Disclaimer: These characters belong to Aaron Sorkin and the masterpiece that is the 2006 television series Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip. I am not making any profit from this except for a little writing practice.
Matt bent in half and cupped his hands beneath the running tap. His skin was hot and his tie was knotted tightly around his neck. Hoping to splash the irritation from his skin, Matt wiped the cold water down his face. He looked hollow; pale and exhausted. Haggard. Calloused.
His eyes were rimmed with purple bruises, underscored with the swollen evidence of his insomnia. Lack of sleep and the accompanying dark circles around his eyes weren't unfamiliar features on Matt's face, cropping up whenever inspiration struck or he was concerned for Danny's failing marriage and how Danny would react to that, or when he was an idiot to Harriet and his guilt kept him awake until the wee hours.
Matt rubbed beneath his eyes with the heels of his palms, turning anguished circles with his fingertips against his eyebrows and smoothing his skin inwards before stretching it out towards his ears. At least doing so rubbed a little alertness into his eyes. He still looked like an insomniac but his rough touch brought a bit of colour to his cheeks and the ache and the cold brought awareness to his expression.
Matt wiped his wet fingers on the nearby hand towel and straightened his tie, tightening it in the process and then smoothing his collar over the fabric. He'd put his suit on for show night but Matthew didn't feel like he was emulating his heroes tonight. Tonight he was all too aware of how dull he felt, having written a lacklustre show that he just couldn't polish enough to make it sparkle this week. There were punchlines that he just didn't think he hit hard enough, even if Jeannie drove to the end of the line or Simon elevated it with his stellar timing. Matt was dressed as though he deserved accolades but he knew the quality of the work this week.
Matt slumped down at his desk. He pulled his chair in tight to the desk and faced completely away from the stage. The last few weeks he'd at least been able to watch the show from his balconette and from the confines of his office as he stood by the giant glass window.
This week wasn't worth watching.
Not for lack of trying.
Matt raked his fingers through his hair and stood up. He should at least appear professional and proud, present as though he'd put in his best work to the show he loved and was worthy of the paycheck he'd receive on Monday.
Matt pushed his seat out backwards roughly. He really should go watch the show with the writers in the green room. Lucy and Darius had put up some great sketches this week. They were improving in leaps and bounds under Andy's tutelage. It stung a little, that Matt hadn't been able to teach them. But hiring Andy may be his proudest moment of this year. The man still didn't smile, but he seemed to be enjoying his job and Lucy and Darius certainly adored him.
He should spend tonight's show with the three of them. After all, Matt wasn't any better than them. Especially not now. He hadn't written a new sketch or character in about six weeks and the old ones he was rehashing weren't even his own, property of Studio 60 but the brainchildren of Luke Scott and Wes Mendell and, loathe as he was to admit it, Ricky Tahoe.
Staying up in his office, literally a floor above the other writers was wrong. He didn't deserve the heightened position or to be at the top of the hierarchy.
But he couldn't go down there.
Andy would squint at him from the other end of the table. The man was full of wisdom and empathy, both of which he possessed in spades. Andy was tactful, though. He'd wait until he'd cornered Matthew, sending the others out for coffee or with a note for Alex. Then he'd pounce.
He'd see right through everything Matt had to say. Andy had a terrible knack for reading him like a book, translating his body language correctly every time. Matt could barely meet his eyes these days, keeping his back to Andy as best he could whenever Andy asked how he was. He'd purse his lips together and take his glasses off, looking at him from the other end of the table with those sullen eyes of his and Matt would open up. Andy had an inherent sadness about him that made him easy to talk to. He'd been through more than anybody Matt knew, except maybe Danny, and come out on the other side. There was no judgement in him, because of that.
He'd judge Matt for this.
Matt stabbed his heels into the rug, legs stretched and let his hands hang limply over the armrest. He couldn't go and be with the writers.
Matt inhaled deeply. His office was dark, almost quiet, with the television screen he normally watched the show on switched off and the blinds half shut so as to be inconspicuous and still signal his unavailability.
