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 pressed his lips together into a tight line. His whole body was hot, and it was hard enough to concentrate without Mary in the corner of his office trying to distract him. She was trying to talk to him about something, trying to ask him out again, but Harriet was on camera downstairs, the screen mounted on his wall displaying the close-up of her face as she bantered with Alex.

Matt had a bottle of pills in his inside breast pocket, the one he normally kept a blue ballpoint pen in, and part of him worried the outline of it was visible or the contents were audible whenever he moved. Suzanne had been eyeing him warily before and Matt's paranoia got the better of him, turning away from her abruptly under the guise of pre-show stress. He did the same with Mary now. But he was killing two birds with one stone - drowning her out and hiding any sign of his depression in one fell swoop. Only this time, he wasn't feigning anything.

They needed laughs tonight. He needed laughs tonight.

The last couple of weeks had the show in general, and him in particular, featured in a couple of different news articles. Amateur writers on the internet were calling for his resignation. Critics in the TV guide were printing a drop in ratings like it was the apocalypse. They were trying to be diplomatic about it, Matt conceded. The show was still good, just not Matt Albie's best. Albie has stopped trying now that his show is staying for the rest of the season. And it seemed like Leon Cushman was the only reporter who thought he was writing a good show these days, but even he was writing about talented actors delivering slightly above mediocre material.

He could hear Mary natter on behind him. And he vaguely recognised that she was asking him out. Again.

A week or so ago, she'd asked him out and Matt hadn't been lying when he told Mary he wasn't interested, but respected her for letting him know she'd be happy to wait until he was. But now she'd back-flipped and seemed to be annoyingly insistent. Matt swore his signals hadn't changed. He was still mad for Harriet, even though he wished he could get over her.

He didn't understand it himself, that she'd broken his heart with angry words during their last fight. Nothing new, really, but nothing Harriet had ever said to him before. Not even close. Despite that, she calmed his racing heart and made his blood run hot and Matthew didn't want anybody else.

Matthew couldn't help but think the things they had spit poisonously at each other that night were things that needed to be said. He hadn't proposed to her, but he wanted a family with her. They hadn't announced to the press that the pair of them were together, so all articles including either one of them referenced a falling out or another woman and while it shouldn't have affected them, when they were already on opposite sides of the country and halfway broken up and some gossip rag wrongly, but adamantly, insisted they were over, it pushed them over the edge.

As cathartic as airing all their issues should have been, or hatred fuelling and unforgivable, Matt still needed Harriet. And the few times they had interacted since, it seemed like she still wanted him, too.

Matt ground his teeth together as Mary waffled on about the wrap party behind him, trying to be enticing. She could have been the most interesting woman in the room, in any room, but he wanted Harriet. No one intrigued him like Harriet did.

And it was show night, and he needed to concentrate and take note of where he was going wrong. It was the only thing that could comfort him while Harriet wasn't speaking to him and Danny was downstairs and he was in a public space where he couldn't reach into his coat pocket. Although part of him was comforted by the solid shape of his pill bottle against his chest. The hard plastic of the bottle was a physical reality that drew his attention away from the ache behind his sternum as Harriet walked off screen.

As Alex continued into another short segment, Matt zoned back in on what Mary had to say. He was an executive producer, after all, and in charge of the entire cast and crew. Zoned in enough to hear the important part, anyway.

"What did Harriet do?"

He finally made eye contact with Mary. She was nice and smart and for some reason she liked him, even when she knew he was still gone for another woman. That level of narcissism was probably something Matthew needed. It, with her brains and her beauty, would knock him down a peg or two. While she was beautiful, Matt didn't find her all that attractive. She was a fantasy come to life, but Matt wanted someone real, something real. Together, they'd be completely dysfunctional, but Matt was pretty messed up at the minute. He could admit that emotionally he kept digging his hole, and filling it with vodka wasn't working anymore.

He wasn't ready for something serious. Not when he was feeling like he was. He couldn't put Harriet, or any woman, through dealing with his depression. Matt had seen that sort of thing tear apart Danny and his first wife. Matt would be damned if he followed his friend down that spiral.

"Well, she's named as a witness in the complaint," Mary explained, grinning at his attention.

Matt turned his attention back to the screen, holding his breath as he waited for the audience to laugh. Someone chuckled. He wasn't trying to be rude or dismissive. He was sure the writer that once worked under Wes had a valid argument the last time she sued the studio. But if Harriet was being named a witness, or worse, a defendant, then Matt was certain the case had no basis. Harriet wouldn't stand for harassment and she didn't allow disrespect. She wouldn't witness anything and not speak up about it.

