FIC: Come Ruin or Rapture [Slings & Arrows | Ellen, Geoffrey/Ellen | R]
Title: Come Ruin or Rapture
Fandom: Slings & Arrows
Characters/pairing: Ellen. Geoffrey. Oliver. Geoffrey/Ellen.
Rating: R
Length: ~7,600
Summary: Pre-series. Ellen returns to New Burbage, gets ambushed by Oliver, meets Geoffrey, drinks too much coffee, and really hates Romeo & Juliet.
A/N: Anyone who has spoken more than two words to me in the last, like, two months has heard about this story, and I need to thank everyone I know for not just killing me for being annoyingly obsessed. I especially need to thank murklins, and I know I always do that, but I really mean it this time, because this story would be either unwritten or really terrible without her. She was much more than a beta reader and I don't know how she stands me. tangleofthorns also did beta duty, thank god, because murklins and I drove ourselves more than a little crazy and needed to walk away. The title and the cut text are, I think, from Shakespeare in Love.
*
"Ellen, darling, I'm so sorry." Oliver Welles closed his hands over her shoulders and leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks. "Such a tragedy. We'll all miss him very much."
"Oliver, thank god," Ellen said, relieved to see a friendly face. "I'm all right. Better now that you're here." She was probably supposed to smile and kiss his cheek in return, but she didn't bother -- she knew he'd see right through it.
"It's good to see you again," he said. "I only wish it were under happier circumstances."
"Me too," she said. Oliver squeezed her shoulders before moving off to the side to let someone else through. Ellen couldn't remember his name, some director friend of her father's who'd wanted her to be in commercials when she was six. She reached for a smile and her voice, managed to deliver yet another convincing reading of, "Thank you for coming." The words were chalk in her mouth, dry and ever-present, like she was trapped in one of those nightmares where she only knew one of her lines and repeated it for hours, while everyone else tried not to stare. She needed a cigarette.
He muttered about his condolences, patted her shoulder awkwardly, and then headed for a group of ancient drunken actors in the other room, passing around flasks, red-faced and sniffling. Ellen watched them and rolled her eyes; they would inevitably break into stories of Life In The Theatre, but she hoped they'd at least wait until she was out of earshot.
Oliver, still standing next to her, glanced briefly in their direction and then turned his gaze on Ellen. "How are you holding up?"
"My father just died in a freak fishing accident. He didn't even like fishing! How do you think I'm holding up? Shit." Ellen held up her hands in apology. "Sorry, sorry, it's been a long day."
But Oliver didn't even flinch at her tone; instead, he grabbed her upper arm and tugged her into a corner a few feet away. He was up to something, his intentions so clear that Ellen wondered if he'd forgotten how to act in the intervening years, or if he wasn't bothering to try. "Well," he said, practically rubbing his hands together, "I think I have something that will cheer you up. Do you have a few minutes to talk?"
Ellen looked around the room, hoping he might take the hint and realize where they were. "A few minutes to talk? Oliver!" People glanced in their direction, and Ellen lowered her voice. "Oliver, I am at my father's funeral. Can't it wait?"
"I know," he said, putting both hands over his heart. "I know, I'm sorry, it's terribly tacky, but it's really quite important. You know I wouldn't ask otherwise."
Ellen knew no such thing, but she also really wanted a smoke, wanted to be anywhere but trying to avoid looking at her father's casket while standing right next to it. "I--" She looked around again. The viewing had only just started, and there was already a crowd inside and a line outside, more people than she would have thought come to pay their respects by participating in this morbid fucking ritual. Maybe the drunken actors in the corner had the right idea. "Oh, all right... Christ, just stay here. I'll be back."
Her very pregnant sister was sitting in the other room on some godforsaken floral-print couch, a relic from the 80s, glaring at Ellen like she'd murdered their father and a handful of small animals besides. Her husband hovered ineffectually. Ellen took a deep breath and headed in their direction. "Diane, I'm really sorry, but I need to go out for a short break. Do you think you could..." She trailed off and gestured toward the casket.
"A break? They opened the doors ten minutes ago, and you haven't done anything all week! I had to drag you here in the first place, and now--"
"Sorry," Ellen said. "You know I don't do well with people."
"What do you mean, you don't do well with people?" her sister asked through clenched teeth. "These are your people!"
"No, these are festival people! I left--"
"Oh, I know."
"--and these haven't been my people in a long time, and I need a fucking break! Why--"
Diane's husband tried to step in. "Ellen, look, she's due any day now. Can't you--"
"Oh, shut up, Rob," Ellen snapped. "Take a chair over there or something."
"His name is Ed!" Diane lumbered to her feet, her face going splotchy with the effort. "I can't believe--"
"Thank you! I'm sure it's what Dad would have wanted, you meeting his friends. I'll be right back. Thanks again, and sorry!" She shot Diane a smile and a wave, and then shouldered her way to where Oliver was lurking behind a large plant.
"Okay," she said. "Outside." She pushed him in front of her and followed him out, trying to disappear, but she got stopped four times before she made it to the door, people she hadn't seen in years hugging her, apologizing, getting their snot on her suit.
"Fuck," she said, once she finally got outside, her chest loosening with each breath of damp air. They walked around the corner of the funeral home, out of the sight of the crowd. "I hate funerals." Oliver, his eyes serious, offered her a light and didn't say anything.
"There are just so many details involved! I haven't had a chance to think about anything. God." She took another few drags. "Okay," she said, gesturing with her cigarette. "You've got until I finish this. What's so important?"
Ellen recognized his slow smile, and knew it wasn't a good sign. He only smiled that way when he wanted something very badly and had every intention of getting it. He reached into her purse, pulled out her cigarettes, offered her the pack with a flourish. "Have another, Ellen, darling, and then come back to the festival."
Ellen recoiled. "The festival? Oliver! This is a funeral! What is wrong with you?"
"Oh, please," he said, waving his left hand. "First of all, it's not a funeral. It's just a viewing. And anyway, your father was in the theatre. He was in this theatre. He would have understood."
"This is--" Ellen's mouth worked for a few seconds as she tried to think of something suitably scathing to say. "Fuck off, Oliver." She snatched her cigarettes out of his hand and shoved them into her purse. "Jesus."
She turned to go inside, but Oliver's voice stopped her; it had taken on that nasal whine it got when the universe was considering not giving him his way. "Ellen, wait! Please, just listen. Hear me out. If you don't like what I have to say, you can go back to those pap productions you've been doing for schoolchildren."
Ellen ground her teeth. The productions weren't the problem -- they were good, solid shows, introducing Shakespeare to children. But Ellen wasn't good with kids, and no matter how hard she tried, the cast Q&A sessions invariably ended with a bunch of sobbing 10 year-olds. She wasn't sure how much longer her director was going to put up with it.
"Talk," she snapped.
"This is John's last season as artistic director, and of course it's going to be a great one, but then, Ellen... then we'll be going in an entirely new direction! We need an actress of your caliber on the front lines, someone versatile and fearless and beautiful."
It was a cheap trick, and Ellen was falling for it anyway. "Stick to the topic," she said, with less anger than she'd wanted.
"You are the topic! But honestly, Ellen, it's time for you to come home. Your father would have wanted it. He never understood why you left, you know."
"He never asked, and you're a manipulative bastard, Oliver."
"Please, Ellen, we really do need you. And there's someone here I think you should meet."
"Oh, fuck." Oliver was a prick, but he was usually right about these things. "Who is it?"
"His name is Geoffrey Tennant. He's a genius, Ellen, I--"
"Not him again." Ellen rolled her eyes but turned to face him fully. "Oliver, you've told me about him every time I've seen you for the last, what, ten years?"
"Yes, and now he's here, and I'm here, and you're here--"
"I am here for a funeral! Not for you, and not for the fucking festival."
"Yes, I know, and it's as if the stars have all aligned! Please, just talk to him. Stop by the theatre tomorrow morning, do a reading. See what you think." He clasped his hands together and looked like he was about to drop to his knees.
Ellen took another drag of her cigarette, and exhaled the smoke directly into his face. "I hate you, Oliver."
His smile got wider. "I know, darling. It's all right. It's magnificent, in fact."
*
Ellen was running late, and Oliver, of course, wasn't in his office. She made her way through the building and tried not to notice that it was the same as it had been the last time she was there, different fliers on the walls but the same two light bulbs burnt out in the hall. She stuck her head into too-familiar rehearsal rooms, but Oliver wasn't in any of them. There was really only one place he could be, and Ellen felt frustration gathering under her skin, twisting her muscles into knots. She swore under her breath as she made her way backstage, through the wings. Enter, stage left.
"But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?" A melodic voice, intimate and well-projected, greeted her as soon as she stepped onstage. Ellen assumed it was the actor she had come to meet, Geoffrey Tennant, but the voice was coming from behind a pile of flats downstage right, and the only thing she could see was a flash of wild black curls.
"Oh, Jesus," Ellen said. "Oliver, what the hell is going on?"
Oliver, sitting at the table with some stage manager, smiled and gestured for them to keep going. There were a few other people there, too, scattered about the theatre, sitting forward in their seats. Ellen was caught, on stage in front of a waiting audience, too warm even under the rehearsal lights. The only thing she could think to do was put down her purse, and begin.
