Chapter Text
When Ed arrived at LAX, Fang, angel that he was, had a car waiting for him. Given that he'd gone back in time three hours during the course of his flight, the sun was just beginning to set as he helped the driver load his luggage into the trunk, slid into the backseat of the car, and pulled his sunglasses off, grateful that no one had seemed to notice or recognize him on the way from the plane to the car. He looked like shit and he knew it. He knew it, because, tucked away in first class, he'd spent about the first half of the flight drinking entirely too much for cruising altitude and the second half of it in the quietest tears he could manage. (It was a small mercy that wearing sunglasses on a flight from New York City to Los Angeles wasn't entirely unusual, because he was pretty sure the air hostess had only thought he was sick, which felt a lot less embarrassing than the truth.)
Maybe he was sick— mentally, at least. Sort of had to be, didn't he? Normal people surely didn't hop on last-minute flights across the country because they were, what, scared of rejection or abandonment, right? But hey, he'd flown further for fairly similar reasons— made far less sound decisions— and that had all worked out alright, hadn't it? Whether he was a fucking basket case or not, that had to count for something.
[Image description: A digital drawing in sepia tones of Ed in the back of a car, gazing pensively out the window, eyes glossy. His hair is half-up and he wears a western shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show a peek of chest hair and his hawk tattoo. Outside the window are fuzzy lights in the sunset as they drive down the freeway.]
It still looked like summer in Los Angeles as they drove down the 405, still loaded with rush hour traffic, an endless string of taillights northbound and headlights going south. The last bit of sunlight was clinging to the tops of the hills, hazy and orange and fading fast, and, for the first time in weeks, Ed was too warm in his jacket— had to wrestle it off and fold it in his lap so as not to add sweatiness to the long list of uncomfortable sensations he'd been wrestling with all day.
A part of him felt grateful to be back, honestly. He'd missed it— hadn't been away for so long in years— and he figured that, if nothing else, getting back into his old routines might soothe his nerves, even him out, keep him distracted. Not that he had any active projects at the moment, although he had asked Fang to get in touch with the guy who'd pitched the script he'd read and was more than ready to hit the ground running on that as soon as he could. And he'd have to go back to New York, of course, for tech week and previews, and Anne and Mary were probably gonna give him absolute hell once they'd realized he'd left (he assumed he probably owed them a call, at the very least, not that he was excited about it), but that was weeks away, so he'd have to find ways to fill his time until then.
One way immediately came to mind, much to his own chagrin, and he made a mental note to unplug the phones in the house for a few days as soon as he'd called Annie.
When he arrived at the house— big and beautiful and modern and surrounded by trees and carefully-maintained shrubs, grasses, and succulents— he had to admit that he'd missed the space. He wanted to sprawl out and cry, quite frankly, and the property offered plenty of opportunities for it, and the view from the living room was nothing to scoff at— just treetops and hills and the sparkling lights of the city as far as the eye could see, nothing particularly close by, no bars within walking distance, hardly even any fucking neighbors…
If he was being very honest with himself, it made him feel a bit lonely.
Still, though, the house was cleaner and neater than he'd left it, and he was grateful for it. There was food in the fridge and alcohol on the bar cart, and, perhaps unsurprisingly, the cigarette dispenser on the coffee table had been filled and every ashtray in the house had been emptied, and he was positive he hadn't done that before leaving. He made a mental note to make sure the cleaning women got an extra tip for doing such an excellent job on such short notice.
After a glass of water and perhaps the saddest sandwich known to man (albeit with nice, fresh bread and some good meat and cheese, no doubt from Gelson's), Ed dragged himself into the shower and then to bed, suitcases discarded by the bedroom door as if to remind him of what he'd done. He could unpack it all later.
-----
Coming home just in time for the weekend had been, Ed had to admit, a bit of a miscalculation. Not that he couldn't work on a weekend, but no one else did, and he had very little to do in the office at the moment that didn't involve other people, including Fang, so there didn't seem to be much point. If he was going to mope (and he was), he could do it just as well at home as he could at the office, and he wouldn't even have to drive anywhere.
