Chapter Text
Edward Teach was tired— fucking exhausted, actually— and he wondered, as he stood in front of the window lining two sides of his office and watched a hummingbird drink from a spray of bougainvillea flowers hanging over it, whether that would ever change. Didn't seem that way, certainly, considering the never-ending slew of calls and letters and fucking packets of shit that came his way every day; the projects and proposals, the invitations to dinners and award shows and opportunities to schmooze and network and be seen, whether by the Hollywood elite or some other elite or just the small handful of queer men who mattered enough to stay along the fringes of whichever faction felt like throwing a fête. And then there was Jack, which was a whole other fucking can of worms, one which was probably still scattered all over his otherwise nice house in the hills, probably mid-day drunk and making no effort to revive his own career.
Not that Ed could necessarily blame him, really; he'd had a good thing going and the industry had worshiped him, chewed him up, and spit him out once they'd decided they liked a different flavor. In some ways, Ed sort of envied him. Jack, for all intents and purposes, was free. If he got sick of the stupid fucking handlebar mustache (alright, Ed sort of liked it on him), he was free to shave. If he was sick of playing cowboys, well, excellent— those roles were gone, anyway! He was free to try his hand at being a… a romantic hero, or a fucking rogue cop, or a high school teacher in a sitcom, or whatever the fuck he felt like. There were no expectations— just endless possibilities.
It wasn't like that for Ed. People had standards for him, and expectations galore. He'd been too good at his job, quite frankly, and he sort of regretted not having learned that lesson back in his teens, when he'd wound up managing a whole fucking diner before the age of twenty because no one else had seemed capable of keeping shit together. He'd had plenty of other chances to learn it, too, but his mother had impressed upon him from a young age that he had to work hard— harder than lots of other people— because the cards were stacked against him, and he'd always known she was right, of course, but… Maybe he could have tried a little less hard, at least once he'd made a small fortune, and just settled for mediocrity, like everyone around him had; it seemed peaceful.
There was a knock on the door— Fang's signature three quick taps— before it slowly opened to reveal his faithful assistant and friend of entirely too many years, also incapable of mediocrity but perhaps a bit more in touch with his sense of whimsy these days. "Ed?"
"Mm?" he replied, popping a cigarette between his lips and grabbing a matchbook from the corner of his desk to light it.
"Annie's on line one for you— wants to know if you've given the pitch anymore thought," Fang said, stepping into the office and politely declining a cigarette. (He always did, but he still had a habit of asking to bum one when they went out for a few drinks, so it felt wrong not to keep offering.) "I think she wants you real bad, boss; she made sure to mention that Hornigold's trying to scoop it up and she knows how you feel about that guy."
Frankly, Anne didn't know the half of it, but still, Ed knew she probably wasn't even lying; Ben Hornigold was always looking for something cool, something fresh, something edgy that might make him seem more relevant and maybe distract people from the fact that his entire early catalog had been composed of shitty sexploitation flicks.
Ed sighed and tapped some ash from his cigarette into the heavy glass tray on the desk— some abstract mid-century thing he'd been given as a gift a few years ago— before flopping into his chair with the kind of dramatic exasperation Jack absolutely hated on him. "I'll talk to her," he replied, propping his leather boots up on the desk and crossing them at the ankle. "I haven't worked in theater in fuckin' ages, though— don't even know if I remember how."
Fang waved him off with a good-natured scoff, leaning casually against the bookcase (which needed a good dusting, but maybe Ed just wanted things to focus on besides actual work). "Mate, you're one of the biggest names in the entire business; I think you'll be fine," he assured him, which, coming from anyone else in the office, might have felt like brown-nosing, but Fang had never been one to kiss his ass or coddle him, with very few exceptions that mostly had more to do with Ed's situational fragility than Fang's desire to, say, get a raise or climb some kind of career ladder. "Plus, you know Anne and Mary like few people do."
Ed snorted a little as he picked up the handset on his desk phone, tucking it between his shoulder and his ear. "Think that might be the problem," he joked as he took another drag, admiring the way the globes of Fang's cheeks caught the sunlight pouring through the windows when he grinned. "Thanks, man." Fang nodded and exited the office as Ed accepted the call, bracing himself for… well, for Anne. "Hey, Annie."