"It is the east." Geoffrey's voice seemed to surround her, and Ellen headed slowly for center stage with no real idea what she was going to do when she got there. There wasn't any scenery, no balcony for her to stand on and pretend she couldn't see him, so she just turned her back and waited. He seemed to be waiting, too, and spoke as soon as she turned. "And Juliet is the sun."
Fuck. Two lines of Shakespeare, and Ellen could feel herself shifting and changing and falling -- into Juliet, a fucking teenager, and 32 was too old for this -- but she'd been here before and knew it wasn't worth fighting. She closed her eyes and evened out her breathing, focused on Geoffrey's voice, tried to spin it into something she could grasp, something tangible to work with. She could sense him moving closer as he spoke, felt the air change and the boards shift, and then he was behind her, his voice a low rumble straight into her ear, "O, it is my love!"
Ellen, her eyes still closed, crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed at the goosebumps crawling down her body. She felt Geoffrey move again, felt him turn and put his back to hers, using her body as a wall. She did the same to him, grateful for the resistance as he spoke, used it to anchor herself as she ran her hands up her shoulders, over her neck, her face. "O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!"
Her line was only two words, more sigh than sentence, and it wasn't hard to hit her cue. Her body moved with Geoffrey's as he sucked in his breath, and she realized she was as attuned to his breathing as she was to her own. She felt him say, "She speaks!" more than she heard him, and when he implored, "O, speak again," there wasn't anything she wanted more. But it wasn't her line and he didn't stop talking, his head falling back to rest against the top of her own, their bodies molding together.
Seven lines later, their heads were turned so they were cheek-to-cheek, his skin rough and warm against her own, his breath rushing across her lips. Ellen was frustrated and Juliet was near tears, begging him, "deny thy father and refuse thy name," and the pressure was becoming unbearable. She and Geoffrey were still pushing, their arms spread and their palms sliding together, vibrating with tension from the fight to keep them open. Ellen couldn't get her breathing under control, and she hurried too quickly through her next few lines, wanting to turn and look at him, drop the pretense and acknowledge his presence, figure out what the hell was going on.
His stubble scraped against her cheek as his mouth moved, his lips drifting closer to hers, "call me but love," and Ellen'd had enough; she turned and shoved him away, rolled right over the rest of his line to demand, "What man art thou?" Her first good look at Geoffrey, and Ellen forgot everything: her line, the scene, what was happening. He was lit from within, breathless and beautiful and shining, and if Ellen had needed confirmation that she was well and truly fucked, she was looking at it. She stared, flushed and panting, until his lips curved into a slight smile that she felt the need to get away from. Backing up, she tried her line again. "What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, so stumblest upon my council?"
The smile stayed, and somehow, Ellen made it through the scene. Geoffrey was a fucking force of nature, on his knees and all around her, his hands on her face and her waist and her hair, his eyes laughing and glittering and pleading. That last surprised her, actually, the raised eyebrow and the quirk of his mouth, the slight tilt of his head; she'd lost her distance and she knew she wouldn't recover it if she let him kiss her, but she nodded anyway and then his lips were against hers, and Ellen was undone. Someone offstage was playing the Nurse, calling for Juliet, and Ellen managed to tear herself away, but Geoffrey kept coming at her, dancing closer, and Ellen was as bereft as Juliet when he was finally gone.
Ellen didn't move, stayed where she was, her head down and her eyes closed, the silence stretched and heavy as she tried to find herself again. She couldn't stand it very long, and she looked up, directly at Oliver, who was watching her with a smug smile. Their eyes met and he stood up, clapping, and then everyone else was applauding, too. Geoffrey bounded back out onstage from the wings and took her face in his hands, long fingers sliding over her cheeks and into her hairline, and kissed her quickly. "Ellen Fanshaw," he murmured, his tone almost reverent, his lips against hers. "That was incredible." Then he started tugging her downstage, shouting about chemistry and Shakespeare and poetry and Ellen found she was too angry to listen.
"That wasn't incredible," she snapped, snatching her hand away and smacking him in the chest. "That was a dirty trick." She hit him again for good measure, and his smile started to fade as she poked him. "You ambushed me!"
His eyes widened as he looked between her face and the finger she had jabbed him with. "I-- What?"
Ellen's eyes narrowed. "Nothing to say? Fuck you." She turned to glare at Oliver. "And fuck you, too!"
"Ellen," Geoffrey said. "I-- oh." His eyes cleared and his lips curled into a wry grin, and then he turned to jab his own finger in Oliver's direction. "You said she agreed!"
"She did," Oliver said, his hands out in front of him. "She said she'd come to meet you and do a reading."
"That was not a reading!" Ellen and Geoffrey shouted it in unison, and Ellen gestured at the stage, at Geoffrey, at the entire place. "You brought in a fucking audience!"
Oliver smiled. "You did it, though, didn't you? And it was glorious. You know it was, I can tell. Don't try to deny it."
He was right, of course, the bastard. "Oh, fuck off, Oliver." She turned and stomped off stage, intending to leave, but she could feel Geoffrey watching her, and it stopped her short. She stood there, waiting, and then tilted her head enough to say over her shoulder, "Well? Are you coming?"
"G'night," Geoffrey called out, at 11 in the morning, before Ellen had finished her question. Oliver started sputtering, called them both assholes, but then Geoffrey was beside her, that ridiculous smile on his face, and Ellen's lips curved into an answering smile before she remembered she was supposed to be angry.
*
Once they got outside, Ellen wasn't sure what they were supposed to do. Geoffrey was vibrating next to her, barely contained, like a greyhound at the starting line, and Ellen glanced at him, sidelong. She didn't know anything about him except that he could act, he could kiss, and somebody should buy him an iron.
He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat and then pulled them out again, rubbed them together. A smile broke over his face and then disappeared, as if he hadn't meant for it to happen but wasn't able to help himself. "I'm sorry about the ambush," he said. "I really didn't know."
Ellen lit a cigarette and eyed him through the smoke. He seemed sincere. "Oliver's a prick," she said.
"Yes," he said, giving free rein to that smile. He was older than Ellen had first thought, maybe her age, laugh lines showing around his eyes. "Yes, he is. But he's also a genius. Ellen, that was..." His hands went back in his pockets and he spun in a circle, his coat flapping in the wind. "I don't know what that was," he called to the sky, his head thrown back. "But I want to do it again and again!"
Ellen took another drag of her cigarette, stalling for time, not quite ready to admit she wanted the same thing, and certainly not ready to shout it to the heavens. Geoffrey stopped spinning and leapt in front of her, walked backwards down the sidewalk.
"So," he said, "Where to?"
Ellen had a million things to do. Her father's memorial service was in the morning, and she needed to get to her sister's house to help with the last-minute preparations, something about photo collages and flowers. She wasn't sure why she needed to be there -- weren't there people who did that sort of thing professionally? -- but Diane had insisted.
"Buy me a coffee."
"Sure." He nodded and offered her his arm.
*
Coffee turned into lunch turned into wandering aimlessly through New Burbage, and they found themselves at the river complaining about Toronto theatre critics when Geoffrey stopped, mid-sentence, and pointed.
"Ellen, it's a swan boat!"
"You've been here for three years," she said. "This can't be the first time you've seen one."
"Well, no," he admitted, one side of his mouth curving into a grin. "But it's the first time I've wanted to get in one." He bounced on his toes and held out his hand. "Come on."
Ellen wanted to tell him they weren't particularly thrilling, but he looked so excited that she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. She cast about for a better excuse. "It's getting dark. It'll be too cold on the river."
"Ah," he said, stripping his coat off. "Easily fixed!" He draped it over her shoulders and leaned back to survey his handiwork, smoothing the lapels. Ellen was already wearing a coat, and didn't need his, but as soon as he glanced up and met her eyes, whatever she was about to say in protest died in her throat. Geoffrey, for the first time all day, had gone entirely still. Ellen wasn't even sure he was breathing; she sure as hell wasn't. "You do become an old coat well," he murmured. One finger slid across her neck, skirted around the edges of her scarf.
"Thank you," she managed, breaking eye contact and shrugging his hands off. His coat was too long for her, dragging in the grass as she walked. She snuggled into it anyway, and the warmth from his body seeped through all her layers and into her skin, curling around her spine and settling low in her belly. Seeking distraction, she cautiously put her hands in the pockets, not sure what she'd find. They were empty, full of holes, and she stuck her fingers through and wiggled them at Geoffrey, her eyebrows raised.
"Pockets are useless," he declared.
"Well, these pockets are useless."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, all pockets are useless. They're not big enough for books, and everything else you need, you carry in here." He patted his chest.
"I need lipstick," she told him.
"Hm." Geoffrey pursed his lips and made a show of studying hers, bending forward at the waist with his hands clasped behind his back. "No. No, I don't think you do."
Ellen swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and went for another distraction. She bumped his shoulder with hers, knocking him off balance, and made for the swan boats. "All right," she said. "But pockets have to be good for something, or they wouldn't be so popular."
"Oh, well, yes. They're good for theatrics."
"Theatrics?"