"Harriet said: A writers' room is a tough place for a woman."

Matt rolled his eyes at the choices Mary made in delivering her line, the names she decided to deliver with emphasis, like it was Harriet who was at fault, not Karen for not having a good sketch, or the writers who had already been established as misogynistic and aweless. But he knew Mary understood the minutia of a writer's room from the last time they had spoken.

"A writers' room is a tough place for someone who isn't a writer," he told her. Because that was the real issue, wasn't it?

"You don't seem excited about being my date for the wrap party. I wore nice shoes." She flip-flopped like a beached fish between issues, like neither was of much importance to her. That didn't give her much credit, when really, Mary behaved like the first topic was just a job, one she didn't have a stake in except for a paycheck. It seemed the latter one vaguely interested her but she ultimately didn't mind about the answer to that either.

"I'm trying to watch the show," Matt grumbled at her interruption and turned back to the screen.

Harriet had that cute little overbite on full display as she altered her voice for the sketch she was in. Matt didn't know how she did it. It seemed so effortless. She was so sincere about the ridiculous things she was saying and completely believable.

Had Harriet really said that about the room? Was she referring to the room he ran as well? Maybe Mary was paraphrasing, but there was no reference to it being Ricky's room specifically that was a tough place for a woman.

They may have been back on speaking terms, but that didn't mean Harriet wasn't still mad at him. Harriet Hayes wasn't spiteful, she may have had the same issue that Simon had about a lack of representation on the four strong writing team and this was her way of discussing it with him while they still weren't at their best communication-wise.

He managed to shake Mary off as the show devolved into a series of sketches with missed cues and bumbled lines. His cast was a fairly talented one that managed to catch the ball on the first bounce after it had been dropped, but Mary had recognised that Matt wasn't paying her any attention and couldn't while the show was up. She disappeared, down to grab a coffee, or talk to Jordan, or give him space to talk to Jack who Suzanne had warned was coming up, or to sit with the writing staff again. Matt hadn't been paying close attention. He hoped she kept her word and didn't talk to the cast, Harriet in particular, until the show was wrapped.

"I can wait until after the show," Mary had said about talking to Harriet. Of course, what she'd meant by talk was interrogate torturously. By which, Matt knew from experience, would mean questions about the truth of Harriet's statement. She would ask Harriet when, not if, she had been lying and wear her down until she confessed. Lying was a big deal for someone as devout as Harriet, and Matt wasn't about to let the promise pre-teen Hannah had made to her dying mother about never lying to be broken. Whether she had been lying or not, he wasn't going to allow her to live with that guilt.

Harriet had a costume change in the third C-break and Matt raced down the stairs to catch her.

He saw her blonde hair first and called out to her. "Yo, Norma Rae?"

She turned around and smirked at him like she got the reference. Then her eyes widened as though she was surprised he had abandoned his typically stoic post by a television screen on show night just to talk to her. Her mouth almost quirked into a smile, but Harriet stopped it from pulling at her lips. He must have appeared manic, suit dishevelled from racing down the stairs, his eyes crazed and frantic.

But Harry didn't address his mood or his sudden appearance down in the alley between the stage and the dressing rooms. Instead, she planted her feet and cocked her brow at him, reprimanding his lack of manners.

"Me?"

Matt stepped close to her, close enough that people using the hallway could walk around them without needing to squeeze past, but far enough away that Harriet's hands couldn't reach for his and hold them without stretching. And definitely distant enough so that no one got the wrong message and thought they were back together and stealing a moment together.

"You told Karen a writer's room is a tough place for a woman?" Matt lambasted. He needed confirmation of what Mary had told him, trying to use the lawyer's words exactly and an accusatory tone so that Harriet would correct him and reveal what she had really said.

"Her sketch got cut," Harriet explained in that soft, melodic voice of hers. "I was making her feel better."

Matt signed. That's what he'd been afraid of. The answer he came down to warn her about. "They're gonna ask you when you were lying. Then or now."

One was preferable. In the studio's favour, it would be great if Harriet could contend that she was lying to appease a hurt friend, making her feel better in a heated situation. The other would be perjury. But as far as Harriet was concerned, both would be a sin and completely unacceptable. He had hoped she would tell him she had been paraphrased or misquoted, like she had been a few months ago. Matt wasn't about to let her faith be shaken with the weight of a lie but he wasn't sure how he could fix it for her except for giving her a bit of warning so she could organise her thoughts and work out what she had meant before Mary asked her to explain herself. Hopefully, Harry would be able to convince herself she wasn't lying, and if not, perhaps he could help her work the story in just the right way.

