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 hitched up the stack of books in his left hand higher up his arm and transferred the white grocery bag from his right to his left hand.
Jordan had said the spare key would be in the base plate of the potted lavender by the door. she hadn't mentioned said lavender would be wilting and brown.
Squinting his right eye, Matt eased his middle finger and his thumb into the base of the pot, his forefinger resting against the cool terracotta. He had to move his arm to an uncomfortable angle to avoid the painful poke of the sharp twigs of the dying flower and tried to reign in his audible wince when it happened anyway. It took him a few pincer-like swipes to manage it, but he eventually scooped the bronze key out of its hiding place, grateful that he was facing a plain white wall and there was no one to see the way he had worked his tongue to his top lip with the effort.
Matt adjusted his grip on the grocery bag in his left hand and twisted the key between his thumb and forefinger, poising it ready to unlock the door. He'd told Jordan, 'no,' for this exact reason. He and Harriet had lived together, dammit, his house had been theirs and even before that, any apartment she owned he would have a key to. The fact he had to rummage in the bottom of a pot of dead lavender only rammed home the fact that he wasn't part of her life anymore. As though seeing her move on to Darren Wells so quickly didn't hurt enough. As though the fact she'd packed up her things and changed the locks on her apartment quicker than he could blink didn't kill him.
Matt stood, key in one hand, pins and needles in the other, and wondered if he was doing the right thing for the fourth time that Saturday morning.
Jordan had called, her voice scratchy and soft through the phone line asking him to check in on Harriet. Apparently, she'd asked Jordan to accept her induction into the Falstaff Society in her honour. Matt, who had been yawning into the receiver had jerked awake at that, Harriet had been so excited about that award. She was worried about her speech, sure, but not so worried that she would pull out of the ceremony. He'd even passed Suzanne a couple of notes with funny anecdotes - not jokes - for her to suggest to Harriet and paid his assistant an extra half hour on her lunch break so that she wouldn't tell Harriet they came from him. With his shoulder pressing his new Nokia phone and Jordan's exhausted voice to his ear as he hopped into his socks, he'd wondered if checking in on his ex-girlfriend was a good idea.
The second time had been when he made it out to the kitchen. Every fibre of his being was urging him to bend down and pull a saucepan out of the cabinet under the stove, chop up some vegetables and make his mother's vegetable soup. The watery celery, turmeric and garlic stock mixed with the purree of pumpkin and chunks of carrot and potato had always made him feel better as a child and Harriet had liked the recipe that one time he'd made it for the nephew he was babysitting and she'd stayed over to help. Thankfully he had managed to shake that bad idea out of his head when he realised it might send a message to her, probably the right one but not the one he wanted to send to her if she had changed the locks as Jordan had informed him.
Before he left for her place, Matt had pulled a couple of books off his bookshelf. He'd skipped over a faded copy of Little Women, the red cover faded to a whitewashed pink and the corners of the cover dogeared. Definitely Harriet's. He left that on his shelf, he probably shouldn't have but it was a piece of Harriet he could keep. Next on the shelf was a paperback copy of Dan Brown's Angels and Demons. He'd laughed so hard when Harriet had bought a copy for herself on one late autumn afternoon they'd spent browsing a bookshelf. He didn't dare tell her the plot although he himself had read the book almost half a year earlier. He wasn't sure Harriet had ever finished the novel and he thought it might make her smile so he lifted it from the shelf. He skipped over a couple of hardbacks he knew she'd enjoy, assuming the weight would be too much for her if she was as exhausted as Jordan had sounded.
He left Harriet's copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream on the shelf and instead added his own, heavily underlined copy of Flowers for Algernon to the pile in his arms. She'd never read it and Matt had always wanted her to, it was one of his favourites and he'd always thought she'd appreciate the lyrical prose and underlying messages. Matt's gaze lingered on the gold embossed Bible on the end of the shelf, knowing Harriet had probably left it there in her haste to leave him yet again. He reached a finger out to trace the spine, smiling softly. Of course, she may have left the good book there in the hopes he'd read it and save his immortal soul. In all their time together she'd never managed to find the miniature Bible he kept hidden in among his shirts and jeans for the specific purpose of reading through so he was just as informed as she when they sparred about religion.
He left Harriet's Bible on the shelf and, content with his picks, locked up his house and fought the glare of the morning sun in his eyes as he drove to the supermarket. That was where he had his third bout of doubt. He'd been standing at the deli, a loaf of bread dangling from his hand as he reached out to grab the thing of chicken soup from the worker. On his way to grab a bag of frozen peas (the deli never added enough vegetables to the soup), Matt cut through the confectionary aisle. He picked up a block of Harriet's favourite dark chocolate and that was when he saw it. Harriet, Simon and Tom, posing on the front of a magazine cover. Which in itself wasn't too unusual. But one of the headlines under the title of magazine drew his attention, 'Harriet Hayes spotted at after party with baseball Goliath Darren Wells.'