"Yup. Go on, try it. Put your hands in the pockets and cock your elbows in so the coat opens a bit." He demonstrated, and Ellen took two seconds to debate before she mimicked him. "Good. Now... run!"
He turned and went running full-tilt at the dock. Ellen didn't hesitate this time, the laughter bubbling out of her throat as she ran after him, his coat flapping in the breeze.
She fished some money out of her purse while Geoffrey examined several of the boats and finally settled on the number six. It lurched under them as they clambered into it, both of them unsteady on the slippery surface. Ellen tried to grab his arm to balance herself, but he reached for her at the same time, and they fell into the boat in a tangle of limbs.
"Well," he said, extracting himself. "Good thing they made these idiot-proof. I don't see any lifeguards."
Ellen settled on the bench next to him, her shoulder pressing into his, and couldn't think of anything to say. The boat tipped again and their thighs bumped together, and she felt suddenly awkward, stuck in a boat with a stranger with nothing to talk about. She cleared her throat and glanced sideways; Geoffrey was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched tight, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. They started paddling in unspoken agreement.
"I can't believe I've never done this," he said, too many minutes later, his voice both hushed and somehow strained. "It's beautiful."
Ellen looked around and tried to see what he was seeing, the shocking green of new spring grass, the way the light of the setting sun shattered over the surface of the water. Even the swans were nice, she thought, as long as they didn't get too close. "Yes," she said. "I suppose it is."
"Why'd you leave?"
"Hm? Oh, you mean New Burbage?" He nodded and she shrugged. "I grew up here. It's not exciting when it's home. I guess I just wanted to do something different for a while. I always meant to come back."
"Good," he said, and she could tell he was trying not to grin. She rolled her eyes and leaned a little closer.
He opened his mouth to say something else, but Ellen cut him off. "Shit. I think that's my sister."
"What? Where?"
There was a bench coming up on their right, and Ellen pointed. "There. That's Diane and... I don't know, her loser husband. He has some trucker name. We have to hide."
"Hide? All right." His brow furrowed in confusion but he slid down onto the floor of the boat anyway, his legs bending awkwardly. It must have been cold, but he wasn't complaining. He held an arm up and waved her forward. "Come on, then, duck." She curled against him, her head on his chest, his arm settling heavily across her stomach.
Ellen stared up at the darkening sky and listened to his heart beat and tried to keep her hands from wandering over his stomach. He was warm and solid and comfortable; all trace of their earlier awkwardness had vanished. "Why am I here, Geoffrey?"
"Because I dragged you," he said.
"I wasn't talking about the boat."
"Neither was I. You said you meant to come back, right? I think it's a sign. I think I brought you to New Burbage."
"You killed my father?" It was probably a shitty thing to say, but even so, Ellen hadn't expected him to go stiff with shock.
"I-- what? No! Is that why you're here?"
Ellen tilted her head so she could look at him. He certainly looked surprised: eyes wide, mouth open, hair standing on end. "Oliver didn't tell you? He ambushed me at the viewing and badgered me into coming to the theatre for a reading."
"Christ. I... I'm an asshole. But I'm not sorry."
His fingers curled around her waist, and Ellen went back to looking at the sky. "Neither am I."
*
"Favorite play," he said, sliding into the booth and signaling the waitress at the counter for coffee.
Ellen wasn't sure she had one, so she repeated his question and stalled for time by putting her hair back up; it had come undone at some point and she hadn't really noticed. Geoffrey watched her, and she tried to come up with an answer. She had favorite parts and favorite scenes and favorite productions, but she'd never managed to choose a favorite play based on the text alone. "I don't know," she finally admitted. "I know how that sounds. I'm an actress, I should have a favorite play. But I can never decide."
Geoffrey tilted his head, his eyes narrowed slightly. "But it's not Romeo & Juliet."
"God, no. I hate that play." She just hadn't thought it was quite so obvious.
"Why?"
"They're idiots." The waitress came with the coffee, and Ellen stirred in two creams and two sugars. "Greatest love story in the western world, and it's two moronic teenagers who think the world should stop because they want to get laid."
Geoffrey's head tilted in the other direction. "Huh."
His scrutiny was making her uncomfortable. "What? You don't agree. But it's ridiculous. What do teenagers know about love?"
"Nothing," Geoffrey said, splaying his arms across the table. He bent his head to sip at his coffee without having to move it, and Ellen caught herself staring at his lips, remembering how they felt against hers. "But that's the point. I mean, what you just said, you hear it all the time. You hear it with music, these 18-year-old kids singing about their heartbreak on the fucking radio." He sat back up and rolled his eyes as he leaned forward, his chest pressing against the edge of the table. "And it is ridiculous, but Ellen, do you remember what it was like to be that young?"
"Yes," she said. "It was horrible."
He grinned. "Yes, it was. Because everything was the end of the world. We were totally open to everything, hadn't built these walls around our hearts. Now we're old and terrified and cut off from our feelings. Teenagers are idiots, but when was the last time you felt anything that deeply?"
Twelve hours ago when I was on that stage with you, she thought, but what she said was, "I'm an actress, Geoffrey. I feel everything that deeply."
His eyebrows went up and he wrapped his hands around the coffee mug. "I'm an actor, Ellen. You'd be insane."
"Maybe I am."
"Good," he said, grinning wider. "Then our R&J is going to be magnificent."
"Our what? No. Geoffrey! I haven't even said I'm coming back! And anyway, we're in our 30s. We're way too old for those parts. This morning was fun, but-- no. Oliver wouldn't do it."
"I guarantee you Oliver's already pitched it to the board." He reached across the table and caught her hands in his, his thumbs brushing across the insides of her wrists. "Ellen, weren't you listening? It's a cautionary tale, but it goes both ways, and everyone ignores the second part."
"What are you talking about?"
"Transformation! Ellen. Ellen." He bounced their hands on the table and then let go. Ellen took the opportunity to pull her coffee closer, afraid he was going to knock it over as he spoke. "Ellen, it can't just a be story about stupid teenagers falling in love and dying, and everyone goes home and says, 'oh, well, what the fuck do teenagers know about love anyway?' It's so much more than that. Part of it has to be about being open to the experience, no matter how old you are, no matter what happens, and everyone goes home and says, 'I want a love like that!'"
Ellen raised her eyebrows and stared at him over the rim of her coffee mug. "But they can't have it! Love like that doesn't exist. And they still die."
He groaned and flopped back in the seat, one arm over his eyes. "It does," he insisted, his voice garbled. "We're just too cut off to notice."
She stared at him, slumped in the booth like she'd stuck her fork through his heart. "Well," she said. "I like that you think it matters. It's been a long time since anyone talked to me like that."
He shifted his arm out of the way and peered at her through one eye. "Like what?"
"Like theatre can make a difference."
"It can," he said, and shot forward to snatch her hands again. "You'll see. Come back, and do this play with me and Oliver, and you'll see."
Ellen sipped her coffee and changed the subject, and they made it to his place, eventually, after too much caffeine and another rambling walk through town and an argument about Cymbeline in which Geoffrey ranted for 15 minutes straight about the RSC's 1980 production being either under- or overrated. Ellen couldn't quite follow it, his words a cyclone in her mind, fast and dizzying. She felt drunk, and they stumbled to the steps to his building, arm in arm.
He spun her around and backed her against the wall, and the smile died on her lips. "Don't say it, Geoffrey," she said, and put two fingers to his mouth. "Don't even think about it."
"But--" The words were there already, gleaming in his eyes.
"I swear to god, if you start talking about parting or--"
"As many farewells as there be stars in heaven?"
"--yes, or that, I won't be able to leave."
He caught her hand as she tried to pull it away, pressed his lips to her knuckles. "And would that be so bad?"
"Jesus, Geoffrey, it's not like I'm out ten minutes past curfew." She twisted her hand, trying to see her watch. "The service is in... Fuck, it's in four hours! Really. I'll come to the theatre when it's over, okay?"
"Shit," he said, dropping her hand like it had scalded him. "Shit, I'm sorry, I keep forgetting." He reached out to squeeze her shoulder and peered down at her through narrowed eyes, his head cocked to one side. "You don't seem... I mean, are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine." She thought it was even mostly true. "We weren't close."
"Oh," he said. "Me too."
She shook her head, strands of her hair snagging on the brick behind her. "No, it wasn't like that. He didn't understand why I left the festival. He thought... I don't know what he thought." She shrugged. "But I told you already, I just wanted a change. I don't know why that was so difficult for him."
"Well," Geoffrey said. "My father hated the theatre. Detested everything about it." His eyes had gone dull and distant, and Ellen wanted to do something comforting, but she didn't have any ideas. She reached for his collar, thinking to straighten it, but dropped her hand before it reached him.
"I need to go," she said. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Today. All right? Later today."
His eyes came back into focus and they stared at one another for a few seconds, the silence pulsing between them like a heartbeat. "All right," he said, and stepped back.
Ellen tried to turn around and start walking, but even though he'd moved his body, his gaze was still pinning her to the wall, his eyes shining in the porch light. "Fuck." She couldn't stop looking at him.