He wished, possibly for the first time in his life, that he'd been more of a robe guy in his regular life. He couldn't help but think that if he'd woken up in New York, it would probably have been in Stede's bed, and he'd have been in one of those incredible velvet robes right about now. (He was still on east coast time, unfortunately, so he was currently up before the sun and faced with the daunting task of trying to decide what to wear around the house, and a robe sounded far easier than trying to make a decision about whether to give in to sweats or put on real clothes.)
After settling on a pair of well-worn old sweat pants and a nice, cable knit sweater he'd bought the last time he'd been in Ireland— the best of both worlds, sort of— he got a moka pot going and considered his game plan. He had to call Anne— that much was certain, at least to let her know he was alive and well (debatable, actually) and would be back in time for final rehearsals. He probably needed to consider a therapist, although he sort of knew he wouldn't. And at some point, he knew, he should probably get out— hike up to Griffith Observatory or go to Runyon Canyon or something, even just go for a walk around the neighborhood. In the neighborhood, at least, he figured he probably wouldn't be bothered; all of his neighbors were rich, famous, or a combination of the two, and he knew most of them, so he figured he could probably get away with little more than a few pleasantries. Because frankly, he looked like shit, and he felt even worse, so the last thing he wanted was to have to talk to anyone at length, and he was also in no mood to wind up in the tabloids for having a shitty attitude again, and that felt sort of inevitable if he wasn't careful.
He missed Stede. He'd known he would, obviously— he'd sort of missed him long before he'd even left, honestly— but fuck, it was agonizing. What would Stede think of the house, he wondered? Of the view? Of Los Angeles? Would he have seen the modern architecture and decided that Ed had pretty bad taste, actually? Or would he have loved the big, wide windows and the lack of crown moulding? Found it practical, sleek, delightfully Scandinavian? Not that any of that was worth wondering about, of course, because Stede wasn't there, and he was probably worried at best and angry at worst, so that was that.
But it was hard not to think about what could have been, in a perfect world. Fuck, maybe even in this world, imperfect as it was, if Ed had known how to be more honest and less fucking terrified. Terrified of what, he couldn't really even be sure, because Stede had liked him; he'd said so, yeah, but he'd also shown it— repeatedly! But maybe that was the most terrifying part: that Stede had liked him, because it meant that he might eventually change his mind, and Ed would always have been waiting for that day to come, for the other shoe to drop.
He dragged himself out for a walk around the neighborhood once it had been light out for a bit and then retired to the patio, soaking in the California sun and reveling in the warmth. If nothing else, that felt good. Honestly, the day was mild enough that the sweater was sort of overkill, but he could manage. The sky was blue and fairly clear, and the birds were singing, and somewhere nearby, someone had a record on— bossa nova, he figured, although he wasn't necessarily an expert. This was the kind of life people dreamed of, and it was his, and wasn't he a lucky fucking bastard to be living like this?
He felt considerably less lucky when he called Anne, of course, because although he wouldn't own up to it, she knew he hadn't left because something important had come up in LA, and it was rather hard to argue with Anne when she knew (or even thought she knew) something. Still, though, she knew better than to think Ed would abandon a project, so after making him promise to show up on her doorstep with wine, flowers, and maybe a bit of weed at least a day before the first tech rehearsal, she let up (although he could tell she was disappointed in him).
He was disappointed in himself, really. He'd been so close to letting himself enjoy a good thing— had done a really good job of it, actually, for a few days. And so what if it had had to end? He could surely have handled that like a normal person, couldn't he? But he hadn't, and he felt wholly unequipped to call Stede and apologize, and even if he did, then what? It wouldn't change the fact that Stede's life was very firmly rooted in New York and his wasn't, or the fact that Stede was ten times better of a man than he was used to and probably damn near ten times more of a man than he deserved.
And Ed deserved most of what he had, he knew— he wasn't an idiot. He'd worked hard— harder than half the people in town— to get to where he was. He'd earned his money, and his fame, and all the shit that came with them, and, okay, yeah, he'd earned the bit of bad reputation he'd had for a bit. He'd never done anything to deserve someone like Stede, though— didn't know the first thing about a good, healthy relationship, or an equal partnership, or anything particularly long-term. His parents had never had that, and he'd maybe come close once or twice, but he couldn't say he really knew much about stability or communication or commitment, at least when it came to people. Not even when it came to work, sometimes; the business was anything but predictable, at the end of the day, and contracts weren't always as airtight as they seemed, no matter how many legal teams had been over them.