Instead of groaning at the terrible use of grammar and punctuation, let alone the hyperbolic referral to the player as more than mildly adequate, Matt worried about something else. Harriet's privacy. She'd broken up with him for a reason. She'd changed her locks for a reason. He'll, she'd called Jordan instead of him. And all because the two of them weren't on civil speaking terms. Sure they spoke at work about work-related things, and over the last few weeks things had gotten a bit better, she smiled at him more but they still weren't talking about their personal lives. He'd had to hear from one of the interns that Harriet's interview had gone a bit haywire and her words had been misconstrued. She made sure not to take her breaks when he did like she used to, meaning she instead had dinner with the rest of the cast and went home without saying goodnight to him. He'd had to hear from Jeannie that Harriet was posing for a risque photoshoot. From Jeannie! And if Harriet didn't feel like she could come to him about her quotes being taken out of context and still avoided him in the evenings so she didn't have to wish him good night, then he wondered if him turning up, uninvited, to her apartment would even be something she would tolerate, let alone allow.
Shrugging off his doubts, Matt insert the key into the lock, turning it sideways and pushing through the doorway.
Oh.
He should have taken a moment to prepare himself. Nostalgia hit him the same way seeing her with Darren Wells had, sharply and in the chest, his eyes close to watering.
The three white walls of the apartment hadn't changed. To his right, and only because he was so tall, Matt could see the light catch against the little divot in the centre of the coffee table between the leather lounge and the television. He'd been putting together the pieces of the television cabinet from the box and couldn't help himself from continuing to construct his side of the debate as he did so.
"I don't know why I'm bothering to do this," he'd said with a teasing smile. He'd only meant to tease her, to place the idea in her mind. It hadn't been interpreted that way.
From the faded yellow couch behind him, Harriet had dropped her feet from the coffee table, planting both her feet on the floor, "We've been over this, Matt. Asking me to move in in the middle of IKEA by suggesting we don't buy a new T.V. for my apartment is not actually asking. I deserve better than that, Matthew."
Which was when he knew to drop his smile and get serious. She only called him Matthew when she was upset with him or the very opposite and he didn't think she was feeling particularly romantic. "I just think it's time, you know. We've been going out for two years . . ."
"On and off," she'd snapped back. "And mostly off at that."
"Sure," he'd turned around to face her, still crouched on his haunches. "But we spend every day together at the studio and go home together most of the time."
"So, for convenience, you want to be able to carpool daily?"
"We carpool anyway." Matt fell from his squat and took a moment to wipe the resulting smile from his face. Harriet hadn't laughed at the accident so he figured he probably shouldn't either. "I just think it might be time, is all. Or are you afraid you'll get sick of me?"
"I'm already sick of you," she grinned, leaning her elbows on her knees, her face and his only separated by the short width of the coffee table.
Matt's smile matched hers as he leant forward, plywood balanced in his lap, his forearms balanced on the table. "And just think, all that time and I might finally convince you . . ."
Harriet reared back, her smile vanished. "You never stop, do you?"
"Harry," he breathed. "I just meant that we might finally end this argument."
"You meant that you might finally win it," she scowled. She didn't often scowl. "Why do you insist on trying to get me to renounce my faith?"
Matt put the plywood cabinet door down, "Harriet, you know that's not what I want."
It wasn't, it had never been. He liked that she was so devoted to her faith, she was so reverent and the exact image of the heaven she believed it. He just wanted her to understand it wasn't for him. She could believe in whatever invisible forces she wanted and he would believe in her.
"Don't!" Harriet stood up, lifting the open tool case from the table. Whatever Harriet had been in the process of yelling at him was cut off by what happened next.
The case of tools that Harriet later claimed she was moving so she could put their takeout on the coffee table, had jostled in her haste to get up. One of the lightweight socket wrenches from the upper window of the case hadn't been properly locked into place and tumbled out. The aluminium tool hit the table and bounced. It was heavy and without much momentum but it still only narrowly missed Matt's chin.
Mid-scoff and trying not to laugh, Matthew stood. "Did you just throw that at me?"
He'd meant it to be playful. He honestly had. Harriet's hands had done that adorable thing where she covered her nose and mouth, almost in prayer, horrified by what had happened.
"No! Goodness, I'm so sorry."
"I was okay that our fights spanned years," Matt moved around the coffee table, reaching for her. He stroked his hands from her elbows up to her wrists where he pried her hands from her horrified face, kissing her fingers before he held them between their bodies. "But now that they're turning physical I don't know if I can ever move in with you."
Harriet had tried not to smile and rolled her eyes at him, touching the fingers of her right hand to the spot on his jaw the socket wrench had come close to hitting. "You can't use guilt to get what you want, Matthew. I'm not moving in with you."
She never did. And they broke up a day later, Matt using the excuse that she'd thrown the tool at his head to disguise the fact he was hurt that she didn't want to move in with him.
Matt smiled at the memory fondly and continued to look around the apartment, a little more prepared for the memories the furniture would scrounge up.
There was a bookshelf against the blue wall to his left that Matt remembered had once belonged in the second bedroom if he was remembering the titles on the shelf correctly. He pulled his lips down when he realised they were quirking into a smile.
They had painted the wall robin's egg blue, wasting most of the paint on brushes to their noses and cheeks and the entire back of that old "Danny is the Greatest and Matt Can't Play Ping Pong" T-Shirt that he'd had to wear for a week straight after a stupid bet with his best friend (one he wouldn't have made if he had known Harriet was working with Danny to make sure Matt would lose). He'd had to run to the nearest hardware store and purchase a new can of paint so they could complete the second coat and even then their efforts looked as though how bad the results were was relative to how much fun they'd had painting it. Matt had always loved that wall, the sweeps of grainy paint and the awkward cross-hatching they'd managed near the skirting boards that proved the two of them were not artists nor interior designers. Evidently, Harriet wasn't as fond of the memory as he, covering it up with a shelf that didn't quite make sense in the space.