She thought the sound he made next was her name, low and long and deep in his throat, and if one of them moved, Ellen didn't notice. All she knew was that she was sliding into him, her body into his arms, her hands into his ridiculous hair, her tongue into his mouth, hot and still tasting of coffee. He sighed against her lips and she swallowed it down like it was all the air she'd ever need.
Ellen pressed closer, licking into his mouth, and he stumbled backwards and might have tripped, but he recovered by sitting down on the steps and pulling her onto his lap. Their teeth clicked together but he didn't stop kissing her, and she felt his hands dig under both the coats she was wearing, warm fingertips pressing through the silk of her blouse, against her ribs, into the notches of her spine.
It was like being on stage, she thought, the blood rushing through her ears, the high of adulation. Like sex in public, and she wanted to try it, wanted to tear their clothes off and fuck him right there, outside on the concrete steps at six in the morning, where everyone could see. She wrapped her legs around him, slid down his lap until their hips met, followed his gasp with her tongue. He shifted under her, grabbed her hips and pulled her toward him, his erection obvious and pressing between her legs.
"Oh, shit," she said, her voice ragged. "Stop," she said, and he did, threw his head back and sucked in a long, shuddering breath, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief.
"Sorry," he said, his eyes closed, his hands still clenched tight on her hips, thumbs pressing into to the hollows of her hipbones. Ellen's hands were on his shoulders and she tugged down the collar of his shirt, drew her thumbs along his collarbone. She leaned back in his arms, but that only pushed her hips into his again, and they both gasped and swore under their breath and tried not to move.
"No," she said, when she thought she was going to be able to make coherent noises. "No, I... the funeral."
He nodded, but he didn't open his eyes, didn't ease his grip. She dropped her head onto his shoulder, gave in to the urge to lick the salt from his skin, felt another small shiver pass through his body.
"Sorry," she told him, her lips against his neck. "I have to go."
She didn't move. He did, though, rotated her hips in a slow circle against his, pressed up into her, dropped his own head against her shoulder, his stubble raking against her skin. "Fuck," he said. "All right. What's happening?"
"I don't know," she said, grinding back against him without meaning to, needing to leave but unable to put any space between them. "But it's okay. I... it's been a long day. Very intense."
He laughed at that, short and strangled, his breath hot against her skin. "Right. Intense."
"I have to go."
"I know. You keep telling me."
"Okay, then."
"Okay." She pressed another kiss to his jaw, one to his lips, and then ripped herself out of his arms and ran down the street, his coat still dragging behind her. She didn't dare look back.
As she neared her sister's house, Ellen started steeling herself for the inevitable lecture about responsibility and family and whatever other bullshit Diane was going to come up with. Not that she didn't deserve it, really; she'd skipped out on the second viewing and the rest of the funeral preparations to stay out all day and all night with Geoffrey, and she was slinking home at six in the fucking morning like she was in grade 10. Maybe she wasn't too old for Juliet.
She expected Diane and her husband to be awake, getting ready, which at least meant her brother-in-law would have made coffee. But when she let herself into the house, it was strangely silent. No noise, no coffee, just a note on the kitchen table, barely legible:
Diane in labor. At hospital. Funeral service on you. Thanks for all your help! --E.
"Fuck." Ellen balled the note up and threw it on the floor. "Fuck!"
She sank into one of the kitchen chairs and tried to figure out what to do, but her mind was blank and spinning, and she couldn't look away from the crumpled ball of paper. She felt like she might throw up, all those countless cups of coffee roiling in her stomach. Her next coherent thought was that her father would probably know what to do, and she choked on a sob when it hit her that she couldn't ask him anything, ever again, and the last time they'd spoken it was a shouting match about something stupid, some shitty review, and fuck, fuck, fuck.
Ellen repeated it in her head, because at least it was something, and she stared at the note and sucked in air and tried to get herself under control. She could handle this, she'd be fine, she was sure Diane had made the fucking collage or whatever it was she'd wanted Ellen to help with. But when she was finally able to look at something other than that piece of paper, she took a quick glance around and didn't see a collage, didn't see any flowers, didn't see a big pile of papers that said "Funeral Instructions," and Ellen fumbled for the phone before she lost control again.
"Hello?"
Oliver's voice was groggy with sleep, and she wanted to say something reasonable like, Sorry for bothering you this early in the morning, but I really need your help, but she wasn't able to make her voice work, couldn't say anything at all. She managed another choking sound.
"Hello?" he said again, sounding more alert. "Who is this?"
Ellen took a deep breath and got his name out.
"Ellen? Oh my god, what happened?" She could hear movement over the phone, the rustle of bedsheets, footsteps on the floor.
"I can't do this, Oliver," she said, her voice gaining strength. "I can't do this by myself."
"Do what? Ellen, darling, for the love of god, slow down and tell me what's happened."
"You owe me!"
"Yes, fine, I owe you. What happened?"
"Diane's having her baby and the funeral is in four hours or three hours and there's no one to help me and I don't know what to do, Oliver, I can't do this alone and you--"
"Breathe, Ellen, breathe. I'm getting dressed now, and I'll come straight there. You're at your sister's?"
Ellen swallowed the bile in her throat and nodded. "Yes," she said, and gave him the address.
Oliver hung up and Ellen stared at the phone, her cheeks wet and her chest heaving. She hadn't even realized she was crying, and she rubbed at her eyes and tried to stop, went through every piece of hackneyed acting advice she'd ever heard trying to come up with something that would help. None of it did; everything she heard was suddenly in her father's voice, and it was too easy to picture him on the living room sofa telling her to fully commit or she might as well not bother. When she was young, it had been advice, and when she'd told him she was leaving the festival, it became something else entirely, as if New Burbage were the only place in Canada she could be committed to her work.
"Fuck," she said again, and dropped her head into her arms and committed herself to crying. She was still there when the doorbell rang a lifetime later.
"Ellen? Ellen!" She heard Oliver let himself in and run down the hallway, calling her name, and then he was there beside the chair, on his knees, his hands on her shoulders, shaking her. "Ellen, look at me. Focus. It's going to be fine."
She tried, but his face was a blurry mess through her tears, and she shook her head. "No, it's-- I can't, Oliver. I can't! They're going to want me to say something and we were arguing, Oliver, what am I going to say? That nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it?"
"Oh, honestly, it wasn't that bad."
"I know! I know it wasn't. Fuck!" She was crying again, not making sense, even to herself. "Jesus, I hate this."
"Hush," Oliver said, standing up and pulling her with him, into an embrace. "Hush, I know you do, but I promise you, it's going to be all right." She felt his lips, dry and cool, press against her temple. "I'm here, and--"
"Hello?" Someone else was in the house, a voice she knew but didn't quite believe, shouting her name and getting closer to the kitchen.
"In here," Oliver called, and smoothed his hands over her hair. "See? I'm here, and Geoffrey's here, and we're going to get through this."
"Shit," Ellen said, shoving at his chest. "You called Geoffrey? I met him yesterday, Oliver, he can't see me like this!"
But it was too late. Geoffrey was already in the kitchen, his arms sliding around her waist from behind, holding her close. "Yes," he said, his lips moving against her hair. "And the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service."
"Oh, Jesus," Ellen said.
He bent his head and rubbed his cheek against hers. "And you stole my coat."
Oliver beamed at the both of them, his hands still on her shoulders. "There, see?"
Ellen sniffed and tried to glare at him. She hated that tone of voice. "Don't be patronizing," she said, but Oliver only smiled wider, and Ellen closed her eyes against it. That made her more aware of Geoffrey's presence behind her, warm and comfortable and far more familiar than it should be. "Fuck," she said, but there wasn't any heat to it, and at some point, she'd stopped crying.
She still had that sick sinking feeling of being off-book before she was ready, though, the disorientation of not having any idea what to say or where to go. She obviously needed help, wasn't going to be able to get through the service without them, or at least Oliver, but it was just as obvious that something bigger was going on, that they weren't just talking about a funeral.
She opened her eyes to see that Oliver's smile had faded, and he and Geoffrey were having some kind of silent conversation over her head. When he noticed her watching him, he squeezed her shoulders and kissed her forehead, and then kissed Geoffrey's, too. They stood like that for a while, their heads pressed together in the kitchen, and Ellen started to relax, to think maybe they were right, that whatever the hell this was, it was going to be fine.
"Just trust me, Ellen, please," he said, pulling away, and Ellen wanted to.
Geoffrey, with instincts that would probably terrify her if she let herself think about it too hard, tightened his arms and pulled her closer; Ellen tilted her head back so she could look at him. He looked like someone who'd been up all night, dark circles under his eyes and too much stubble on his cheeks, and she was pretty sure she'd seen birds' nests neater than his hair. "You look like hell," she told him, and his eyes creased and his lips curved and he planted a kiss on her temple.
"Yup," he said, sounding pleased. "And you look beautiful. Are we doing this?"
She didn't have to ask him what this was; his eyes were glittering the same way they had during the balcony scene, in the diner, outside his apartment. Ellen's breath caught in her throat, and she realized she'd given in as soon as she'd set foot on that stage.
"You're both assholes," she said, and they hit her with matching grins. "All right. Yes. Fine. Thank you."
"Welcome home, Ellen," Oliver said, as Geoffrey hugged her tighter and Oliver wrapped his arms around both of them, still smiling. "The three of us are going to be just fine."
