I do not own The Greatest Showman.

My seven year old is obsessed with it. Seriously, he scream-sings the songs on the swings at the playground. It's adorable.

Rewrite The Stars

The Boss

"W.D."

"Mr. Carlyle."

Phillip tries a winning smile.

"Phillip."

The big man in the lavender vest and harem pants, does not respond or return the proffered expression.

And so the man who loves Anne presses on.

"I wanted to talk to you. About Anne. And me."

The glower directed at him intensifies.

It is very intimidating.

"I, uh, I . . ."

Phillip clears his throat.

He doesn't mean to sound nervous.

He shouldn't be nervous.

He and W.D. have been working around each other for months.

They fought beside one another, the night the Circus burned.

Well, fairly, W.D. fought the disruptors.

Phillip got himself worked over.

Fighting had not been a part of his father's approved education for him.

Fencing, yes.

Bareknuckled boxing, no.

He had been in scuffles in his younger years.

Classmates, bullies.

Never an all-out brawl with people who wished to do him serious, lasting, perhaps fatal, harm.

So W.D. fought.

Phillip tried to fight.

The point is they're part of the same organization, the same troupe.

According to Letti, who had fought better than Phillip, they're all family now.

So it should be fine.

But . . .

". . . uh . . ."

. . . it is also . . .

". . . I . . ."

. . . the man's sister.

His only sister.

Their parents, long lost, some tragedy in Southern parts that had sent brother and sister stumbling North in search of a better life.

So it's just the two of them.

And tradition, at least upper crust tradition, dictates that if there is no father, the closest male relative is the person to be spoken with when there's a development in a relationship so to speak.

Uncle, grandfather.

Brother.

And though this being the circus, an environment unique and apart to 'civilized' society, Phillip Carlyle does not relish taking advantage of that.

And so here he is.

With damp, clammy, shaky hands.

And a ready, engaging smile on affixed to his . . .

"I care about Anne. I love her."

. . . prepared face.

No response.

"I want you to know I respect her. And I plan on taking good care of her."

No response.

"And I hope, uh, I hope you and I can continue on good terms."

And he tries to think of anything else to say that will progress the situation.

He can't.

So he's reduced to holding the formidable man's gaze, hoping for a reprieve, an acceptance.

A miracle.

Something.

There isn't one.

He's beginning to consider the best course of action.

A conclusive, amicable nod, perhaps. Parting smile.

Completed by slowly turning away and going about his business.

Figuring he's done what he can, that things will be what they will be.

And then . . . it happens.

The man, who's spent the entire interaction with his large arms folded across his chest, does not crack his fierce exterior.

Dark countenance could be made of stone.

But a hand moves.

Slowly, it moves.

Stretches, toward Phillip.

Palm out, to the side.

Offering.

A handshake.

He does not hesitate to acquiesce, wrap his fingers around the muscular hand.

Feel the strength, the power.

He gives a man's handshake, as he has always done.

Feels a man's handshake returned.

Strong.

Perhaps a touch too strong.

Perhaps a touch more.

But he doesn't flinch, he doesn't pull away.

He keeps eye contact, hand contact, holds his ground.

And then Anne Wheeler's big older brother pulls his hand an inch or two closer.

"Anne is the most important person in the world to me. I love my little sister. I won't have anybody hurt her."

Speaks in a low rumble only the two men can hear.

"So if she's has to be with someone, I'm glad that someone is you."

And then . . .

"Boss."

. . . he smiles.

Phillip blinks, huffs out a relieved smile, he'd really rather there not be an ungodly amount tension between him and the brother of the woman loves.

The big man pulls him in to a loose embrace then, claps him 'round the shoulder and releases him.

Then he laughs, and Phillip finds himself chuckling along, slightly lost to the reason of the humor.

And W.D. Wheeler speaks again, words tinged with good nature.

"Good thing you're the boss, Boss. You're way too keyed up for the trapeze."

And then . . .

"Oh . . . yeah. Right."

. . . it really is . . .

"W.D."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"Yeah."

. . . okay.

"So, I heard you talked to my brother today. About us."

"Oh. Did he say something?"

"No."

"So . . .?"

"It's the circus, Phillip. Word gets around."

"Oh."

"But I heard you did alright."

"Oh. I did?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's . . . good."

"Yeah. It is. Come here."

So the title is the joke. Phillip's supposed to be a station above, the Boss, since he's junior partner at this time to P.T. and has been partially running the thing (so before the closing scene).

And W.D. calls him 'boss' (but please, not in that old Southern way, ugh) in my mind, in a teasing way.

'Cause (to accidently use the old tv show title) who's the 'real' boss here at this moment?

And W.D. isn't that big a dude, about P.T.'s height and build.

But in this situation I think from Phillip's perspective, he seems towering.

Anyway, that's my unrequested clarification here.

Hope you enjoyed!

Thanks blanparbe and Seth A. Mincberg for your fantastic reviews!

Blanparbe, yes, I've got a few more chapters, not really sure how many right now. But i'm glad you're interested.

I really appreciate that. :D