He shouldn't be so unprofessional. It was his job to watch the show, to take notes so they could improve next week. Cal did always tell him the time slot of the show actually airing was Matt's only time he could actually relax so he may as well use it, given that a bad show meant the wrap party was filled with fielding questions about why the show fell short or the meaning of a punchline. If it went well, it could be just as intense, with congratulations, press looking for an exclusive about a new character and him hunkering down, hoping no one approached him if he even bothered going for fear he'd bump into Harriet (god forbid she was with Luke, or gossiping about him happily with the girls) or someone caught him on camera looking like he hadn't slept in three nights because he'd been busy trying to find inspiration to write. Let alone if someone publicised he had blown pupils and bloodshot eyes.
After parties were high alert situations these days, not a time to have a drink and a calming breath.
Maybe he should use this time to reset with a nap or a moment spent not thinking about the show. Perhaps he should tell Suzanne to guard the gate to his office while he shut the blinds all the way and took a moment on the couch to sleep off the ache just above his temples and pulsing at the top of his head. Shutting out the world might do him some good.
Matt almost convinced himself it was a good idea. But he was the guardian of the people working down on that stage, if he was unavailable during the taping when they may need him, then Matt wasn't doing his job.
He dragged his feet toward him until they were perpendicular beneath his knees. Matt pushed his hands against his thighs and stood, leaving his chair untucked as he stepped away from it and toward his door.
He could walk up to the stage, knowing full well that everyone would be on the set, busy and preoccupied. Tom and Simon and Jeannie were meant to be in the middle of a sketch, if that clock was correct. Which meant Harriet would be between scenes in her dressing room and a couple of the others would be preparing backstage.
If anyone would understand his sunken soul, it would be Tom and Simon and Jeannie. They had witnessed first-hand most of his relationship with Harriet and would be able to comfort him about it, about how this may not have been the end for them. They'd be blessedly unaware that he'd distanced himself too much from her now, from the man she fell in love with, that he'd missed his chances time and time again. They might understand if he admitted he'd tumbled down a rabbit hole because he'd messed things up again. Tom would be a comfort and Simon would understand more practically, he knew all about substances and if he wasn't so ashamed of himself, Matt might even admit what he'd done to him.
But not to innocent Tommy who looked up to him. And not to Jeannie who had known him for so long she'd lash out - at him or Harriet, she'd known them both for just as long.
So Matt would have to avoid them too. Just in case. Which left the newer cast members. He couldn't open up to them, or at least, probably shouldn't. Instead, perpetuating a his steadfast persona, trustworthy and reliable, worthy of his role at the studio. He could stand in the wings with them.
Dylan and Samantha were lovely, but they wouldn't look him in the eye, too scared that he'd give them a last-minute note they would fumble over and forget once the cameras were on them. They were good kids, talented. They were going to last a long time if Matt found a way to harness their talents like Andy was teaching Lucy and Darius to do.
Alex might actually approach him. That man wasn't cocky, but trusted his skills and had worked long enough on the show and with Matt before he'd left, that he would actively seek out a note to make his performance better and trust that he could implement the change seamlessly. Those three would be mostly preoccupied and wouldn't recognise that anything was amiss, that Matt had been completely blindsided by his own fallible mind.
But the three of them would expect Matt to be the jovial showrunner, the wise mentor, and the upbeat pick-me-up. Matthew Albie was none of those things. He couldn't be the supportive voice that calmed their nerves about a sketch they weren't sure about. Or the proud writer, smug that he'd received the amount of laughs he'd hoped for.
Jack was milling about somewhere, probably looking for Jordan to discuss the upfronts now that her maternity leave was coming up and needed to be negotiated.
He wouldn't comment that Matt looked like shit, even though it would appear plastered across his face like a neon sign. Jack would look at him with that I'm concerned but I have to maintain my boundaries and be your boss not your friend expression for a moment or two before it disappeared and they'd descend into silence.
Matt hated that sort of silence. A quiet that slowly filled the room like water filling a tank, slowly suffocating the occupants until his eyes burned and he felt like screaming even though it would be futile.
To break the silence, Jack would start a conversation. It would be about the show. It wasn't the only thing they had in common but there was a lot of animosity lingering between them, even after all this time, and the safest topic of discussion was the show. It was also an exhausted topic and Jack's professionalism never crinkled or crumpled into casualness, even if he loosened his tie and had a beer in his hand.
Inevitably, their conversation would turn towards the slipping ratings. Or the recent article about him in the paper. Surely Jack would have something to say about that, to question him about it.