-FIN-
Fandom: Slings & Arrows
Characters/pairing: Ellen. Geoffrey. Oliver. Geoffrey/Ellen.
Rating: R
Length: ~7,600
Summary: Pre-series. Ellen returns to New Burbage, gets ambushed by Oliver, meets Geoffrey, drinks too much coffee, and really hates Romeo & Juliet.
A/N: Anyone who has spoken more than two words to me in the last, like, two months has heard about this story, and I need to thank everyone I know for not just killing me for being annoyingly obsessed. I especially need to thank murklins, and I know I always do that, but I really mean it this time, because this story would be either unwritten or really terrible without her. She was much more than a beta reader and I don't know how she stands me. tangleofthorns also did beta duty, thank god, because murklins and I drove ourselves more than a little crazy and needed to walk away. The title and the cut text are, I think, from Shakespeare in Love.
*
"Ellen, darling, I'm so sorry." Oliver Welles closed his hands over her shoulders and leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks. "Such a tragedy. We'll all miss him very much."
"Oliver, thank god," Ellen said, relieved to see a friendly face. "I'm all right. Better now that you're here." She was probably supposed to smile and kiss his cheek in return, but she didn't bother -- she knew he'd see right through it.
"It's good to see you again," he said. "I only wish it were under happier circumstances."
"Me too," she said. Oliver squeezed her shoulders before moving off to the side to let someone else through. Ellen couldn't remember his name, some director friend of her father's who'd wanted her to be in commercials when she was six. She reached for a smile and her voice, managed to deliver yet another convincing reading of, "Thank you for coming." The words were chalk in her mouth, dry and ever-present, like she was trapped in one of those nightmares where she only knew one of her lines and repeated it for hours, while everyone else tried not to stare. She needed a cigarette.
He muttered about his condolences, patted her shoulder awkwardly, and then headed for a group of ancient drunken actors in the other room, passing around flasks, red-faced and sniffling. Ellen watched them and rolled her eyes; they would inevitably break into stories of Life In The Theatre, but she hoped they'd at least wait until she was out of earshot.
Oliver, still standing next to her, glanced briefly in their direction and then turned his gaze on Ellen. "How are you holding up?"
"My father just died in a freak fishing accident. He didn't even like fishing! How do you think I'm holding up? Shit." Ellen held up her hands in apology. "Sorry, sorry, it's been a long day."
But Oliver didn't even flinch at her tone; instead, he grabbed her upper arm and tugged her into a corner a few feet away. He was up to something, his intentions so clear that Ellen wondered if he'd forgotten how to act in the intervening years, or if he wasn't bothering to try. "Well," he said, practically rubbing his hands together, "I think I have something that will cheer you up. Do you have a few minutes to talk?"
Ellen looked around the room, hoping he might take the hint and realize where they were. "A few minutes to talk? Oliver!" People glanced in their direction, and Ellen lowered her voice. "Oliver, I am at my father's funeral. Can't it wait?"
"I know," he said, putting both hands over his heart. "I know, I'm sorry, it's terribly tacky, but it's really quite important. You know I wouldn't ask otherwise."
Ellen knew no such thing, but she also really wanted a smoke, wanted to be anywhere but trying to avoid looking at her father's casket while standing right next to it. "I--" She looked around again. The viewing had only just started, and there was already a crowd inside and a line outside, more people than she would have thought come to pay their respects by participating in this morbid fucking ritual. Maybe the drunken actors in the corner had the right idea. "Oh, all right... Christ, just stay here. I'll be back."
Her very pregnant sister was sitting in the other room on some godforsaken floral-print couch, a relic from the 80s, glaring at Ellen like she'd murdered their father and a handful of small animals besides. Her husband hovered ineffectually. Ellen took a deep breath and headed in their direction. "Diane, I'm really sorry, but I need to go out for a short break. Do you think you could..." She trailed off and gestured toward the casket.
"A break? They opened the doors ten minutes ago, and you haven't done anything all week! I had to drag you here in the first place, and now--"
"Sorry," Ellen said. "You know I don't do well with people."
"What do you mean, you don't do well with people?" her sister asked through clenched teeth. "These are your people!"
"No, these are festival people! I left--"
"Oh, I know."
"--and these haven't been my people in a long time, and I need a fucking break! Why--"
Diane's husband tried to step in. "Ellen, look, she's due any day now. Can't you--"
"Oh, shut up, Rob," Ellen snapped. "Take a chair over there or something."
"His name is Ed!" Diane lumbered to her feet, her face going splotchy with the effort. "I can't believe--"
"Thank you! I'm sure it's what Dad would have wanted, you meeting his friends. I'll be right back. Thanks again, and sorry!" She shot Diane a smile and a wave, and then shouldered her way to where Oliver was lurking behind a large plant.
"Okay," she said. "Outside." She pushed him in front of her and followed him out, trying to disappear, but she got stopped four times before she made it to the door, people she hadn't seen in years hugging her, apologizing, getting their snot on her suit.
"Fuck," she said, once she finally got outside, her chest loosening with each breath of damp air. They walked around the corner of the funeral home, out of the sight of the crowd. "I hate funerals." Oliver, his eyes serious, offered her a light and didn't say anything.
"There are just so many details involved! I haven't had a chance to think about anything. God." She took another few drags. "Okay," she said, gesturing with her cigarette. "You've got until I finish this. What's so important?"
Ellen recognized his slow smile, and knew it wasn't a good sign. He only smiled that way when he wanted something very badly and had every intention of getting it. He reached into her purse, pulled out her cigarettes, offered her the pack with a flourish. "Have another, Ellen, darling, and then come back to the festival."
Ellen recoiled. "The festival? Oliver! This is a funeral! What is wrong with you?"
"Oh, please," he said, waving his left hand. "First of all, it's not a funeral. It's just a viewing. And anyway, your father was in the theatre. He was in this theatre. He would have understood."
"This is--" Ellen's mouth worked for a few seconds as she tried to think of something suitably scathing to say. "Fuck off, Oliver." She snatched her cigarettes out of his hand and shoved them into her purse. "Jesus."
She turned to go inside, but Oliver's voice stopped her; it had taken on that nasal whine it got when the universe was considering not giving him his way. "Ellen, wait! Please, just listen. Hear me out. If you don't like what I have to say, you can go back to those pap productions you've been doing for schoolchildren."
Ellen ground her teeth. The productions weren't the problem -- they were good, solid shows, introducing Shakespeare to children. But Ellen wasn't good with kids, and no matter how hard she tried, the cast Q&A sessions invariably ended with a bunch of sobbing 10 year-olds. She wasn't sure how much longer her director was going to put up with it.
"Talk," she snapped.
"This is John's last season as artistic director, and of course it's going to be a great one, but then, Ellen... then we'll be going in an entirely new direction! We need an actress of your caliber on the front lines, someone versatile and fearless and beautiful."
It was a cheap trick, and Ellen was falling for it anyway. "Stick to the topic," she said, with less anger than she'd wanted.
"You are the topic! But honestly, Ellen, it's time for you to come home. Your father would have wanted it. He never understood why you left, you know."
"He never asked, and you're a manipulative bastard, Oliver."
"Please, Ellen, we really do need you. And there's someone here I think you should meet."
"Oh, fuck." Oliver was a prick, but he was usually right about these things. "Who is it?"
"His name is Geoffrey Tennant. He's a genius, Ellen, I--"
"Not him again." Ellen rolled her eyes but turned to face him fully. "Oliver, you've told me about him every time I've seen you for the last, what, ten years?"
"Yes, and now he's here, and I'm here, and you're here--"
"I am here for a funeral! Not for you, and not for the fucking festival."
"Yes, I know, and it's as if the stars have all aligned! Please, just talk to him. Stop by the theatre tomorrow morning, do a reading. See what you think." He clasped his hands together and looked like he was about to drop to his knees.
Ellen took another drag of her cigarette, and exhaled the smoke directly into his face. "I hate you, Oliver."
His smile got wider. "I know, darling. It's all right. It's magnificent, in fact."
*
Ellen was running late, and Oliver, of course, wasn't in his office. She made her way through the building and tried not to notice that it was the same as it had been the last time she was there, different fliers on the walls but the same two light bulbs burnt out in the hall. She stuck her head into too-familiar rehearsal rooms, but Oliver wasn't in any of them. There was really only one place he could be, and Ellen felt frustration gathering under her skin, twisting her muscles into knots. She swore under her breath as she made her way backstage, through the wings. Enter, stage left.
"But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?" A melodic voice, intimate and well-projected, greeted her as soon as she stepped onstage. Ellen assumed it was the actor she had come to meet, Geoffrey Tennant, but the voice was coming from behind a pile of flats downstage right, and the only thing she could see was a flash of wild black curls.
"Oh, Jesus," Ellen said. "Oliver, what the hell is going on?"
Oliver, sitting at the table with some stage manager, smiled and gestured for them to keep going. There were a few other people there, too, scattered about the theatre, sitting forward in their seats. Ellen was caught, on stage in front of a waiting audience, too warm even under the rehearsal lights. The only thing she could think to do was put down her purse, and begin.