"Eddie, darling!" Anne exclaimed, voice dripping with affection in a way that made Ed feel certain he wasn't getting off the phone without giving her what she wanted. "I've missed your sexy voice, you beautiful bastard! How's LA? Is it gorgeous right now?"
Ed directed his gaze out the window and over the hills, where the sun was bright and cheery and the air was relatively clear, for the time being. "Pretty nice," he admitted. "Warm and sunny. How's New York?"
Anne huffed, and he could picture the look on her face, could imagine the way her curly red hair was artfully draped around it. (He figured her tits were jacked up halfway to her chin, too, but he'd always liked that about her— that she wasn't shy, wasn't afraid to look like a bombshell and constantly get to surprise people with her brains.) "Rainy lately," she answered. "Fucking bleak. But I suppose we were all getting sick of the heat, anyway, so I shouldn't complain about a break. These old buildings are gorgeous, but christ, Ed, the sweat! There were days where I had to keep a fucking hand towel between my tits, it was so miserable. We haven't got AC, you know?"
"Sounds rough," Ed said with a little grin, watching the smoke curl upward from his cigarette and make gauzy little shapes. "How's Mary?"
"A right bitch, as usual," Anne replied affectionately— enough so that Ed could tell they'd probably gone a few weeks without a big fight, which was promising. "We miss you, darling. Are you gonna come see us and take on our little show?"
She was really turning on the charm now, which would probably have been more effective on anyone but him, given that he was far too familiar with her tricks and her temper. "I dunno, Annie," he sighed, taking a final long drag of his cigarette and kicking his feet off the desk to lean over and put it out. "Don't you want— I mean, fuck, wouldn't a woman be a better fit?"
"And how many wealthy lesbian theater owners or producers do you think there are wandering around New York City, Edward?"
"I mean, gotta be more than zero," he replied, because, fuck, it had to be, right? "Plus, I said a woman; I didn't specify her sexuality."
"Eddie, darling, I need a queer," Anne sighed, and he could practically hear her eyes roll from the other side of the country. "I trust you more than I trust almost any other man on the planet, and you know how big that is. And besides, it's not as if I'm trying to use you, but with your name attached—"
"Yeah, yeah," Ed interrupted, fingers dancing over the pack of cigarettes on his desk for a second before he decided it'd be wise to give himself at least a few minutes, practice a little restraint. "Use me all you want, I guess; everyone else does."
Anne tutted softly on the other end of the line. "Still having trouble with Jack?"
Trouble sounded a lot easier than what he was having— a lot more cut-and-dry, at least.
"Something like that," he answered, glancing at his watch and wondering whether said boyfriend would be home, or even awake, when he got back to the house. "His last few auditions haven't gone well and he's been making it my problem. The cowboy shit's over, y'know?"
"Things must cross your desk now and then, no?" Anne suggested, glass clinking in the background like she was pouring or mixing a drink.
Ed huffed. "I mean, yeah, but I'm not gonna make a movie that's gonna tank just so my on-again, off-again boyfriend can have a job," he said, although it wasn't as if he hadn't helped him out before. He'd helped him plenty, though, and what had Jack ever done for him? Sure, he'd taken him on the odd trip, bought the occasional jewelry, and been a decent enough companion, but he'd also stressed him out, lied, cheated, stolen, broken his heart, made his relationship with his mother a hell of a lot more difficult… "The way we break up all the time, he's gotta figure out how to fend for himself one of these days."
Anne laughed like he'd made a delightful joke, but she had to know he was serious. "Oh, Eddie, you'll never get rid of that man for good. It's nice to dream, though, isn't it?"
She was probably right and it sunk his stomach to acknowledge it. His eyes drifted to the bar cart as he wondered whether it was still too early in the day for a drink. "Fuck off," he replied, although he liked to think it was affectionate.
Undeterred, Anne circled back to business. "So, what do you think, darling?" she asked, the faint sound of ice clinking in glass twinkling in the background. "You like the script, don't you?"
"I mean, yeah," he admitted, sighing in acquiescence. "And you know I love you and Mary, even though you're both fucking insane." She made a little sound like she'd been paid a nice compliment. "Are you already in talks with anyone? Theaters, cast, crew?"
"You know Mary— she likes familiarity," Anne replied. "We haven't auditioned anyone, though."