He forced himself out of the house shortly before the sun went down, sometime in the late afternoon, and made his way to Bob's Big Boy, figuring a milkshake might do at least a little something for his mood. He hardly had the appetite for it— not that he'd eaten much else— but it was tasty, and it paired well enough with a cup of coffee and half a pack of cigarettes. It had been sort of nice to drive, too, after so many weeks without a car— to be completely in control of where he went and when, to be in his own little bubble while in transit, to be able to cry freely or talk to himself or just roll the windows down and let the breeze tangle his hair.
He licked some whipped cream from his straw and checked his watch as the diner began to bustle around him with the early dinner rush, a charming mix of elderly folks, families, and people trying to line their stomachs for a long night out. He wondered if Stede had gone to Julius'. He wondered if he had waited for him.
-----
Ed arrived at his office on Monday morning far earlier than he usually would have, given that he was still adjusting to pacific time. His eyes felt tired (because they were; he hadn't slept well), and he was fairly certain he looked like shit, even in one of his nicest suits and with his hair pulled back more neatly than he'd bothered with in ages, but Fang's smile upon seeing him was instant and huge and felt like a warm hug, which it was promptly followed up by.
"It's good to have you back, boss," Fang said, comfortingly sincere, and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Shall I brew up a pot of coffee?"
"Cheers, mate," Ed replied, as if he hadn't had two cups before leaving the house, and dragged himself through the reception area to his own office.
Everything was just as he'd left it several weeks ago, but perhaps a little neater, like Fang had gotten bored and done some dusting and tidying— just enough that he wouldn't disrupt the little bit of organized chaos that Ed had accustomed himself to. He flopped down in his desk chair with a heavy sigh and grabbed a cigarette, lighting it and taking a drag before he sorted through the mail and assorted documents Fang had left for him, the words on the pages just sliding over his brain like it was coated in oil.
"Here you are," Fang said cheerfully as he placed a mug of coffee on the desk, already perfectly doctored up just the way he liked it. Only Fang and Stede knew how to get his coffee and tea just right; Jack had come close, but he'd never had the attention to detail required to nail it, let alone be consistent about it. "I drafted up some development paperwork for that screenplay," he noted, referring to a small stack of papers on the desk. "Figured you might wanna make some adjustments based on your reading before I send it off to the lawyer for a look."
Ed was in no mood to crunch numbers, which was sort of a shame, considering it was a huge part of his job.
"Thanks, man," he replied, trying to muster up a little enthusiasm. It was a good screenplay, and he was at least moderately excited about trying to see what he could do with it. "I'll work on it today, go through my rolodex and think about who might bite."
Fang nodded, and his face led Ed to believe a question was coming— one that wasn't entirely work-related. He seemed hesitant, though, and Ed was in no hurry to encourage him, so he just sipped his coffee, pretending to be engrossed in the last month's financials.
"Hey, boss?"
Ed tried not to sigh too loudly.
"Mmhmm?"
"What brought you back so suddenly?" Fang asked. It didn't sound judgmental at all— just curious. There was no doubt in Ed's mind that he'd been wondering ever since he'd called, probably coming up with all kinds of possible scenarios, many of which probably made more sense than the truth. "I mean, I expected you back soon, but, y'know, I figured it'd be more… premeditated."
"Enjoying your alone time, were you?" Ed joked, hoping it might end the conversation and knowing it wouldn't. "Sorry to have cut it short."
Fang chuckled good-naturedly, waving him off. "Eh, it was too quiet without you," he replied, which was sweet of him to say. "I just wanna make sure everything's alright, yeah? I know you don't always wanna talk about things, but I'm here if you need to. I know you're my boss and all, but I do like to think we're friends."
Ed, having felt awfully tender for the last couple of days, felt like he could cry. He took a long drag of his cigarette, trying not to.
"Yeah, mate, we are," he agreed, coughing a little (probably more on emotion than smoke, but he hoped it wasn't terribly obvious). "Everything's alright. Just… got kinda ahead of myself for a bit and needed to come home and regroup," he said, figuring Fang could probably read between the lines just enough to let it lie. "I'm good, though— promise."
Fang looked a little unconvinced, but he nodded, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets.
"If you say so," he replied, then turned to make his way back to the reception area.