"It is the east." Geoffrey's voice seemed to surround her, and Ellen headed slowly for center stage with no real idea what she was going to do when she got there. There wasn't any scenery, no balcony for her to stand on and pretend she couldn't see him, so she just turned her back and waited. He seemed to be waiting, too, and spoke as soon as she turned. "And Juliet is the sun."
Fuck. Two lines of Shakespeare, and Ellen could feel herself shifting and changing and falling -- into Juliet, a fucking teenager, and 32 was too old for this -- but she'd been here before and knew it wasn't worth fighting. She closed her eyes and evened out her breathing, focused on Geoffrey's voice, tried to spin it into something she could grasp, something tangible to work with. She could sense him moving closer as he spoke, felt the air change and the boards shift, and then he was behind her, his voice a low rumble straight into her ear, "O, it is my love!"
Ellen, her eyes still closed, crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed at the goosebumps crawling down her body. She felt Geoffrey move again, felt him turn and put his back to hers, using her body as a wall. She did the same to him, grateful for the resistance as he spoke, used it to anchor herself as she ran her hands up her shoulders, over her neck, her face. "O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!"
Her line was only two words, more sigh than sentence, and it wasn't hard to hit her cue. Her body moved with Geoffrey's as he sucked in his breath, and she realized she was as attuned to his breathing as she was to her own. She felt him say, "She speaks!" more than she heard him, and when he implored, "O, speak again," there wasn't anything she wanted more. But it wasn't her line and he didn't stop talking, his head falling back to rest against the top of her own, their bodies molding together.
Seven lines later, their heads were turned so they were cheek-to-cheek, his skin rough and warm against her own, his breath rushing across her lips. Ellen was frustrated and Juliet was near tears, begging him, "deny thy father and refuse thy name," and the pressure was becoming unbearable. She and Geoffrey were still pushing, their arms spread and their palms sliding together, vibrating with tension from the fight to keep them open. Ellen couldn't get her breathing under control, and she hurried too quickly through her next few lines, wanting to turn and look at him, drop the pretense and acknowledge his presence, figure out what the hell was going on.
His stubble scraped against her cheek as his mouth moved, his lips drifting closer to hers, "call me but love," and Ellen'd had enough; she turned and shoved him away, rolled right over the rest of his line to demand, "What man art thou?" Her first good look at Geoffrey, and Ellen forgot everything: her line, the scene, what was happening. He was lit from within, breathless and beautiful and shining, and if Ellen had needed confirmation that she was well and truly fucked, she was looking at it. She stared, flushed and panting, until his lips curved into a slight smile that she felt the need to get away from. Backing up, she tried her line again. "What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, so stumblest upon my council?"
The smile stayed, and somehow, Ellen made it through the scene. Geoffrey was a fucking force of nature, on his knees and all around her, his hands on her face and her waist and her hair, his eyes laughing and glittering and pleading. That last surprised her, actually, the raised eyebrow and the quirk of his mouth, the slight tilt of his head; she'd lost her distance and she knew she wouldn't recover it if she let him kiss her, but she nodded anyway and then his lips were against hers, and Ellen was undone. Someone offstage was playing the Nurse, calling for Juliet, and Ellen managed to tear herself away, but Geoffrey kept coming at her, dancing closer, and Ellen was as bereft as Juliet when he was finally gone.
Ellen didn't move, stayed where she was, her head down and her eyes closed, the silence stretched and heavy as she tried to find herself again. She couldn't stand it very long, and she looked up, directly at Oliver, who was watching her with a smug smile. Their eyes met and he stood up, clapping, and then everyone else was applauding, too. Geoffrey bounded back out onstage from the wings and took her face in his hands, long fingers sliding over her cheeks and into her hairline, and kissed her quickly. "Ellen Fanshaw," he murmured, his tone almost reverent, his lips against hers. "That was incredible." Then he started tugging her downstage, shouting about chemistry and Shakespeare and poetry and Ellen found she was too angry to listen.
"That wasn't incredible," she snapped, snatching her hand away and smacking him in the chest. "That was a dirty trick." She hit him again for good measure, and his smile started to fade as she poked him. "You ambushed me!"
His eyes widened as he looked between her face and the finger she had jabbed him with. "I-- What?"
Ellen's eyes narrowed. "Nothing to say? Fuck you." She turned to glare at Oliver. "And fuck you, too!"
"Ellen," Geoffrey said. "I-- oh." His eyes cleared and his lips curled into a wry grin, and then he turned to jab his own finger in Oliver's direction. "You said she agreed!"
"She did," Oliver said, his hands out in front of him. "She said she'd come to meet you and do a reading."
"That was not a reading!" Ellen and Geoffrey shouted it in unison, and Ellen gestured at the stage, at Geoffrey, at the entire place. "You brought in a fucking audience!"
Oliver smiled. "You did it, though, didn't you? And it was glorious. You know it was, I can tell. Don't try to deny it."
He was right, of course, the bastard. "Oh, fuck off, Oliver." She turned and stomped off stage, intending to leave, but she could feel Geoffrey watching her, and it stopped her short. She stood there, waiting, and then tilted her head enough to say over her shoulder, "Well? Are you coming?"
"G'night," Geoffrey called out, at 11 in the morning, before Ellen had finished her question. Oliver started sputtering, called them both assholes, but then Geoffrey was beside her, that ridiculous smile on his face, and Ellen's lips curved into an answering smile before she remembered she was supposed to be angry.
*
Once they got outside, Ellen wasn't sure what they were supposed to do. Geoffrey was vibrating next to her, barely contained, like a greyhound at the starting line, and Ellen glanced at him, sidelong. She didn't know anything about him except that he could act, he could kiss, and somebody should buy him an iron.
He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat and then pulled them out again, rubbed them together. A smile broke over his face and then disappeared, as if he hadn't meant for it to happen but wasn't able to help himself. "I'm sorry about the ambush," he said. "I really didn't know."
Ellen lit a cigarette and eyed him through the smoke. He seemed sincere. "Oliver's a prick," she said.
"Yes," he said, giving free rein to that smile. He was older than Ellen had first thought, maybe her age, laugh lines showing around his eyes. "Yes, he is. But he's also a genius. Ellen, that was..." His hands went back in his pockets and he spun in a circle, his coat flapping in the wind. "I don't know what that was," he called to the sky, his head thrown back. "But I want to do it again and again!"
Ellen took another drag of her cigarette, stalling for time, not quite ready to admit she wanted the same thing, and certainly not ready to shout it to the heavens. Geoffrey stopped spinning and leapt in front of her, walked backwards down the sidewalk.
"So," he said, "Where to?"
Ellen had a million things to do. Her father's memorial service was in the morning, and she needed to get to her sister's house to help with the last-minute preparations, something about photo collages and flowers. She wasn't sure why she needed to be there -- weren't there people who did that sort of thing professionally? -- but Diane had insisted.
"Buy me a coffee."
"Sure." He nodded and offered her his arm.
*
Coffee turned into lunch turned into wandering aimlessly through New Burbage, and they found themselves at the river complaining about Toronto theatre critics when Geoffrey stopped, mid-sentence, and pointed.
"Ellen, it's a swan boat!"
"You've been here for three years," she said. "This can't be the first time you've seen one."
"Well, no," he admitted, one side of his mouth curving into a grin. "But it's the first time I've wanted to get in one." He bounced on his toes and held out his hand. "Come on."
Ellen wanted to tell him they weren't particularly thrilling, but he looked so excited that she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. She cast about for a better excuse. "It's getting dark. It'll be too cold on the river."
"Ah," he said, stripping his coat off. "Easily fixed!" He draped it over her shoulders and leaned back to survey his handiwork, smoothing the lapels. Ellen was already wearing a coat, and didn't need his, but as soon as he glanced up and met her eyes, whatever she was about to say in protest died in her throat. Geoffrey, for the first time all day, had gone entirely still. Ellen wasn't even sure he was breathing; she sure as hell wasn't. "You do become an old coat well," he murmured. One finger slid across her neck, skirted around the edges of her scarf.
"Thank you," she managed, breaking eye contact and shrugging his hands off. His coat was too long for her, dragging in the grass as she walked. She snuggled into it anyway, and the warmth from his body seeped through all her layers and into her skin, curling around her spine and settling low in her belly. Seeking distraction, she cautiously put her hands in the pockets, not sure what she'd find. They were empty, full of holes, and she stuck her fingers through and wiggled them at Geoffrey, her eyebrows raised.
"Pockets are useless," he declared.
"Well, these pockets are useless."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, all pockets are useless. They're not big enough for books, and everything else you need, you carry in here." He patted his chest.
"I need lipstick," she told him.
"Hm." Geoffrey pursed his lips and made a show of studying hers, bending forward at the waist with his hands clasped behind his back. "No. No, I don't think you do."
Ellen swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and went for another distraction. She bumped his shoulder with hers, knocking him off balance, and made for the swan boats. "All right," she said. "But pockets have to be good for something, or they wouldn't be so popular."
"Oh, well, yes. They're good for theatrics."
"Theatrics?"
"Yup. Go on, try it. Put your hands in the pockets and cock your elbows in so the coat opens a bit." He demonstrated, and Ellen took two seconds to debate before she mimicked him. "Good. Now... run!"