Matt gulped at the thought. He'd rather ask Rick if he could join his writing staff for Peripheral Vision Man.
He took a few steps across the rug with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His shoes scuffled along the carpet, making a static, buzzing sound and somewhere behind him was the muted sound of the crowd cheering. It was an odd sound, like the whispy noises made when he cupped his hands over his ears trying to block out the outside world. Even though it was muffled, that laughter used to rouse something in his chest. Pride, excitement, gratitude, arrogance. Relief.
Matt listened, paused, the muscle memory of watching the show on the television and calculating if the audience laughed enough to solidify that the writing was good and the character could turn serial, or too much which would put them off schedule.
He didn't note anything down. Didn't even count or quirk his eyebrows, and couldn't be certain how long the sound lasted. Only that it was there.
Matt scuffed his toe as he walked around the coffee table. At least, if he left his office, he'd be doing something. Rather than the interminable limbo where he had neither the motivation or inclination to be productive or to sort out his sleepless state and recalibrate his wellbeing, Matt needed to be doing something. Anything.
He approached the door and turned left where the tall table with the ice bucket was.
He almost plucked a bottle from it but stopped himself just as his fingers brushed the cold neck of the glass. He was on the clock. After hours, when no one was in the studio, and during the After Party, that's what the whiskey was there for. Not for completely drowning out the sounds of the show and giving him a little courage to face the people who worked for him.
Shaking his head, Matt walked back towards the centre of his office, scratching the corners of his lips with his middle finger and his thumb.
Lying down on the couch, stretching out his lower back would be good and was the most tempting of his options if he resigned himself to hide in his office, convinced it would be inconspicuous.
Maybe, he thought, it would be better if he ventured outside just for a short pit stop by Danny's office. If he showed his face of his own volition, no one would come looking for him. He could control the situation that way. He wouldn't be caught in scrutinising conversations or concerned and watchful eyes observing him in the silences, wondering why he was so stunted and looking too closely at his glazed eyes.
He could stop by the box and send a couple of nods and querying looks Lilly's way while she was translating Cal's instruction to the rest of the crew. She'd recognise his presence and respect it, but be to busy to approach him in a dark room that was too dim to detect his emotions on his face.
Danny's office would be empty but a few of the interns would see him stalking the halls which could be beneficial if only to spread the word that he was out and about on his way to another destination and looking busy.
Unless Jordan had stopped by to visit. She and Danny were nearly inseparable these days. It was great to see his best so happy, Matt couldn't be certain he'd ever seen Danny smile so wide as he had been since the night on the roof. It helped that Matt liked Jordan too. She was a great friend, understanding and self-sufficient, she wouldn't stand for his giddy behaviour but encouraged his goofiness when the time was right for it.
Jordan would be interested in conversation and they had plenty to talk about, keen to hear more embarrassing stories about Danny, the likes of which Danny shushed him when he started telling them at Saturday night dinners. Or Matt could bring his catalogue and circle a couple of things for him and Danny to buy for Jordan's baby as a birthday gift or equipment and decorations for when the baby came.
The problem with Jordan was that she was brilliant friends with Harriet, too. She was observant, smart as a whip, funny, and as strong-willed as Harriet which made them easily companionable. Anything he said about Harriet, a complaint or a confession would be parroted back to the woman. Or Danny.
Those two being together was great. The only downside so far as Matt could see was that now Danny had someone on his side when it came to teasing Matt.
Mostly Matt could speak freely in front of Jordan, she was easy to talk to. But he was still a little watchful of his actions, how boldly he spoke, how much he complained about the job, and what, if anything, he said about Harriet. Whether it was professional respect, genuine friendship or friendship by his association with Danny, Jordan seemed to like him, trusting his word and concerned for his wellbeing. Matt could even use a moment alone with Jordan to learn a bit about her so he could write Danny's proposal and cater it specifically to her interests.
At least Jordan and the baby and the life that was forming for Danny distracted his best friend from thinking too long on the implications of the interns' whispers on the ghost that was Matt in his office, neither present or absent, but a spirit stuck in limbs, pacing aimlessly. Because Matt could be certain that the interns did talk about the silhouette behind Matt's closed curtains, the figure behind the glass, that was retreating into isolation from the studio.