Harriet's soft floral perfume hung in the air and Matt could see a take out container, Chinese or Thai by the looks of it, lined up on the counter of the kitchen he could see from the doorway. It was probably half full from when she'd grabbed it on her way home from the show last night. He'd have to remember to pack it in the fridge or throw it out before the sauces started to ferment.
Matt made his way past the thoroughfare that separated the living area from the dining room and placed his things on the kitchen island. He opened and closed his left hand a few times to encourage blood flow back into his fingers, circling his wrist so his palm wouldn't cramp.
Matt manoeuvred his way around the little kitchen. He considered putting the things he'd brought away, the peas in the soup and the soup in the microwave, but he thought better of it.
Instead, Matt made his way towards the back of the apartment and Harriet's bedroom. The deeper he traversed into Harriet's home the more prominent his memories of their time together became. She had pictures hanging at eye level all the way along the hall, some big some small but all of her family.
There were a couple of shots of her mother saved in dark wooden frames, the woman was almost the spitting image of Harriet.
There was a photograph of Harriet and her father at her first ballet recital, little Hannah Hayes clad in a pink tutu skirt that may have been wider than she was tall, ladybird wings and antenna attached to her body, her cheeks dusted with glitter and the dimples from her smile.
A couple of other milestones adorned the walls in plastic black frames, her and her mother in a hospital room surrounded by balloons, a graduation that her father hadn't been there for but two of her brothers were, her taking a bow on the Chicago stages of Second City, the spotlight casting her in soft shades of white and yellow.
There was a white driftwood frame encasing a few different images in the middle of the hallway and looking at them made a ball of emotion lodge in Matt's throat. They'd bought that frame together at a little beachside store on a beach in Mexico and had picked up a little lighthouse magnet for Danny at the same time. She'd been wearing a breezy lilac shift, her hair was wind-whipped and frizzy and when he'd kissed her she tasted like sunscreen and commitment.
The picture in the centre position was of the Studio 60 family back in 2000 standing awkwardly in front of George's desk in the lobby. It had been taken before the start of that year's season and most of the people in the picture had moved on from the studio, the majority of them not moving on to stardom. Harriet sat on the very left side of the image, hitched up on George's desk with Wes Mendell standing just to her left. Matt remembered standing near the photographer as the picture was taken and falling for her even more when she took her position at the end of the desk instead of the centre where the big players were sitting.
Most of the photos in the frame were of the studio. There was one of her and Simon and Luke that Matt's eyes glossed over, one of Tom and Simon and her that Matt had seen in a magazine recently. She and the Women United Through Faith leaders at some gala featured twice, two different pastel coloured ballgowns but the same long flowing hair in them. There was an image of Jeannie and Samantha grinning at the camera at one of the weekends away the girls had taken, a ski trip if the log walls were any indication, evidently one of the many trips Harriet and the girls took when he and she broke up. He couldn't be sure at what time but it had to be recent given that Samantha's hair was cut shorter than her shoulders, but only just.
A few of the other pictures surrounding that one were of him and her together. Standing with the bridal party at Danny's wedding in Hawaii, wrapped together in a single red scarf with their faces too close to the camera, at a gala or an awards ceremony standing arm in arm in a crowd of people but only concerned with each other.
But his personal favourite sat on the hallway table opposite, just below the round mirror and beside the little bonsai her mother had gifted her when she'd been confirmed into the church. A shot of him and her from that weekend they had babysat Harriet's niece. The child was pink and grinning against Harriet's chest, the woman smiling down at the infant, caught mid-laugh by the photographer. Danny's camera work was lopsided with his own bought of laughter at the scene. Matt's maroon shirt was stained with a milky white from where the baby had spit up on him, his mouth hanging open in an accusatory glance at the four-month-old.
Tugging the sleeves of his black sweater over his wrists and really wishing he had something better to occupy his hands with, Matt moved to the half-closed bedroom door he knew to be Harriet's.
"Harriet," he didn't lift his hand from beside his hip but knocked his knuckles against the wood. He didn't dare step into the room, not without permission, not without preparation. There was a groan from inside the room. He didn't assume that to be an invitation but stepped a foot inside the door, ducking his head around it so that she'd hear him better. "Harriet, it's Matt."
The room hadn't changed much in his absence. That thought alone made his chest hurt for two opposing reasons.
Sun streamed in, warm yellow through lacy white curtains, caressing the dusty pink comforter in the centre of the room. Matt closed his eyes and tried to bite down the smile his lips quirked into when he saw the lump that was Harriet curled up in a ball on the centre of the bed, she never could stick to her side.
"Harriet," he called again, his voice barely above a whisper. The body on the bed rolled and let out a sigh. She may have made a noise but he couldn't be sure.
"Mmmorning." Her voice was cracked and rumbling, softer than Matthew remembered it being. He loved watching her wake up. Her soft smile and innocent eyes becoming alert to the world slowly, her cheeks pink with warmth. She would open her sleepy blue eyes, eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks, and her quiet smile would be almost instantaneous when she saw him awake beside her.