He turned and went running full-tilt at the dock. Ellen didn't hesitate this time, the laughter bubbling out of her throat as she ran after him, his coat flapping in the breeze.
She fished some money out of her purse while Geoffrey examined several of the boats and finally settled on the number six. It lurched under them as they clambered into it, both of them unsteady on the slippery surface. Ellen tried to grab his arm to balance herself, but he reached for her at the same time, and they fell into the boat in a tangle of limbs.
"Well," he said, extracting himself. "Good thing they made these idiot-proof. I don't see any lifeguards."
Ellen settled on the bench next to him, her shoulder pressing into his, and couldn't think of anything to say. The boat tipped again and their thighs bumped together, and she felt suddenly awkward, stuck in a boat with a stranger with nothing to talk about. She cleared her throat and glanced sideways; Geoffrey was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched tight, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. They started paddling in unspoken agreement.
"I can't believe I've never done this," he said, too many minutes later, his voice both hushed and somehow strained. "It's beautiful."
Ellen looked around and tried to see what he was seeing, the shocking green of new spring grass, the way the light of the setting sun shattered over the surface of the water. Even the swans were nice, she thought, as long as they didn't get too close. "Yes," she said. "I suppose it is."
"Why'd you leave?"
"Hm? Oh, you mean New Burbage?" He nodded and she shrugged. "I grew up here. It's not exciting when it's home. I guess I just wanted to do something different for a while. I always meant to come back."
"Good," he said, and she could tell he was trying not to grin. She rolled her eyes and leaned a little closer.
He opened his mouth to say something else, but Ellen cut him off. "Shit. I think that's my sister."
"What? Where?"
There was a bench coming up on their right, and Ellen pointed. "There. That's Diane and... I don't know, her loser husband. He has some trucker name. We have to hide."
"Hide? All right." His brow furrowed in confusion but he slid down onto the floor of the boat anyway, his legs bending awkwardly. It must have been cold, but he wasn't complaining. He held an arm up and waved her forward. "Come on, then, duck." She curled against him, her head on his chest, his arm settling heavily across her stomach.
Ellen stared up at the darkening sky and listened to his heart beat and tried to keep her hands from wandering over his stomach. He was warm and solid and comfortable; all trace of their earlier awkwardness had vanished. "Why am I here, Geoffrey?"
"Because I dragged you," he said.
"I wasn't talking about the boat."
"Neither was I. You said you meant to come back, right? I think it's a sign. I think I brought you to New Burbage."
"You killed my father?" It was probably a shitty thing to say, but even so, Ellen hadn't expected him to go stiff with shock.
"I-- what? No! Is that why you're here?"
Ellen tilted her head so she could look at him. He certainly looked surprised: eyes wide, mouth open, hair standing on end. "Oliver didn't tell you? He ambushed me at the viewing and badgered me into coming to the theatre for a reading."
"Christ. I... I'm an asshole. But I'm not sorry."
His fingers curled around her waist, and Ellen went back to looking at the sky. "Neither am I."
*
"Favorite play," he said, sliding into the booth and signaling the waitress at the counter for coffee.
Ellen wasn't sure she had one, so she repeated his question and stalled for time by putting her hair back up; it had come undone at some point and she hadn't really noticed. Geoffrey watched her, and she tried to come up with an answer. She had favorite parts and favorite scenes and favorite productions, but she'd never managed to choose a favorite play based on the text alone. "I don't know," she finally admitted. "I know how that sounds. I'm an actress, I should have a favorite play. But I can never decide."
Geoffrey tilted his head, his eyes narrowed slightly. "But it's not Romeo & Juliet."
"God, no. I hate that play." She just hadn't thought it was quite so obvious.
"Why?"
"They're idiots." The waitress came with the coffee, and Ellen stirred in two creams and two sugars. "Greatest love story in the western world, and it's two moronic teenagers who think the world should stop because they want to get laid."
Geoffrey's head tilted in the other direction. "Huh."
His scrutiny was making her uncomfortable. "What? You don't agree. But it's ridiculous. What do teenagers know about love?"
"Nothing," Geoffrey said, splaying his arms across the table. He bent his head to sip at his coffee without having to move it, and Ellen caught herself staring at his lips, remembering how they felt against hers. "But that's the point. I mean, what you just said, you hear it all the time. You hear it with music, these 18-year-old kids singing about their heartbreak on the fucking radio." He sat back up and rolled his eyes as he leaned forward, his chest pressing against the edge of the table. "And it is ridiculous, but Ellen, do you remember what it was like to be that young?"
"Yes," she said. "It was horrible."
He grinned. "Yes, it was. Because everything was the end of the world. We were totally open to everything, hadn't built these walls around our hearts. Now we're old and terrified and cut off from our feelings. Teenagers are idiots, but when was the last time you felt anything that deeply?"
Twelve hours ago when I was on that stage with you, she thought, but what she said was, "I'm an actress, Geoffrey. I feel everything that deeply."
His eyebrows went up and he wrapped his hands around the coffee mug. "I'm an actor, Ellen. You'd be insane."
"Maybe I am."
"Good," he said, grinning wider. "Then our R&J is going to be magnificent."
"Our what? No. Geoffrey! I haven't even said I'm coming back! And anyway, we're in our 30s. We're way too old for those parts. This morning was fun, but-- no. Oliver wouldn't do it."
"I guarantee you Oliver's already pitched it to the board." He reached across the table and caught her hands in his, his thumbs brushing across the insides of her wrists. "Ellen, weren't you listening? It's a cautionary tale, but it goes both ways, and everyone ignores the second part."
"What are you talking about?"
"Transformation! Ellen. Ellen." He bounced their hands on the table and then let go. Ellen took the opportunity to pull her coffee closer, afraid he was going to knock it over as he spoke. "Ellen, it can't just a be story about stupid teenagers falling in love and dying, and everyone goes home and says, 'oh, well, what the fuck do teenagers know about love anyway?' It's so much more than that. Part of it has to be about being open to the experience, no matter how old you are, no matter what happens, and everyone goes home and says, 'I want a love like that!'"
Ellen raised her eyebrows and stared at him over the rim of her coffee mug. "But they can't have it! Love like that doesn't exist. And they still die."
He groaned and flopped back in the seat, one arm over his eyes. "It does," he insisted, his voice garbled. "We're just too cut off to notice."
She stared at him, slumped in the booth like she'd stuck her fork through his heart. "Well," she said. "I like that you think it matters. It's been a long time since anyone talked to me like that."
He shifted his arm out of the way and peered at her through one eye. "Like what?"
"Like theatre can make a difference."
"It can," he said, and shot forward to snatch her hands again. "You'll see. Come back, and do this play with me and Oliver, and you'll see."
Ellen sipped her coffee and changed the subject, and they made it to his place, eventually, after too much caffeine and another rambling walk through town and an argument about Cymbeline in which Geoffrey ranted for 15 minutes straight about the RSC's 1980 production being either under- or overrated. Ellen couldn't quite follow it, his words a cyclone in her mind, fast and dizzying. She felt drunk, and they stumbled to the steps to his building, arm in arm.
He spun her around and backed her against the wall, and the smile died on her lips. "Don't say it, Geoffrey," she said, and put two fingers to his mouth. "Don't even think about it."
"But--" The words were there already, gleaming in his eyes.
"I swear to god, if you start talking about parting or--"
"As many farewells as there be stars in heaven?"
"--yes, or that, I won't be able to leave."
He caught her hand as she tried to pull it away, pressed his lips to her knuckles. "And would that be so bad?"
"Jesus, Geoffrey, it's not like I'm out ten minutes past curfew." She twisted her hand, trying to see her watch. "The service is in... Fuck, it's in four hours! Really. I'll come to the theatre when it's over, okay?"
"Shit," he said, dropping her hand like it had scalded him. "Shit, I'm sorry, I keep forgetting." He reached out to squeeze her shoulder and peered down at her through narrowed eyes, his head cocked to one side. "You don't seem... I mean, are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine." She thought it was even mostly true. "We weren't close."
"Oh," he said. "Me too."
She shook her head, strands of her hair snagging on the brick behind her. "No, it wasn't like that. He didn't understand why I left the festival. He thought... I don't know what he thought." She shrugged. "But I told you already, I just wanted a change. I don't know why that was so difficult for him."
"Well," Geoffrey said. "My father hated the theatre. Detested everything about it." His eyes had gone dull and distant, and Ellen wanted to do something comforting, but she didn't have any ideas. She reached for his collar, thinking to straighten it, but dropped her hand before it reached him.
"I need to go," she said. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Today. All right? Later today."
His eyes came back into focus and they stared at one another for a few seconds, the silence pulsing between them like a heartbeat. "All right," he said, and stepped back.
Ellen tried to turn around and start walking, but even though he'd moved his body, his gaze was still pinning her to the wall, his eyes shining in the porch light. "Fuck." She couldn't stop looking at him.
She thought the sound he made next was her name, low and long and deep in his throat, and if one of them moved, Ellen didn't notice. All she knew was that she was sliding into him, her body into his arms, her hands into his ridiculous hair, her tongue into his mouth, hot and still tasting of coffee. He sighed against her lips and she swallowed it down like it was all the air she'd ever need.