Harriet furrowed her brows, her lips pursing in confusion. "I wasn't lying. I was making her feel better by telling the truth."

Matt pulled a matching expression. His heart sunk and he wasn't sure why. It wasn't like Harriet was a writer. He wasn't actively disadvantaging her by being in charge of a writing room. But Lucy was. Other women he knew were. Did they suffer in some way even in the most respectful environment?

"A writers' room is a tough place for a -?"

"Yes," she interrupted, nodding with conviction.

"Why?"

Matt needed Harry to explain herself, not just because he didn't understand, and she always put things in manageable terms. She could have been a primary school teacher with that skill, where her patience and gentleness would be appreciated. She would be a great mother, too.

Matt blinked. He really shouldn't let himself think that anymore.

"Why?" she sounded disbelieving.

Matt nodded, "Yeah."

"Because, fundamentally, women are taught not to be funny. Because it's not attractive."

Gender politics, Matt nodded. It had never made any sense to him. But this was exceptionally confounding. Harriet was the funniest person he knew. The most attractive too. He wasn't sure if those two fed into each other and overlapped or were two separate explanations for why he fell for her so terminally, but they were both true. He told her as much.

"It is to me."

Harriet rolled her eyes. "Good." But her cheeks flushed softly, exactly as Matt had wanted her to. He was glad their recent distance hadn't inhibited their ability to imply their compliments and veil their praise in everyday conversation.

He swayed proudly on the balls of his feet, leaning towards her, hoping his grin was endearing and cute. With the motion, his blazer swayed, his jacket flapping against his chest, and he felt his pill bottle slap against his chest.

All the warmth left his body in a shaky exhale and he fisted his hands tight, fingernails biting into his palms as he forced himself to behave appropriately. If he was still taking the painkillers, he could not be flirting with Harriet. Flirting with would lead to being with and all sorts of things would go wrong if that happened. She would find out and never look at him the same. Or he would reach to her for help and she wouldn't be able to, or worse, wouldn't want to. Or he would lie to her about it, actually, fabricate the truth, not just omit it like he was doing now. Matt had never lied to Harriet. He wasn't sure if she could forgive someone for lying to her, given what the Bible said about liars, but Matt wasn't about to find out. And he was not going to allow himself to drag her down with him.

Which meant he couldn't be with her.

With that depressing thought, Matt was quick to try to cover the fact that he had been flirting with her. He scoured his mind for a name, any name, that was mildly believable and high profile. A paragon of manhood who had married the apotheosis of femininity. "It was attractive to Joe DiMaggio."

"No," Harriet smirked. The actors were correct to his point but the characterisation was off and Harriet let him know. "It wasn't attractive to Joe DiMaggio, Matt."

Her laugh was small and breathy, but his heart soared nonetheless. He wished it wouldn't. She didn't laugh much, her profession that she was so good at ensured she was an expert in tempering the expression, and it was gratifying when he managed to make it happen. Matt needed to exit the conversation, so the lump in his throat dispersed and he didn't feel so warm and fuzzy.

"What's a snow machine?"

Harriet sighed. She couldn't have known what he was doing. It must have confused her, the mixed signals he sent, but she didn't press him for an explanation, simply telling him to: Ask Tom.

So Matt did, walking off and shouting the name of the man. He couldn't control what Harriet thought of him. He'd learnt that the hard way just recently. And he couldn't tell her what he thought of her. But he could hope she got the message that he was trying to warn her and prepare her for the oncoming storm that was Mary Tate and her interrogation.


"Did you wanna talk to me?" Harriet located the lawyer on the floor and approached her. Her ex-boyfriend had been a little standoffish when they last spoke, and she wasn't completely sure why they had left the dialogue so abruptly, but he had been dulcet and kind in what she assumed was a genuine attempt to help her out. She'd changed into a black and grey dress of geometric patterns for the wrap party. Matt hadn't asked her specifically to go with him, but that was where they were headed and the dress was exactly the type to make her feel comfortable and beautiful simultaneously. That way, when she and Matt ended up gravitating towards each other, she was presenting her best self to him. Not that she needed to.

The dress was more for the paparazzi outside, who would inevitably photograph them leaving the building together.

"You knew Karen? She wrote a sketch you were in?" Mary asked, but Harriet knew she was only building her up to the big questions. "And you told her that a writers' room is a tough place for a woman?"

