Work Text:
Nobody said 'good show'. It hadn't been.
Not even close.
The studio was silent, a silence that smothered every sound, every breath, every whisper, every thump and crash of technicians and Teamsters as they cleared away, going about their regular routine as though the world had not just come crashing all about their ears.
But then – for them, it hadn't. Their jobs, their lives, went on.
Dan said awkwardly, into his mic, "I'm sorry."
No-one answered; nobody moved, or spoke. The silence stretched, becoming a palpable thing, a living, breathing entity, huge and amorphous, sucking in air and light and turning the studio into a vacuum, black and deadly.
Dan said again, uncertainly, "I'm sorry." The vortex swallowed his words.
Then the phone on Dana's desk rang suddenly, jarring and razor-shrill, cutting through the stillness. It took Dana a moment to react and pick it up, another, longer moment before she said, over her own mic, "Dan. Isaac wants to see you in his office."
Dan nodded acknowledgement, slid out of his chair, mechanically took out his earpiece, unclipped his mic. For the last time, he thought. He'd blown it. He was through, washed up. His career was over.
For whatever little it had ever been worth.
He tried to meet Casey's eyes; tried to find words, something better than another 'I'm sorry', something that could at least begin to fathom the depths of his regret. But Casey was staring deliberately at the papers on his desk, and Dan knew any words he might speak would fall on ears suddenly and deliberately stricken by deafness.
Then Dana said, still over the studio system, "Casey, can you wait behind for a while? Isaac wants to see you after Dan. And me," she added; she sounded as if she were about to vomit.
Which made at least two of them.
Casey looked up then. As he left the room, Dan saw that his friend (former friend; ex-partner) was ashen, his face white and pinched with anger.
"I'll be there," Casey said, clipped, and then the door swung shut and Dan was alone. He started walking along the corridor – too long, too endlessly long, and yet still not long enough – to Isaac's office.
Where Isaac was waiting.
This is something that Dan's never told anyone: that there are blank places in his memory, glitches, voids, lacunae. Oh, not stuff like the horrible Bobbi Bernstein faux pas; that was a simple matter of too many parties, too much booze, too many girls in too many identical hotel rooms, of a summer spent trying to forget. But, for example: he remembers every word, every syllable, every silence of the phone call that had told him of Sam's death; he'd give anything to be able to forget that, to blank out the bitter, angry, accusing note in his father's voice, a sound that still rings in his ears now, years afterward. What he doesn't remember is what came after: how he left Dartmouth, how he made it home. The next thing he remembers is waking in his old room, his clothes rank, his face wet and sticky, lying there for hours, not daring to stir, not daring to venture out into the new, forever changed household.
This will be another one of those blanks. When he looks back (when he finally can bear to look back), he will remember the broadcast; he'll remember Casey's voice, and the anger and hurt in his eyes. He'll remember the chill silence in the studio as they played out the end of the show. He'll remember the walk, the long, deathly march to Isaac's office. And then – nothing. He'll open his eyes the next day to find himself in what he later learns is Isaac's spare bedroom, disorientated and befuddled, with no landmarks to guide him. Esther will come to wake him, and he'll reflexively pull up the bedclothes to his chin even though he's decently covered in teeshirt and boxers, wince as the movement pulls at a bandaged scar on his left hand, stare up at her wide-eyed, too bewildered even to attempt a pretext of control. She'll have brought him coffee, and will set it down on the nightstand, pat him on the shoulder, and run a gentle hand through the tacky mess of his hair. "Everything's okay, Danny," she'll tell him, her voice so matter-of-fact that he dare not disbelieve her. But when she's gone, he will lower his head to his knees, and shake, and shake, and shake.
This is what he will never remember:
He'd thought he'd seen Isaac angry before – at Luther, at JJ, at the network; at life's daily idiocies, at greed and ambition and stupidity.
He'd been wrong. He's seen Isaac irate, pissed-off, frustrated, mad. This – this is anger: white-hot, incandescent fury.
"Would you care to explain yourself to me, Daniel?"
No; not fire. Ice. Dan opens his mouth to speak, but he can hear his words freezing in the air; he reaches out a hand for the back of a chair, knowing that if he can't hold on to something he will fall and never stop falling, fall into the abyss, the vacuum that has trailed him from the studio. He wants, at the very least, to say another, yet another, 'I'm sorry', but the words crowd in his throat, choking him.
He can't speak, he can't feel, he can't hear. Isaac's mouth is moving, but all Dan hears is a buzzing, like a herd (a flock, a swarm, a swarm) of angry bees –
– Casey is allergic to bees –
– and, to his horror, he feels himself begin to laugh, weakly, uncontrollably. Losing it, he thinks, I'm losing it, and isn't that appropriate? Has he ever been more lost, more hopeless, more alone?