Matt took no more than one step into the room, "How're you feeling?
Her voice was quiet and vernal, almost childlike, "Hi, Matthew." She always called him Matthew in the early morning.
He couldn't stop the smile that graced his features that time, but ducked his head to hide it just in case she caught it.
"Morning, Harriet. Jordan said you called her. How're you feeling?"
There was a heavy exhale and a long pause before she answered, "Ocean shore."
Matt hummed his chuckle at her muffled reply. Her head was almost completely hidden beneath her bed covers but Matt could hear her congestion from across the room. "How do you feel about getting up and eating something? Lemon tea and honey? Some toast?"
The lump on the bed rolled, straightening out and inhaling deeply. "Matt?" Her voice was clearer. "What are you doing?"
"Listing breakfast options," he quipped, letting go of his sleeves and shoving his hands in his pockets. He rocked uncomfortably onto his toes and waited for a reply. If she was snappy, she was feeling better and wouldn't need him around but if she was affectionate and teasing, she needed a doctor.
She coughed, wet and scratchy at the same time. No wonder she was only talking softly and in mono-syllables, "Matt."
He watched in silence as she wiggled under the sheets, her blonde head popping up slowly, her nose red. Harriet managed to prop herself up as far as her elbows before she slumped back down.
"Jordan rang me, told me where the key was," he recounted. There was no sound but he could hear her sigh, exasperated. "I brought chocolate."
She sniffed, humming her acknowledgement of his efforts. She tried to get up again, pushing herself slowly all the way up and scooting back against the pillows. She looked so small in the queen-sized bed. As cliched as that sounded, Matt couldn't stop himself from thinking it as he looked at her. Sunlight danced through the curtains and kissed her golden hair, the white sheets folded around her chest and her head dropped backwards to rest her head on the headboard which exposed the little freckle she had on the underside of her chin along the line of her jaw. He couldn't see the small dark spot from his spot by the door but Matt knew her skin like the back of his hand and that freckle was one of his favourite spots to kiss.
What he could see was her closed eyes, her red nose and her chapped lips. Her creamy skin was the colour of watery milk making the sore spots of her skin burn as brightly as a neon sign.
"I called Jordan?" she exhaled and then proceeded to cough into her elbow for a minute.
There was a mass of crumpled tissues on the floor on the right side of the bed, a tissue box standing on the end table beside Harriet's mobile phone and an open box of over the counter pain killers. She must have been loopy with exhaustion and whatever it was she was infected with when she'd made the call.
"Why are you here?"
"You called Jordan."
She snorted.
Matt grinned widely. "She was worried but was feeling pretty lousy herself. Didn't have Jeannie's number, I guess."
There was no amusement in her laugh, he didn't need to ask her why. She and Jeannie had reconciled fairly quickly after he had revealed they used to get together when they were lonely. Matt had never gotten around to explaining that he hadn't slept with his old friend that weekend after he and Danny took over the show. Rather, he'd slept for twenty-eight hours straight, alone in his bed, conked out on painkillers and adrenaline. At least, he didn't remember sleeping with Jeannie.
Perhaps Jeannie had revealed they'd all jumped to conclusions that morning. But then why had Harriet called Jordan and not one of her oldest friends?
"Jordan was worried and asked me to check in on you. She sounded pretty bad herself," he announced, tilting his head to the right. "I think I heard Danny in the background."
Harriet coughed violently. When she was done she remained doubled over, her head pressed against her knees that had bent slightly with the effort of her convulsing.
"I'm going to make you some tea."
He was almost completely turned around when her raw voice called him back. "You don't have to be here, Matt."
That stung despite how much he expected it. She had no energy and could barely keep her eyes open, but she could spit poison into her words. Matt didn't turn around, didn't want to reveal everything, "I'll be right back."
Once he reached the kitchen, Matt flicked the button on the jug, starting the process of heating the water. While he waited, he opened up his grocery bag and took out the things he had purchased. Then he crossed the kitchen to where Harriet kept her calendar and the little cup of stationary she left on the counter beside it, from which he snatched a pair of scissors.
"These are for kids. You know these are for kids, right?" he laughed.
"So?" she grinned, ripping open the cardboard packaging. She couldn't do it and held the packet out to him pathetically.
Matt laughed, studying the package. Harriet had somehow separated the cardboard into different segments and only ripped off one ply from the package. Matt had to ease a fingernail through the remaining cardboard and use that gap to pull the strip from the back of the pack.
"You need a pair of scissors to get to the scissors," Harriet laughed.
"You might."
"You should write that sketch. Which Came First: The Scissors or the Packet?"
Matt laughed sarcastically but filed the title away for a physical sketch that one of the new cast members could work on. Harriet leaned up on her toes. Her hands held onto his forearms for balance as she aligned her eyes with his. "You should write it and pitch it to the new head writer."
He pushed his chin forward, his soft smile spreading, "I should pitch it to myself?"
She nodded, the button of her nose kissing along the long bridge of his. "Yes, and you should transcribe everything that happens and make a sketch out of that too."
He exhaled through his nose, amused, his gaze dropping down to the white teeth of her proud smile. "Only you would laugh at that."
"At least it'd get a laugh. Not like Ricky and Ron and that hideous superhero cartoon they keep pitching," she chuckled.