Matt couldn't say the same for Harriet. Even during their worst fights, when they were dating other people, she paid attention. Harriet had a keen eye and Matthew loved that about her. She never saw a need without aching to do something about it. She leant a hand as often as she could and right now Matt wished she didn't.
It was a reciprocal issue the two of them had, they couldn't be in the vicinity of one another without sensing the other's mood and reading body language and intonation in the silence as they avoided each other. Only Harriet was far braver than he was, a truly Good Samaritan, that she'd speak up long before he had the courage to.
She'd notice something was off if he went anywhere near her.
Dear God did he want to be near her.
Just being close to Harriet always made the ache in his chest disappear. The vanilla scent of her shampoo would waft towards his nose and remind him of summer vacations and being snowed in that one weekend, back in the days when he could hold his arms around her waist with her hair pressed beneath his nose for no particular reason. Knowing Harriet was in the same room as him made Matthew confident, more bold in the hopes of gaining her attention. Of course, with that confidence came higher rates of impulsiveness and annoying repetition of a bad punchline until he made her roll her eyes and smile fondly as she walked away from him.
Harriet was a bright beam of sunlight that warmed his skin and made him want to bask in the light. She was golden while he was jaded. Light to his dark. Laughter to his stoicism. She was good, which Matt had always counted as a useless word, ambiguous to the point of meaningless, but that's what Harriet was. Good - not because of her faith, although that was an inextricable part of her - generous and patient and compassionate.
It was those wonderful things about Harriet that made Matt wrinkle his nose at himself and his recent behaviour. His knees shook and he felt faint with the shame that overwhelmed him when he thought about Harriet. The pills and the drinking and the self-loathing that had overtaken his thoughts lately were the complete opposite of everything Harriet stood for and believed in. She'd never look at him the same way if she found out about the things he'd done. Then again, Harriet was also an advocate for second chances and forgiveness, so she might look past his indescretions and stand by him anyway. Which, paradoxically, would make him feel just as ashamed as if she refused to be near him again.
He could deal with the shame. He was dealing with it. It evened out with the self-loathing, in fact. What Matt couldn't wouldn't be able to deal with was if Harriet thought any lower of him than she already did.
Of course, if he went anywhere near her, his shame would triple and she'd read him like a book.
She could read his emotions without him saying anything. Danny claimed that he had the same power and it came from knowing a person for so long, but Harriet's understanding of him was something entirely different. She'd smile those pearly white teeth at him, smelling fresh as she sat beside him with their knees touching or sin front of him, holding his biceps, and Harriet would break into an impression, a full-blown monologue in the perfect tone and pitch of the film it came from. He'd be unable to help himself and grin at her, every fear and insecurity melting out of him.
Matt used to live for that feeling but since the Catholic dinner he'd been living without Harriet's light and warmth, like a freshwater fish in the caves of Sierra del Abra. He'd adapted to life avoiding Harriet Hayes and hiding his dirty little secret, just like those cave fish, losing pigmentation and access to the outside world, alive by any means necessary. But with survival, they became hideous. Matt wondered what would happen if light and warmth were reintroduced into those caves, would those fish re-evolve. Would they feel it's presence? Would the simple act of being held by the light make them any less hideous?
Would he?
Or would he scare away that soft smile and soft blonde hair for good?
It was probably self-sabotaging and a little masocistic, but Matt had to know. He had to see her.
The last time he'd walked in to see Harriet he'd felt like a rotting fruit that had been left hanging on a vine, sour and superfluous.
He pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to comment.
Last time he walked in on something like this he'd been so heartbroken he'd stumbled backwards in his haste to escape the scene and had knocked over a suit of armour that had shattered like his fragile heart. Matt wasn't going to do that this time.
He remained stock still and waited for the bile to ease its way back down his throat. He blinked and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.
With a steeling breath Matt pushed open his office door. He was an exectuive producer and a consumate professional and surely he'd be able to think up a note he had to give to her as a cover. Besides, she was Harriet Hayes. If anyone wasn't going to question his lack of eye contact and understand that he didn't want to talk to her, then it was Harriet. She never could look him in the eye after insulting him.
He could use that to his advantage, a chance to be near Harriet without her questioning his motives.
His office door swung shut behind him with the grating of stiff metal hinges and Matt made eye contact with one of the PA's walking toward him down the hallway. There was no turning back now.