Ed returned his attention to his stack of papers, words sliding off of his brain even while the caffeine and nicotine started kicking in. It felt very much like a fucking Monday.
-----
Ed managed all of two full days in the office before deciding he needed a break. What he needed a break from, he couldn't really say, considering he hadn't even gotten up to much yet, but he had already had a couple calls with agents and a meeting with his lawyer regarding the screenplay, so he supposed he'd done enough to earn an afternoon at the Polo Lounge, where he could day-drink and pretend it was for networking purposes. It was, he supposed— or could be— but he had no real intention of shopping his ideas around yet, especially not without any rights secured. (He also just didn't really want to talk to anyone, but drinking at home seemed a little sadder than he was willing to let himself be.)
The place was no busier than he'd ever seen it on a weekday afternoon, but certainly busy enough that he could fade into the background a bit— just hang out at the bar and listen in on other people's conversations, as he'd always been wont to do when he was out and about on his own. He exchanged a few pleasantries on his way in and to the bar, found a seat, and ordered a whiskey sour, sliding some cash across the bar and a cigarette out of his breast pocket while he waited for his drink.
"Well, shit. Long time, no see, Eddie."
Ed was barely surprised at his natural inclination to shudder a little. He nodded his thanks at the bartender and grabbed his glass, sipping his drink and letting the sweet and sour sensations redirect his attention as Jack slid into the seat beside him, smelling of entirely too much musk and probably more marijuana than was really wise.
"Jack. What brings you to Beverly Hills today?" he asked, taking a quick glance over at him. His mustache was a slightly different shape than it had been the last time he'd seen him, and he was, unfortunately, still hot, although, of course, there'd been no real reason why he wouldn't be, except if maybe Ed had gained a bit more sense or taste. Clearly, he hadn't done either.
"Had a meeting," Jack replied before ordering a beer and opening a tab, which led Ed to believe that he wouldn't be getting much time alone for the afternoon. "I start work on a new show on Monday— first on the call sheet. Cop thing."
Ed nodded, tapping some ash from his cigarette. "I heard about that. Congrats," he said, and he mostly meant it; Jack was good at what he did, when he wanted to be, and even though Ed sincerely doubted he was well-suited to television, he figured a starring role would at least be good for his ego and keep him going for a while. "Just a pilot, or did it get a series order?"
Jack shrugged one shoulder and grabbed his beer, taking a swig. "Put pilot," he answered. "Reckon we'll get picked up, no problem. Thought you'd still be in New York. Get sick of Broadway already?"
Ed took a long drag, absently stroking at the condensation on his glass with his other hand. "Just back for a few weeks to take care of some stuff," he said, which was far more true than false and definitely all Jack needed to know about anything. "I'll be headed back in time for final rehearsals."
Jack acknowledged him with a little mm as he sipped his beer, then smoothed his mustache a bit. Now that Ed really looked at him, it was clear that he'd dressed for business; only one button on his shirt was undone, and the fact that the shirt even had buttons suggested that he hadn't been going for casual. He didn't want to look and give Jack the wrong idea, but Ed figured that if he took a glance at Jack's legs, he'd have found polyester instead of denim, which only ever happened for meetings, nightclubs, parties, and red carpets.
"You're in town for a while, then?" Jack asked, having clearly gotten the idea anyway.
"A bit," he confirmed, halfway wondering whether Jack might be about to suggest a quick blowjob in the fucking Beverly Hills Hotel bathrooms.
Jack nodded and finished his beer, signaling to the bartender to fetch another one. "You need another drink?" he asked, despite the fact that Ed's was clearly still more than half full.
Ed did consider it, then shook his head, figuring it probably wasn't a good idea to give Jack an inch if he wasn't about to let him take a mile.
"Nah, I'm just gonna have the one and then take off," he said, figuring a change of plan might be wise. Lunch at Canter's didn't sound like a bad idea, actually; it was a Wednesday, which was his usual Canter's day, and he figured he could probably use a solid meal, considering his appetite had been pretty abysmal since he'd gotten back.
Jack didn't quite take the hint, but he didn't press— just started going on about his most recent drunken escapades. Ed still had half a drink, though, so he listened as actively as he could manage, trying hard not to think about the company he could have had over a drink. Even with Jack's loud voice and even louder cologne, it was easier said than done.