Matt's laugh was low and rumbling at the memory, his smiling mouth pushing forward a little to peck her lips at the start of his sentence, "Peripheral Vision Man sure is something else, isn't it?"
"It's certainly written by a hack," her lips puckered against his once, then twice. On the third pass, she pressed her lips harder to his and their smiles melted into a deeper kiss. His lips toyed with hers, his teeth nipping at her plump upper lip as she sucked on his lower one.
Matt pulled away from her before they got too carried away, "What did you need the scissors for?"
Harriet opened her bright blue eyes, a sleepy smile adorning her features. She made to twist her torso but Matt held her steady so Harriet instead dragged her hand from where it had travelled to his chest to tap against his left forearm twice.
"You were going to help cut the letters for the banner for Simon's birthday." Harriet's smile wasn't cheeky but just behind her teeth, he could see her tongue laving the roof of her mouth, something she only ever did when she was being playful.
He wrapped his arms tighter around her waist pulling her so close to his body that the momentum caused him to over-balance a little. Counteracting the movement for safety's sake, Matt turned them around pressed Harriet into the kitchen counter, depositing the stationary on the bench so that he could use both his hands to hold her, the palm of his left hand pressing against Harriet's spine and the attached fingers dipping into the back of her collar under her braid. He pressed his open mouth back to hers softly, not without promise but taking his time to get them there.
Their lips separated with a pop and a grin, Harriet's breath warm and sweet between them.
"What did you need the scissors for?" he repeated.
She laughed, touching her forehead to his, "Nothing. Let's do something else."
Matt lifted the scissors, grabbing an elastic band as well, and sliced diagonally across the top corner of the packet of frozen peas. He popped the lid of the chicken noodle soup and poured the vegetables into the liquid liberally, knowing Harriet wouldn't add the vegetables otherwise. He placed the cover back on the soup and twisted the band around the open pea packet. He put one in the refrigerator and the other in the freezer and moved back to where the water was just about to finish boiling.
Stretching his arm up to the cabinet above the stove, Matt collected a teacup and saucer as well as a bag of Earl Grey tea. He put the items on the kitchen bench but picked up the cup and saucer set and put it back, swapping it out for a black Studio 60 mug that would be easier for Harriet to hold and mean she drank more fluids. He also rifled behind the open box of tea bags, hoping to find a lemon tea, or anything with citrus really, but there were none. He did, however, find an open honey pot, one of those organic ones Harriet insisted on getting from the farmers market. He settled on steeping the Earl Grey in the mug and adding a teaspoon of honey.
Deciding Harriet would be more likely to drink more if the liquid had cooled a little, Matt untwisted the tie on the loaf of bread and popped two slices in the toaster. He made sure the machine was set to its lowest setting and put the rest of the loaf in the pantry.
It didn't take long for the bread to toast and Matt tossed the hot slices onto a plate, buttering one and leaving the other plain. He balanced the buttered slice on top of the plain one to make room for the mug of tea and carried the plate to Harriet's bedroom.
"I've got tea and I've got toast," he announced as he entered the room, lifting the plate from against his ribs to align with his chin.
Harriet groaned. She hadn't moved from her perch in the middle of the bed except to hunker down into the blankets.
Matt crossed the room and put the plate on the nightstand by the window, his nightstand, but he tried not to think about that. "You want to sit up for me?"
With a childlike disdain and a slow blink of her eyes, Harriet worked her lips. Matt knew her well enough to recognise it as the expression she made when she was tipsy and about to agree with him.
"Ho-okay," he sounded, stretching his arms out and moving to the side of the bed. He held out his right hand for her to grip. She didn't.
Instead, Harriet placed the cold fingers of her left hand on the inside of his wrist and her right hand higher up on his forearm near his elbow for leverage. It felt to Matt like she was relying heavily on his assistance and couldn't do it herself so he touched his left hand to her upper back, gripping her below her left shoulder blade, his fingers just under her armpit, his forearm braced against her back, and helped her to sit up straight.
She released her grip in his arm like maple syrup being poured on top of pancakes, slow and sweetly, sliding reluctantly down the side of his arm until gravity caused her hands to drop into her lap where she fiddled with the sheets.
Matthew lowered his head so he could meet Harriet's bloodshot eyes. She looked so exhausted and young, the blue of her eyes bright but glazed. "Jeez, Harry. I've never seen you this sick."
When they finally came, her words were slow and careful and paired with a roll of her eyes, "It's just a cold, Matt."
He hummed, disbelieving, and sat down on the bed beside her, facing her, his hand still on her back as his palm pressed against the ball of her right shoulder. Harriet wore a sleepy smile when she met his eyes but the red dusting on her cheeks wasn't from his bare skin on hers. Matt matched her smile and rubbed his thumb against her hot skin, hoping to ease some of her pain or at least to distract her from it.
She blinked at him, the corners of her eyes wrinkling with her smile. Matt tilted his head sympathetically and she mirrored him, "You don't look so good."
She coughed. "Thanks."
Matt grinned at the side of her head as her lungs fought to empty her lungs of phlegm. For such a religious woman she was a feisty one. But she looked so vulnerable, tears in her eyes from the strain when she met his eyes again.
There was a strand of blonde hair caught in the crust of her eye from the momentum of her movement that mesmerised him. It had been so long since he has seen her all messy and tired and smiling at him like that.