"And you're hoping to open this year?" he asked, grabbing a pen from his desk for something to fiddle with. "Reckon if we hit the ground running now, we could make it in time for late fall— catch the pre-holiday period before everyone's broke. Gonna have to dig around and see what else is opening, of course, and where…"
"It sounds an awful lot like you just bought in, Eddie," Anne said with a satisfied grin in her voice. "Can I expect to see you in the city soon?"
He sighed again, unable to resist a little smile. "I guess you can," he replied, figuring he'd waited long enough for a cigarette. "Paperwork first, though— then the fun shit."
"Of course. You know, Izzy's off to London for a month in a few weeks; why don't you see about a sublet?" she suggested as Ed shifted the handset and lit his cigarette. "You're the one person he likes enough for that sort of thing, I think, as long as you don't bring Jack along."
Christ, the less said about Jack and Izzy's past, the better. "Babe, if you think I'm not gonna use this as an excuse to spend as long as I can on the fuckin' opposite coast from Jack, you're kidding yourself," he joked. "That's half the reason I was even considering taking the show on; the other half, of course, is because I have trouble saying no to you, unfortunately."
Anne certainly knew that, and he could practically feel her grinning down the telephone line. "You're an incorrigible flirt, you know that?" she teased. "Don't let Mary hear you or she'll go fucking mad. Or, y'know, do— I kind of like it when she—"
"Alright, alright, I don't need to know any more about your dangerous sex life than I already do," he joked, grinning at Anne's delighted cackle. "I'll have Fang take a closer look at the shit you sent over, get some contracts drafted up, and we'll be in touch soon, yeah?"
"Thank you, darling!" Anne replied, and it was nice to note that she sounded genuinely excited— and why shouldn't she? She'd just unofficially optioned a script to one of Hollywood's most successful producers; never mind that they'd been friends for decades. "You're an angel. Can't wait to see you!"
He chuckled fondly, resting his cigarette in the ashtray as he sat up a bit straighter, eager to get to a drink. "Business first," he reminded her, propping an elbow on his desk. "Talk soon. Send Mary my love."
"I will, darling. Give Jack a good kick in the balls from me."
"With pleasure," he replied, barely joking. "Bye, love."
"Ta!"
[Image description: A digital drawing in sepia tones of Ed sitting in a desk chair and gazing out the window of his office. He wears a white button-down shirt and a plaid vest and trousers, as well as a tie. His hair is half-up and he has his chin perched on his fist and his elbow on the arm of the chair. He's got a short beard. Outside his window, there are hills and a cityscape.]
Ed hung up with a sigh and recollected his cigarette, taking a long, slow drag as he watched the summer breeze rustle the palm trees outside. A change of pace would do him good, he reckoned— a different kind of discomfort, some new challenges, a month (or more) without Jack. And he liked New York, mostly, although he'd rarely ever been there for very long. It was certainly more claustrophobic— more hectic, although he never drove while he was there, so the trade-off of avoiding LA traffic was pretty nice— but he figured he could let himself get lost in the crowd a bit better there, sink back into the scenery. It certainly wasn't as if no one knew him there— he had plenty of friends and colleagues in the city, not to mention a few near-adversaries— but it wasn't like Los Angeles. In New York, there were delis where not a single soul would know his name or his order, bars and clubs where he could be an anonymous face and body on the upper end of the socially-acceptable age range for hanging out after-hours and hooking up in darkrooms.
He wanted that, he realized— wanted sex, wanted excitement, wanted something to feel new, and hot, and good. Because things with Jack didn't really feel like any of that anymore, most of the time. Sure, sometimes the sex was good, but it wasn't necessarily worth all the rest, and he was pretty sure Jack would agree (although he was certainly getting the better end of the deal, considering his career was more tenuous, and being with Ed, if only in relative secrecy, gave him a level of security that allowed him to keep living like a real fucking Hollywood heartthrob).
He left the office early and invited Fang to do the same— invited him for a drink, too, but Fang had plans already. Ed was halfway tempted to see if Jack wanted to go out, but he figured it was best not to; in fact, it was probably better to just avoid the house until he'd had a couple drinks himself, considering the likelihood that Jack hadn't left all day and would only annoy him. In the end, he snagged the copy of Anne's script she'd sent and tucked it beneath his arm before making his way out into the late afternoon sunshine, wondering whether the men on Broadway had their shit together.