There's a hand on his arm, another on the back of his neck; he's being pushed down into the chair. Then something is being pressed into his hand, lifted to his mouth, but his teeth chatter, his grip slackens and it falls, liquid spilling across the lap of the suit that will have to be returned to Wardrobe, maybe they'll find someone else to fit it, god knows the station doesn't need to be paying out for a whole new … wardrobe …
Wardrobe, wardrobe; it's a meaningless word, it bats from synapse to synapse like a bagatelle, which is another meaningless word, and then there's a crash at his feet and he jolts and – someone makes a sound, he thinks it must be him, and he opens his eyes (when did he close them?) to see Isaac, trying to kneel, lowering himself while leaning heavily on his cane, and he remembers the word, 'Don't!' and jumps up. "Don't, Isaac. I – I'm sorry, I'll get it, let me – "
He drops to his knees and reaches out for the shards, the splinters of what he recognises through the swirling mist of his vision as one of the heavy Scotch tumblers that he'd given Isaac for Christmas two years ago. Isaac says, sharp and sudden, "Be careful, Danny!" but it's too late, a scarlet gash is blossoming across the palm of his hand, and he clenches his fist tighter, welcoming the pain. At least it's real, at least he can feel; it's all he can be sure of, at this moment, the pain and the slow drip of his own blood.
There's a moment of clarity, then, when he looks up into Isaac's face, where anxiety has superseded anger, at least for the moment, and remorse twists like a fist in his heart: he should have found the words to mend, to heal, and instead all he's done is make matters worse –
– like always, like always –
"I'm sorry," he finally manages. How many times has he said that tonight? Will he ever be able to say anything else?
"You're an idiot," Isaac says fiercely. He's pulled the handkerchief from his top pocket, wadded it up in the palm of Dan's hand, and closed Dan's fingers around it. "How long has it been this bad, Danny?"
But Dan's lost all power of speech again, and can only shake his head, back and forth, back and forth, helpless. He hears Isaac sigh, and feels the grip on his arm again, pulling him up, shoving him across the room, through the door and into the next-door office.
"Wait there," Isaac orders him. Dan balks, and Isaac snaps, "Margaret's gone home, you're safe. At least for now." Margaret: Isaac's secretary, a tall, slightly pop-eyed redhead who somehow combines ruthless efficiency with complete and utter battiness. Dan isn't the only one terrified of her. Right at this moment, he would step gladly into her lair. There are far more fearsome monsters roaming the halls of CSC tonight.
Isaac pushes him into yet another chair, and leaves him. Dan sits for a while, silent, still. Through the partition wall he hears, from time to time, raised voices, snatches of argument. He tries not to listen, but can't block it out –
"This is a place of work, Dana. I appreciate that you've been under a great deal of stress, but from now on, you leave your personal life at the door."
Ah, no. Not Dana. It wasn't her fault. After all she's been through – with Gordon, with Casey, with the network, with Sam, with her brother – how can she be brought to blame for Dan's offence? He rises to his feet, ready to go next door and defend her, but a wave of dizziness swamps him, and he falls back, lowers his forehead to the desk, fingers gripping the edge until the knuckles show white. When his head finally stops spinning and he straightens, the voices have changed:
"You want to explain what happened out there?"
"Danny went off script – "
('Danny'? Is he still 'Danny'? After all they've said, after all he's done?)
"Oh, really?" Deceptively mild, and then, cutting, sardonic, "It's a good thing you don't work in live sports, Casey."
"I – "
"It wasn't that hard a question, Casey. I'm an old man, I've had a stroke, and I could give you half-a-dozen perfectly good answers without breaking a sweat. If your partner screws up, then it's your job to fix it. You owe it to the show. And Dan is your partner."
Dan doesn't catch what Casey says next, but he hears Isaac: "For as long as I say so!" And, Oh, he thinks, Oh, Isaac. That isn't how you deal with Casey. If he ever would've forgiven me before, he never will now. Never.
He reaches out to Margaret's PC, opens up a new document, and begins to type. The words come easily – he is, it seems, still a writer, at least: unprofessional, inexcusable, apologise, effective immediately … He saves, and sends it to print. The printer jams – of course the printer jams, that was inevitable – and he swears, tries to change the paper, only succeeds in ripping it and losing a half-sheet of office stationery somewhere within the machinery.
Add Margaret to the list of people who'll be baying for his blood tomorrow. She'll have to get in line. It's a long list. He starts picking at the ragged paper edge with a fingernail – his right hand; he tries to use his left, winces, and holds it cradled against his chest – and, slowly, the letter, his death warrant, begins to come free. He lays it on the desk, tries to flatten it with his clenched fist, and that's how Isaac finds him when he re-enters the room some time later.