Ellen pressed closer, licking into his mouth, and he stumbled backwards and might have tripped, but he recovered by sitting down on the steps and pulling her onto his lap. Their teeth clicked together but he didn't stop kissing her, and she felt his hands dig under both the coats she was wearing, warm fingertips pressing through the silk of her blouse, against her ribs, into the notches of her spine.
It was like being on stage, she thought, the blood rushing through her ears, the high of adulation. Like sex in public, and she wanted to try it, wanted to tear their clothes off and fuck him right there, outside on the concrete steps at six in the morning, where everyone could see. She wrapped her legs around him, slid down his lap until their hips met, followed his gasp with her tongue. He shifted under her, grabbed her hips and pulled her toward him, his erection obvious and pressing between her legs.
"Oh, shit," she said, her voice ragged. "Stop," she said, and he did, threw his head back and sucked in a long, shuddering breath, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief.
"Sorry," he said, his eyes closed, his hands still clenched tight on her hips, thumbs pressing into to the hollows of her hipbones. Ellen's hands were on his shoulders and she tugged down the collar of his shirt, drew her thumbs along his collarbone. She leaned back in his arms, but that only pushed her hips into his again, and they both gasped and swore under their breath and tried not to move.
"No," she said, when she thought she was going to be able to make coherent noises. "No, I... the funeral."
He nodded, but he didn't open his eyes, didn't ease his grip. She dropped her head onto his shoulder, gave in to the urge to lick the salt from his skin, felt another small shiver pass through his body.
"Sorry," she told him, her lips against his neck. "I have to go."
She didn't move. He did, though, rotated her hips in a slow circle against his, pressed up into her, dropped his own head against her shoulder, his stubble raking against her skin. "Fuck," he said. "All right. What's happening?"
"I don't know," she said, grinding back against him without meaning to, needing to leave but unable to put any space between them. "But it's okay. I... it's been a long day. Very intense."
He laughed at that, short and strangled, his breath hot against her skin. "Right. Intense."
"I have to go."
"I know. You keep telling me."
"Okay, then."
"Okay." She pressed another kiss to his jaw, one to his lips, and then ripped herself out of his arms and ran down the street, his coat still dragging behind her. She didn't dare look back.
As she neared her sister's house, Ellen started steeling herself for the inevitable lecture about responsibility and family and whatever other bullshit Diane was going to come up with. Not that she didn't deserve it, really; she'd skipped out on the second viewing and the rest of the funeral preparations to stay out all day and all night with Geoffrey, and she was slinking home at six in the fucking morning like she was in grade 10. Maybe she wasn't too old for Juliet.
She expected Diane and her husband to be awake, getting ready, which at least meant her brother-in-law would have made coffee. But when she let herself into the house, it was strangely silent. No noise, no coffee, just a note on the kitchen table, barely legible:
Diane in labor. At hospital. Funeral service on you. Thanks for all your help! --E.
"Fuck." Ellen balled the note up and threw it on the floor. "Fuck!"
She sank into one of the kitchen chairs and tried to figure out what to do, but her mind was blank and spinning, and she couldn't look away from the crumpled ball of paper. She felt like she might throw up, all those countless cups of coffee roiling in her stomach. Her next coherent thought was that her father would probably know what to do, and she choked on a sob when it hit her that she couldn't ask him anything, ever again, and the last time they'd spoken it was a shouting match about something stupid, some shitty review, and fuck, fuck, fuck.
Ellen repeated it in her head, because at least it was something, and she stared at the note and sucked in air and tried to get herself under control. She could handle this, she'd be fine, she was sure Diane had made the fucking collage or whatever it was she'd wanted Ellen to help with. But when she was finally able to look at something other than that piece of paper, she took a quick glance around and didn't see a collage, didn't see any flowers, didn't see a big pile of papers that said "Funeral Instructions," and Ellen fumbled for the phone before she lost control again.
"Hello?"
Oliver's voice was groggy with sleep, and she wanted to say something reasonable like, Sorry for bothering you this early in the morning, but I really need your help, but she wasn't able to make her voice work, couldn't say anything at all. She managed another choking sound.
"Hello?" he said again, sounding more alert. "Who is this?"
Ellen took a deep breath and got his name out.
"Ellen? Oh my god, what happened?" She could hear movement over the phone, the rustle of bedsheets, footsteps on the floor.
"I can't do this, Oliver," she said, her voice gaining strength. "I can't do this by myself."
"Do what? Ellen, darling, for the love of god, slow down and tell me what's happened."
"You owe me!"
"Yes, fine, I owe you. What happened?"
"Diane's having her baby and the funeral is in four hours or three hours and there's no one to help me and I don't know what to do, Oliver, I can't do this alone and you--"
"Breathe, Ellen, breathe. I'm getting dressed now, and I'll come straight there. You're at your sister's?"
Ellen swallowed the bile in her throat and nodded. "Yes," she said, and gave him the address.
Oliver hung up and Ellen stared at the phone, her cheeks wet and her chest heaving. She hadn't even realized she was crying, and she rubbed at her eyes and tried to stop, went through every piece of hackneyed acting advice she'd ever heard trying to come up with something that would help. None of it did; everything she heard was suddenly in her father's voice, and it was too easy to picture him on the living room sofa telling her to fully commit or she might as well not bother. When she was young, it had been advice, and when she'd told him she was leaving the festival, it became something else entirely, as if New Burbage were the only place in Canada she could be committed to her work.
"Fuck," she said again, and dropped her head into her arms and committed herself to crying. She was still there when the doorbell rang a lifetime later.
"Ellen? Ellen!" She heard Oliver let himself in and run down the hallway, calling her name, and then he was there beside the chair, on his knees, his hands on her shoulders, shaking her. "Ellen, look at me. Focus. It's going to be fine."
She tried, but his face was a blurry mess through her tears, and she shook her head. "No, it's-- I can't, Oliver. I can't! They're going to want me to say something and we were arguing, Oliver, what am I going to say? That nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it?"
"Oh, honestly, it wasn't that bad."
"I know! I know it wasn't. Fuck!" She was crying again, not making sense, even to herself. "Jesus, I hate this."
"Hush," Oliver said, standing up and pulling her with him, into an embrace. "Hush, I know you do, but I promise you, it's going to be all right." She felt his lips, dry and cool, press against her temple. "I'm here, and--"
"Hello?" Someone else was in the house, a voice she knew but didn't quite believe, shouting her name and getting closer to the kitchen.
"In here," Oliver called, and smoothed his hands over her hair. "See? I'm here, and Geoffrey's here, and we're going to get through this."
"Shit," Ellen said, shoving at his chest. "You called Geoffrey? I met him yesterday, Oliver, he can't see me like this!"
But it was too late. Geoffrey was already in the kitchen, his arms sliding around her waist from behind, holding her close. "Yes," he said, his lips moving against her hair. "And the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service."
"Oh, Jesus," Ellen said.
He bent his head and rubbed his cheek against hers. "And you stole my coat."
Oliver beamed at the both of them, his hands still on her shoulders. "There, see?"
Ellen sniffed and tried to glare at him. She hated that tone of voice. "Don't be patronizing," she said, but Oliver only smiled wider, and Ellen closed her eyes against it. That made her more aware of Geoffrey's presence behind her, warm and comfortable and far more familiar than it should be. "Fuck," she said, but there wasn't any heat to it, and at some point, she'd stopped crying.
She still had that sick sinking feeling of being off-book before she was ready, though, the disorientation of not having any idea what to say or where to go. She obviously needed help, wasn't going to be able to get through the service without them, or at least Oliver, but it was just as obvious that something bigger was going on, that they weren't just talking about a funeral.
She opened her eyes to see that Oliver's smile had faded, and he and Geoffrey were having some kind of silent conversation over her head. When he noticed her watching him, he squeezed her shoulders and kissed her forehead, and then kissed Geoffrey's, too. They stood like that for a while, their heads pressed together in the kitchen, and Ellen started to relax, to think maybe they were right, that whatever the hell this was, it was going to be fine.
"Just trust me, Ellen, please," he said, pulling away, and Ellen wanted to.
Geoffrey, with instincts that would probably terrify her if she let herself think about it too hard, tightened his arms and pulled her closer; Ellen tilted her head back so she could look at him. He looked like someone who'd been up all night, dark circles under his eyes and too much stubble on his cheeks, and she was pretty sure she'd seen birds' nests neater than his hair. "You look like hell," she told him, and his eyes creased and his lips curved and he planted a kiss on her temple.
"Yup," he said, sounding pleased. "And you look beautiful. Are we doing this?"
She didn't have to ask him what this was; his eyes were glittering the same way they had during the balcony scene, in the diner, outside his apartment. Ellen's breath caught in her throat, and she realized she'd given in as soon as she'd set foot on that stage.
"You're both assholes," she said, and they hit her with matching grins. "All right. Yes. Fine. Thank you."
"Welcome home, Ellen," Oliver said, as Geoffrey hugged her tighter and Oliver wrapped his arms around both of them, still smiling. "The three of us are going to be just fine."
-FIN-