His fingers danced along her collar, skipped up to her jaw. The four fingers from his pointer to his little one touched the shell of her ear after he moved her hair out of her eyes. Without thinking, Matt let his thumb touch her skin and remove the sleep from her eye.
He moved his thumb along the line of her cheekbone and tried desperately not to remember the way her chapped lips tasted that winter they'd spent snowed in for a week straight in Aspen. They'd lived on homemade bread and pumpkin soup and the friction of their bodies. And laughed for hours on end at the way his skin had burnt around his goggles from only half an hour on the slopes the day before. She'd only had her chalky zinc cream and not her usual lemon berry balm and she hated wearing it but it had moisturised her broken skin like she wanted it to.
Then, of course, there was the waxy flavour of her red carpet lipsticks. Regardless of the colour, they'd always had the same taste, shiny and artificial against her minty breath, and he'd only ever been able to kiss her properly at the end of the night or sneak pecks when they were sure the press wasn't around to catch them. He liked the way the red would smudge when they got carried away. She'd look completely dishevelled, a faraway look in her eyes, and it was all because of him.
Matt could practically feel the tip of her tongue as it probed at his top lip, slipping past and running along his teeth.
With a jolt, Matthew realised it was his own tongue he was feeling on his lip and that he was touching Harriet. The two realisations came simultaneously as he watched her long eyelashes touch her cheeks and felt her lean into his palm. It had been so long since he'd held her like this. Too long. His chest felt warm and his shoulders were relaxed. His fingers drifted along her hairline to rest in the divot at the nape of her neck, his hand cupping her face and the pad of his thumb just kissing the dimple beside her lips.
He drew his hand away from her as though he was trying not to spook her, trying not to draw her attention to the fact he was touching her the way he used to when they would come home from a romantic dinner or when she'd gotten him the baseball he'd caught signed by the player who hit it.
He reached over to the bedside table with a little grunt. "So, we have buttered and un-buttered."
"Thank you," she kept her eyes on the plate he lay in her lap and lifted the teabag from the mug, placing it beside the toast.
"You have to eat one of them," he chuckled when she lifted the mug to her lips.
Harriet looked at him, scathing, and sipped.
"Y'know," he slapped his hands against his thighs and stood, perching himself on the chair under the window whose upholstery was a faded version of the bedspread, or close enough. It was better with a little more space between them. "I'm not leaving until I know you're okay."
"Guilt eating at you?" she scrunched her nose at him and put the mug back on the plate.
Matt sent her a questioning look.
"Spit-take theatre."
He nodded, "Ah."
He settled into his seat and realised he had left the novels on the kitchen counter and the bookshelf was on the other side of the apartment. Briefly, he wondered if she hand found his copy of The Princess Bride in the bottom drawer of the end table and thrown it out like she said she had done with all his things. If she hadn't, rereading his favourite book would give him something to do other than stare at the walls.
"You know, I can't actually get my fingers in those scissors of yours comfortably," he said.
Harriet blinked slowly at him, a tender smile touching her lips. That was the good thing about knowing each other so well, she knew he couldn't deal with the silence for too long and she understood his silly comments. More often than not, she initiated them. And sometimes, if he was lucky, or had written the lines just so, she would laugh in that lilting way she did, where it bubbled up from inside her chest and she tried to bite it down before she looked directly at him as the laughter exploded out of her.
Harriet didn't do that now but her restrained smile was almost as good.
"You just gonna sit there and," she sniffed deeply. "Sit there and . . . " A cough interrupted her that time.
"Watch you butcher that line."
Harriet rolled her eyes and sipped at the tea. "You couldn't do what I do."
He laughed, "I wouldn't want to. I get to write my own lines."
"But nobody listens."
Matt quirked his lips. "You're mean when you're sick."
"You're annoying when I'm sick."
"I'm always annoying," Matt corrected, realising too late the trap she had laid.
Her hacking laugh made a disturbing sound and Matt rushed to the bedside. "Do you want a glass of water or some vapour rub? I could run you a hot bath, the steam might help your sinuses clear."
"I don't think I could hold my head up on my own."
Matthew grinned, his eyebrows raised.
"Don't even think about it."
Too late.
Matt turned around to retake his seat. There was something so simple and intimate about knowing exactly how Harriet liked her bath to be run. Something so intimate about knowing to turn on both hot and cold faucets so that the water would be one part cold, three parts hot. And that was all he had to know in the beginning when it was all him sitting in the bath with her and the almost implicit understanding their nakedness would lead to sex.
But somewhere along the way she'd shown him which bombs and oils to add to help her relax. Which scents and salts he could massage into her skin from his spot behind her so that knot in her shoulder would ease.
And then he'd been fired by Jack and Wes and he'd taken to zesting a lemon or crushing the heads of her lavender plant in the water so she could slip into it in the early morning hours after a show. He loved experimenting like that. Hated the noxious smells he sometimes created, sure, but seeing her surprised smile as he took her hand and helped her out of her jacket and the way she'd tell him all about her day as he sat on the edge of the rub? Matt lived for that.
Sometimes, Harriet even let him wrap her in a towel and a hug and she looked so vulnerable and small he wanted to protect her from the world and hold her until she forgot all about Ricky and Ron and the horrible material they were writing for the news.
And then there were the times he would fill the bathroom with lit candles and sprinkle rose petals around the clawed feet of the tub and they'd clink wine glasses from opposite ends of the bath, here's to another year together.