"Is that what I think it is?" he asks, and comes around to take the paper. It slides through Dan's fingers, which he would think might be symbolic or something if he were not too tired to formulate any theory quite that complex. Dan only nods. Isaac takes the sheet, reads it through and says, "H'm." Then he looks up, almost into Dan's eyes, but Dan just manages to duck his head away at the last possible moment. He can't look at Isaac, into Isaac's eyes; if he does, it will be his undoing.
"Yes," Isaac says, his voice surprisingly mild, "Yes. You were, Danny. You were all these things. And that's not like you. I don't know how everyone missed it for so long. I'm sorry for that. It's a poor reflection on all of us." He folds the paper into his pocket, leans over Margaret's computer, deletes the file and the backup, closes the system down. "There. This is the only copy now. If you still want to act on this tomorrow, then we'll talk about it. In the meantime – I'm an old man, and it's late. Help me to my car, will you?"
It isn't, in fact, that late, although it certainly seems so. Dan doesn't think to ask about that night's show, about what's going to happen now. If he had thought, he would have assumed that Casey would be hosting it, a hastily-summoned substitute anchor by his side. He'd be wrong. Peter Lasker and Paul Schapp are sitting in for the both of them, Sally Sasser at the desk, a very, very subdued Natalie assisting. Only Jeremy seems able to maintain any level of normality that night. Even Kim and Elliott hardly have the heart to fight. He does as Isaac asks. Maybe it's his imagination, but Isaac seems to him to lean more heavily on his arm than on other nights they've done this. Maybe not. Maybe it's the weight of Dan's own conscience, spreading through his body like lead, as weighty and as poisonous.
At the car, he stands back, as usual, as Isaac's driver puts down his book, nods a greeting and slides out to help Isaac settle in. But Isaac's grip on his wrist doesn't lessen.
"Get in, Danny," he tells him. Dan looks up at him, startled.
"Isaac, I – "
"This is not a night when you want to argue with me," Isaac says brusquely. "Get in. This isn't open for debate."
Dan does as he's told, sliding over to the far seat and buckling up the seatbelt. He reaches automatically to help Isaac with his, and has his hand slapped away. "I had a stroke, Dan, I'm not senile!" Isaac snaps. But he fumbles with the clasp for several long moments before it clicks. Once – only yesterday, only this morning – Dan would have said something then, something sarcastic that would have made Isaac laugh, seeing beyond the words to the love beneath, laugh and then allow himself to be helped. But he's lost that privilege. Along with all the others.
They drive. Dan thinks perhaps he'll be dropped off at his apartment, perhaps Isaac didn't trust him to drive, but the car keeps going. He daren't ask.
"You're coming home with me tonight." Isaac finally breaks the silence. "Esther was watching. She's the one gets to slap you silly. I can't do it. Damn foolish workplace regulations."
He seems to expect an answer. Dan mumbles something that might be, "No, sir."
"We'll stop by your apartment tomorrow morning. You'll want to change your clothes. You're going to be persona non grata for a while anyhow, no sense in making things worse."
Is that a glimmer of humour? Dan doesn't dare hope.
"Are you on any medication, Daniel?"
He nods, numbly and, as Isaac's eyes bore into him, falteringly lists the names and dosages. Isaac fumbles open his laptop and types rapidly as Dan speaks, sits back to read the results, then swings back to him.
"I want to see those pills when you come back out. All of them. You bring them with you, Dan, and you give them to me."
Dan opens his mouth, but doesn't even get as far as "I – " before Isaac cuts him off.
"They're going down the toilet, Dan. It's the pills, or your career. I'd say it's your choice, but since you're clearly not up to making it yourself, I'm taking it out of your hands. No more pills, and that woman you've been seeing? That shrink of yours? You fire her ass, Danny, before I fire yours. If you're having problems, talk to your friends. That might be a little difficult for a while. In the meantime, you can talk to me. Got that?"
"Yes, sir," Dan says, mutedly.
"Good," Isaac says, and leans back against the seatrest. "Now, shut the hell up, will you? It's been a long day, and I'm an old man. I want to sleep."
"Yes, sir," Dan says again, quietly. And, when Isaac's eyes are closed, more quietly yet: "Thank you."
(Dan will remember none of this. Only wake, in a strange room, in a strange house, to find understanding, compassion, that he knows is undeserved, yet which he craves all the more for that. For a little while, he'll find life unsupportable. But that time will pass; forgiveness will come, at last. Forgiveness and, after it: love.)