands held against his stomach to follow his own breathing. A way to distract himself.
He wonders what the hell is happening. He finds that he likes it, just the same as he likes every moment he's lucky enough to share with her.
"I needed that," she says, her voice washing over him. "To cry. I haven't, not properly. Not since getting kicked off the tour. I've been holding it back, even with all of the shitty things that have happened since. And there have been so many shitty things."
He nods, though they're both lying on their back with their heads looking up at the ceiling.
"I didn't think you meant the other thing."
She doesn't say anything for a few seconds. "Ask me again tomorrow. Or in a month."
He smirks at that, glad that she hasn't given up the stubborn streak. Fuck knows she's going to need it over the next while. Even with the blizzard, he knows she wouldn't be here if she resented him.
"I don't want to compromise."
"You're gonna have to," he says, not wanting to be the one to always have to give her the hard truth. She had a manager for this kind of thing. He wanted the nice stuff for a little while longer. "Pick your battles. Sometimes they're going to be about sucking it up and pinning on that beauty-queen smile. You get a gig, then another and another. That's all that matters."
"Fuck," she replies. "Fucking fuck."
He puts a hand to his face. He wants to turn over and scream into the pillow. He should definitely not be aroused, but in his defense, hearing her say that in this specific room makes him completely helpless.
He knows that she's not asleep. She's restless, turning onto one side then back again, her feet swirling in circles against the sheets. Not still like she was when he held her against him. It has a different kind of calming effect on him, the difference not something he sees fit to dwell on when the result is the same. Her restlessness takes the focus away from his own, quietens it until it's a whisper coming from far away.
"You were telling me."
He murmurs a quiet 'huh?' in response, feeling her breath closer. Turning onto his side, he sees her with one hand tucked beneath the pillow she's lying upon, the respectable distance not entirely closed.
"When you took me to Upstairs at the Downstairs. We had that fight."
"You're keeping count," he said, not able to cover up the regret in his voice.
"You're very low on the chart, if that's any consolation. Lower than both of my kids and Susie. Definitely lower than Joel. He's the undisputed champion."
As much as he did not want to hear her talk about her ex-husband other than to rip him apart in one of her sets, his libido was thanking her for the effect.
"Anyway," she went on, "you were telling me. That I needed to get things together, stop stalling for time."
"Even after tonight, I don't really know how much I can tell you."
Those eyes. Fuck, he'll never get away from them, no matter if he flies out of the country and makes it halfway across the world.
"I'm listening," she says, staring at him. "I'm gonna listen. I promise, Lenny. I promise."
He nearly tells her that she doesn't need to promise. She doesn't owe him anything, least of all to credit him with anything good that might happen for her career in the next month. The next six months to a year, if they're being painfully realistic.
Will he be here for that long?
"Yeah."
She doesn't smile, but there's something in her eyes that changes at his stupid, small reply.
"I'm sorry for ruining that night too."
"Midge," he says again, an echo. "Come on, that was on me."
"I have a terrible streak going here, and you're trying to take that away from me?"
"Never," he says, holding back a bark of a laugh, feeling more at ease. "It was one of the better birthdays I've had, not only in recent years."
Her eyes widen. "It was your birthday? Fuck, I am a terrible friend. The worst."
It was the word friend that socked him in the chest.
"I'll make it up to you," she says softly.
"You don't need to," he begins, looking at her as though it's the last night they'll have together. He wants to remember every detail of her, like he could ever be in any danger of forgetting.
"I'm gonna make you a cake. And a brisket."
"Just get out there and work. If you really want to make it up."
There was a little more silence as she weighed up her options. Then he heard her, only a touch muffled by the pillow.
"I will."
He thinks that there's some broken sleep for the both of them, or maybe he hallucinates it (it wouldn't be entirely out of line). Either way, he's jolted when he feels movement, then an empty space. He wrenches himself up onto one elbow to find Midge, in one of his shirts (buttoned up, this time), pacing back and forth the short length to the end of the bed and back.
"Tony Bennett at the Copa. I said no to that. Five nights. Five fucking nights."
"Midge."
He scoots over where she's been lying, the sheets that smell once again of her perfume. Luckily he's not sleeping here again after tonight, though he thinks about paying for a couple of extra nights to make the most of the privilege.
"I'm certifiable," she says, stopping to stand in front of him where he's sitting at the edge of the bed. "The white coats are going to be waiting for me when I step out of here tomorrow. Please, Lenny, tell my children that I love them. And my mother that she can have all of my hats. Imogene's getting the purses."
He stands, placing one hand to the small of her back, guiding her to sit back down.
"You really know how to blow things out of all proportion." He tries on a smile, his hand a little higher up her back, fingertips moving slowly as he does what he can to calm the panicked episode. "There'll be other opportunities. I don't see Tony Bennett stopping any time soon. If I get the call again, I will make sure that I've been struck down by a debilitating, if miraculously treatable disease."