Harriet nodded, leading Mary into the empty dressing room so they could talk freely. Harriet couldn't help but notice that Mary carried herself confidently in a slinky dress and high heels. But Harriet wasn't sure who Mary had been intending to impress or if this was how she normally dressed, but was very aware that the dress was tailored on just the wrong side of tight to be professional and Mary had just spent the evening with Matthew. "She'd just got her sketch cut. I was making her feel better."

"So you were lying to her?"

There it was. What Matthew had been trying to warn her about. Harry recognised Matt's intentions when he'd asked her to clarify whether she was sinning then or now, wanting her to get her story straight in her own mind so she could convince herself she was lying neither time. But that, too, would be lying. And almost every book of the Bible understood that lying was a sin and warned against it - Leviticus, Proverbs, Zephaniah, Zechariah, Ephesians, Colossians, Revelation. Because of which, Harriet, at the age of eight, had sworn to her faithful mother that she would never lie and to this day, she never had. Lies only hurt people.

Matthew, bless him, had understood that, too.

"Say, 'Yes, I was lying to her,'" Mary instructed forcefully when Harriet had remained pensive for a beat too long.

That would be a lie. "Lying is a big word for me."

"There's no law against telling someone their hair looks great when you think it doesn't," Mary tried to tempt her to sin. But Harriet refused to fall for it, shaking her head.

Mary mustn't have witnessed her small movement because she repeated the question, expecting her answer to be different this time. "Is the writers' room here a tough place for a woman?"

Harriet shook her head again. She wasn't going to perjure herself, now or in the future. And definitely not to protect Ricky Tahoe, who would welcome the devil in if he promised to hurt Matthew.

Of all the things Harriet believed in, she believed in Matthew and his honest optimism and faith in people. He didn't run a bad room; he wasn't capable of it. He was as gentle and kind-spirited as the men who had written the books of the Bible, and despite what he claimed, he embodied the teachings of them, too - always seeing the good in people and unwavering in his morals.

"It was then," Harriet explained, clarifying, "It's not now."

Mary laughed mirthlessly at her distinction. "You're not being sued now."

"I'm not being sued at all," she heard her voice pitch in that odd way Matthew did when he emphasised himself. Nobody else would have noticed, but Harriet did. She'd spent years learning every habit of his, soaking up all the information about Matt Albie that she could, enjoying every second of it. If he had been there in that moment, he would have leant backwards, giving her space so he could study her curiously, surprised that she could impersonate the lilt of his voice.

"These aren't the world's greatest answers," Mary reprimanded her, asking her again.

Harriet let her voice level dangerously, a warning. "Mary, I am sure that Karen was fired because she wasn't writing good material."

"You're not sure and don't make Matt's mistake and repeat that."

Harriet couldn't help but grin at the shared mind she and Matt seemed to have and that this woman had noticed.

"Wes Mendell is a good man," she swore. But Harriet eventually felt herself give in to Mary's relentless nature. "These guys wrote to be mean."

"Why does Matt write?"

What? "I'm sorry?"

"You said the others were writing to be mean." Mary appeared to be so sweet, small and unassuming, but her presence engulfed the room as she sucked all the air out of it with her questions. "Why does Matt write?"

Harriet could have lied then, made up some story about him being intensely creative or discussed the secret musing of the teenage boy who adored the English language or the collegiate who took drama instead of football like his father wanted him to, revealing any number of secrets about Matthew's childhood that she knew in order to assert her dominance.

Instead, Harriet told a half-truth. "Matt writes to get people to like him."

She didn't lie, per se. Matt wrote for a lot of reasons; to make his mother smile with a made-up story, to document his father's memories, to reintroduce plays by Lord Dunsany into academia, to stick it to Wes that he'd lost the best writer to ever work at the studio even though Matt wouldn't use those words to describe what he was doing. To impress her.

"Yeah?" Mary beamed.

Oh. Harriet swallowed. That was why Mary had spent so long at the theatre for a fairly arbitrary open-and-shut case. That was why she was sporting the sort of dress that would highlight her bust.

That was why Matthew had been so curt, saying his piece and leaving without a backwards glance.

"It's working on you, isn't it?"

She dropped her eyes to Mary's shoes and then her own. That way, she could lie to herself if Mary's response was positive. Only she would be hurt by the little lie. But it was better this way. Better that the truth stung her when she was prepared for it and saw them together rather than afraid of what would happen before it had. If she never knew Mary's response, Harriet could prepare herself for when Matt told her the truth himself. She would only believe she'd lost him if it came from him. At least, if she lied to herself, she could pretend he was still hers. At least for a little longer.