"Matt," her voice called him out of his reverie. She sighed, gritting her teeth for a beat. "Can you help me?"
Matt leapt out of the chair and raced to her side of the bed, goose-stepping over her discarded tissues. He held out his hands for her and when he couldn't quite pull her up he slipped his arm around her and lifted her to his side. She left her plate on the sheets, the mug laying on it. Matt made a couple of noises as they waddled together to the en suite, nothing in particular but words to fill the empty space between them, "Alright. Here we go."
He cleaned up a little as he waited for Harriet to need him again.
If that thought wasn't analogous of his life then Matt wasn't sure what was and smiled bitterly because of it.
He thrust her used tissues into the bottom of the wastebasket under the desk in the corner and pushed the tissue box so it sat properly on the bedside table, knocking over a picture frame in the process. It was silver and heavy as he righted it.
The dense mineral was sculpted in swirls of grapevines and Danny had laughed at how ugly it was when he had gifted them with it as a souvenir from his second honeymoon. This was, of course, back when they had been a them and had expected to grow senile and arthritic together. The silver was polished and shiny but scratched along the side edge where it had fallen to the floor a couple of times, it had probably been helped to the floor more than a couple of times too if he was being honest. What surprised him was that the top and bottom of the portrait frame was engraved. He didn't remember it being engraved. And definitely not with Sting lyrics.
He was still the picture in the frame, but Matt presumed you couldn't really change the person in the picture if the frame was engraved with something specific to them. The picture hadn't changed in the years it had been sitting preserved behind the glass. His shock of brown hair could be blamed on the baseball cap hanging from his hand, his grey T-shirt tight on his torso. Had he really worn clothes so slicked to his skin? Where did those muscles go? Surely he hadn't been that chiselled eight years ago. And yet there he stood, immortalised as the boy leaning towards Harriet Hayes, who was holding up a script page to the camera, Therapy with Neve Campbell. His first sketch, her second. They were smiling defiantly at Danny holding the camera, nothing in the world deflating the elation they were feeling about getting on the air.
Matt angled the frame toward the bed, not sure if it had been that way or more towards the rest of the room. He heard the bathroom door open and flinched away from the picture.
Matt clapped his hands, "Okay. Do you want to move out into the living room or do you want to stay in here? Do you want to stay in bed?"
"It's just a headache," Harriet leant bodily against the en suite doorframe. Her pyjama bottoms were short and flimsy and mint green with candy-pink stripes so faded he only knew they were there because he'd been there when she'd bought them. Her shirt was tight and grey but Matt didn't recognise it, very likely because it was inside out. "Which could be because of you."
"Bed or couch?"
"Buy me dinner first," she gasped, scandalised, a fit of coughing decreasing the sardonic lilt to her voice.
"TV," she whined when she was done.
Matt chuckled lowly, scooping her to his side again and helping her toward the door. Harriet hated watching TV, except for the news. Evidently whatever she was feeling was more than just a headache. Especially if she wanted the mindless entertainment of the midday movie and reality reruns instead of a good book.
It took everything in him not to scoop her into his arms and instead be patient as they shuffled to the yellow leather lounge in the living room but they made it eventually. Harriet tucked herself in the corner between the back and the arm of the lounge seat, her legs outstretched before her but tucked them under her when gooseflesh prickled her primrose skin.
Matt covered her with a fuzzy periwinkle throw and tucked it around her shoulders. She smiled softly at him in thanks and cocooned herself in the warmth.
Wordlessly, Matt practically skipped back to the kitchen, and grabbed what he needed and returned, laying everything out on the coffee table. "Okay, so here is some water, some chocolate, some things to read. Do you need anything else?"
Silence.
And then, "Stay."
He didn't ask if she was sure, didn't want her second-guessing anything. Gingerly, he sat on the opposite end of the lounge and flicked on the television, setting the volume on low.
"What really happened with Ricky and Ron?" Harriet asked softly, her head lolling sideways against the back of the couch.
Matt nodded, he was fairly certain no-one believed Danny about Peripheral Vision Man being picked up for a season.
"And why did everybody go with them?"
"Pay rise." He waited until she finished coughing before he continued. "And they've known each other for years. Why wouldn't they go with them? Even if the content is terrible."
"They've known you just as long."
"Technically," Matt admitted bitterly. "They've worked together for years, then."
"Matthew."
"It's fine," he flicked his hand in the air to accentuate the point. He knew she wouldn't believe him that he hadn't taken everyone quitting personally. He worried he wasn't doing a good job running the show, being everyone's boss and he wanted her to curl around him and promise it was fine. "Don't worry about it."
"Write your own lines," she laughed, her voice cracking painfully around the sound. "That's Danny's."
Matt rolled his eyes at his ex-girlfriend. She was mouthy when she had a headache. Harriet was resting her temple against the back of the lounge, ducked into the blanket, her face almost completely hidden except for those watery blue eyes that peaked at him over the fabric.
They lay in bed together, her toes brushing his calf, his hand on her spine, pulling her body to him.
The fingertips of her left hand pressed against his chest, her right hand snaking in the space between his neck and his sheets and resting against his pulse. His own hands were stagnant against her skin but his right knee was working against her inner thigh, moving their bodies closer.