She shakes her head, smiling just for a second. He can feel her relaxing beneath his fingers, yet he doesn't pull away.
"I don't deserve it."
"No," he says, his voice firmer if he refrains from pointing a finger at her. "You're not gonna talk like that. I don't fully understand why, still, but it's fine. You made a mistake - "
"I don't know how to stop making them."
"Nobody does, but you'll figure it out. The biggest fucking mistake you can make is to walk away from all of this. To keep hiding, go back to the way it was before. Nothing you ever do or say, no matter how many times you bomb or fuck up, will ever be worse than that."
She looks at him for a long time. So long that he isn't entirely sure that he isn't dreaming. When she puts a hand just above his knee he knows that he isn't. He wonders if she might lean forward and put her lips against his. He really needs to get a grip.
"I don't want to hide," she says, taking her hand away, "but I don't know how…"
"You do," he fills in the gap, "you get Susie to get you any fucking gig that's going. And she can get you some really good ones, not the shitty dives most of us poor saps have to contend with."
"Says the man who just played a sold out Carnegie Hall."
He's under no illusions that that was the hallmark and he's already on the descent. It's not about him.
"I'm scared, Lenny." Her voice sounds so small, so uncertain that he almost can't take it. "What if it never gets better? What if I spend my whole life working and fighting and doing my very best, and it just doesn't get any better?"
"It will, for you. I know it."
She looks at him, almost smiles. "I'm still scared."
"I know."
They lie down again. Without words, she curls herself against his side, holding an arm around him. He holds his breath for what feels like a full minute, too scared to move. He's not especially concerned about how his body might react to her closeness. He doesn't expect that she'd be put off by it, either, even though nothing's going to happen, not tonight.
He's more worried that she'll feel him shaking, so violently that he won't be able to blame it on the cold.
"Will it ever stop feeling scary?" she murmurs, her lips dangerously close to his bare shoulder.
He has two options.
"Not for as long as you love it," he says, easing his own arm around her. He glances down at her head, the halo of curls that half-lies upon him. "But you'll handle it."
If anyone can, it's certainly her.
They doze a little, and she doesn't move. If anything, she presses further into him. His arm begins to feel numb from keeping a hold on her. He feels her heartbeat against his chest and smiles, even while the tears well anew in his eyes.
He registers her stirring before she says anything, and without thinking, moves his fingers at her hip, as though it might soothe her back to sleep.
"I meant what I said."
"You say a lot," he says in return, "I'm gonna need a refresher."
"I don't want to fix you. I never would."
He feels his blood run cold. Fuck, not now.
"I like you just how you are."
That's your fatal flaw, he thinks.
"I'm not saying that I don't want to know what was in the bag, but I don't need to. If you say that it's okay - "
"It is."
He hates lying to her. There's nothing that makes him feel worse. He tries to justify it by telling himself that it's for the best. It's the last thing she needs, to know how far deep he's in. That no lifeboat, no matter how strong, can pull him back.
"Then it's okay."
He can hear the waver in her voice, telling him that she's not totally convinced. He's not going to argue; he doesn't want another fight, knowing that neither of them would come back from that one.
"I just want you to be okay," she continues, her hand stroking against his chest in his undershirt. He puts his free hand into his hair, scratching a little too hard at his scalp. "Well, I want more than that for you, but you know."
He nods, even though she can't see.
If he dares to say anything, he thinks he might burst into tears.
"And I want you to know that should you ever want to talk, or anything, that I'm here for you."
His silence might not be enough to stop them.
"Lenny?" she says softly, her hand flat upon his chest. He knows she can feel his heart racing, even if she won't say anything.
The irony is far from being lost on him. It might have been a role reversal of the night that she literally pulled him off the street, the night he still has very little memory of he was so blitzed and high out of his mind.
She will always be the one that rescues him, and it feels like further ammunition.
"Yeah," he says, slipping his hand to cover over hers. "I know you are. Thank you."
"You don't need to thank me." Her tone is more contented, allowing him to take a sigh of relief.
"It goes both ways," he reminds her.
"Mmmm," she mumbles, head nudging against him, "what friends are for."
He lies awake for a while longer after she goes back to sleep. So many things they're for, he thinks. Not everything that she should have to be for him.
He thinks of the contents of the bag, contemplating getting up (carefully, without waking her) and flushing them all down the toilet.
He stays where he is, still thinking. Mainly about how many more times Miriam Weissman is going to save him from himself.
A/N: There have been so many fantastic post-Carnegie takes, and I know, canonly, this isn't very likely to be something that happens (*sigh*), but I just really like the symmetry with the closing of 4.5, and also I can't bear to think of them being apart for too long. Also, Lenny is a gentleman so he'd definitely be the first to go find Midge if he knew for sure she'd wandered outside.