"Look at you," she whispered, her fingertips massaging little circles into his skin. She pressed forward and kissed his nose, "Head Writer."
His nose ran along the bridge of hers and he pressed his lips to her cheekbone. "Not yet."
"Yes yet." Her hand slid along the hairline at the nape of his neck where she tangled her fingers and pulled lightly. "You've been Head Writer for years."
He sighed. His hand slipped onto the curve of her hip while the one she was resting her head against came around her shoulders even further and he rolled himself over her. "It's not official until the start of the season."
"It's not like anything's going to change between now and then," she giggled, kissing him.
He sucked on her pouty bottom lip and tried not to be distracted by the heady look she was gifting him. Her hooded eyes were looking up at him, bright and proud. Matt had always wondered what she saw when she looked at him, if he was showing all the adoration he was feeling that would make his words redundant. She sure didn't need to tell him anything.
Matt couldn't tell what she was thinking now. He got vaguely accurate impressions of annoyance and fondness every so often at work and as she blinked at him tiredly from the other end of the couch he could tell she was exhausted. Three months ago she'd been an open book even when she had her eyes closed. This most recent break up of theirs, it wasn't any different from the others, not really. But there was definitely something worrisome about how long it was taking them to come back to each other. Worse with him running the show, and the wall that was him wanting to do justice to the job he'd always wanted between them, Matt couldn't be sure they ever would.
"How's your headache?"
"Don't . . . talk," she wheezed, her eyes squeezed shut.
Matt reached over and grabbed the glass of water, handing it to her. Well, he held it in front of her face until Harriet opened her eyes again, slipped her arm out from under the blanket, shaking it twice to actually move the blanket down her arm a little, and then took the glass from him and held it to her lips.
Harrit sipped like a swan. Matt always imagined her delicate and petite, but she wasn't and she didn't behave like it when they were alone. Harriet could be aggressive and hostile and territorial. She was that way about the water in the glass, taking big gulp-fulls, her teeth humorously distorted by the water and the glass.
"Better?"
Harriet laughed, "You always were a good listener."
She shuffled around, planting her feet on the cushion so that her bent knees were between them and Matt couldn't see her face.
"And that's my cue," Matt purses his lips. "Just make sure you rest, yeah?"
He stood to leave when her quiet voice stopped him "I thought Jordan asked you to look after me, read to me and massage my feet. It is your fault I'm sick."
Matthew barked out a laugh at that, sitting back into the seat and leaning an arm up over the back. "Massage your feet, huh?"
"Mmmhmm. And read to me."
Matt bit back his smile, "I do have a show to write."
Even as he said it, he was pulling her feet into his lap and adjusting himself to sit more comfortably.
"You need a break," she replied slowly, swallowing her words with little sighs and swallows as his thumbs pressed into the arches of her feet.
"We've had this fight before," he pulled a face at her, a smirk. They'd had every argument before. Little ones about where to put the plates and who should tell Simon they saw his girlfriend with someone else, what colour to upholster the couch and if daisies were the right flower to decorate the living room with.
"Go to sleep, Harriet." He rolled over, turning his back to her and covering his shoulders with the duvet. He was sick of fighting with her, fighting for her, against her. Sleep wasn't the answer, he was fairly certain they both knew what the solution was to end this fight, but he wasn't ready to face it yet, didn't want to admit it yet. But he wasn't sure if he could forgive this one. She knew how he felt about the 700 Club and she did it anyway.
He spent the day with her feet in his lap, reading passages of Dan Brown's novel just to make her blue eyes roll in exasperation. She called him Matthew twice, once amidst her laughter and another as she fell asleep and he tried not to allow it to squeeze his heart. He even fell into the trap of calling her Harry like he always did when they were being affectionate although he swore to himself when he left the house that morning that he wouldn't. Matt watched her sip at the soup he warmed and lifted her from the yellow lounge to tuck her into her side of the bed once she'd fallen asleep.
Once he'd brushed her hair back from her forehead and pulled the sheets up to her chin, Matt cleaned up the mess in the living room. He left the books on the coffee table, she could return them on Monday if she wanted to or she could put them on the shelf, but he picked up the dishes.
As he moved toward the kitchen with the mostly full glass and the empty bowl, he changed his mind. He vowed he would put it all away in a minute but there was something else he had to do before he left.
Instead of to the kitchen, Matt headed out the front door and poured the water into the pot of the dead lavender.
It wouldn't rejuvenate the plant overnight but it was a start.
Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed this. The next little bit is an Author's Note that you do not have to read.
So, this is me dipping my toe back into writing after a long, long, long hiatus. There wasn't anything that particularly inspired me, simply through sheer force of will and procrastination from other things (why I am most productive when the deadline is close and the project has nothing to do with it, I will never know). There were probably a couple of fandoms I could have written something for, but this being a small fandom yes there's more pressure to do the characters justice, but there are fewer works and authors to compare myself to. I don't expect anybody to read this story, and even less this Author's Note, but there it is if you feel like some Matt and Harriet from the episode B-12.
And Studio 60 just has that thing. It is perfect and relatable and relevant and beautiful and heartbreaking and cancelled too soon. And Matthew Perry is so soft and heartbreaking and his friendship with Bradley Whitford is a joy to watch. And if you haven't watched Aaron Sorkin's Studio 60, do it. You can find it on youtube and online from stores but not on streaming services, unfortunately.