Fic: Raise the Curtain, Martha Rodgers (Castle)
Title: Raise the Curtain
Author: lauriestein
Rating: G
Characters: Martha
Disclaimer: Not mine, not stealing, no profits being made.
Spoilers: Nothing past season 1
Prompt: opening night
Summary: In the space of a day, everything's gone. Martha still has to face the crowd.
This place puts the off in off(-off)-Broadway, that's for damn sure. Martha reaches for the weak martini that's been slowly evaporating in the hot, airless closet that masquerades as a dressing room and knocks the rest back in one gulp. The crackling murmur over the tannoy signals the impending half-hour call before the bored stage manager can utter the words.
She closes her eyes, breathes deeply, and waits. The scent of mingling bouquets and the oily make-up fill her nostrils, and she tips her head back in frustration as her concentration drifts again. It's impossible to think of her lines, the blocking or even what this one-dimensional character's stupid name is, not when all she can see are the flashing zeroes on the ATM.
He left a note. She expected a little better, but not much, all things considered. Considering he has every dime she's made in the last thirty years, a note was literally the least he could do.
But Martha can't think about him and his smug, trustworthy face. Every time she pictures the man who waltzed her down the aisle two summers ago, a wave of nausea crashes through her stomach that makes her feel like running for the exit instead of treading the boards.
The shaky plywood walls let her hear the audience filtering in. Most of the tiny room will be filled with jaded critics ready to lambast the production as amateur and Martha as a has-been, but there'll be Richard and Alexis somewhere in the throng.
It's telling Richard that she dreads. All those years of schilling for any part to pay for his education, watching him do homework in the office by countless stage doors, she never wanted him to think it was hard for her. Just because his father had been the first in the long line of lapses in judgment, didn't mean her boy had to suffer.
He'll help her of course. Those books of his that she raves about to everyone but him are making real money now. Martha knows she doesn't even have to ask, he's always been generous to a fault.
God, she's getting old.
A granddaughter fast approaching her teens and a son who'll soon be looking after her. Oh, the notion had always been there, in the abstract, but the reality of having a grown son pay the bills is not something she likes to dwell on. Maybe she can eke out an existence a while longer on this Equity minimum, postpone the shame for a few weeks yet.
The call goes out again, and she pats down her dowdy costume one last time. A few more deep breaths, and a long, hard look in the mirror.
Not perfect, Rodgers, but it'll do.
She makes her way along the narrow corridor, nodding to the crew members she passes on the way. The wings are dark and musty, a universal truth in every theater she's worked. The murmurs from the auditorium are a dull roar now, and she lets it wash over her.
The director calls places and she waits on her mark for the curtain to rise.
Tonight, she begins again. Thank God she's done it so many times before.
Author: lauriestein
Rating: G
Characters: Martha
Disclaimer: Not mine, not stealing, no profits being made.
Spoilers: Nothing past season 1
Prompt: opening night
Summary: In the space of a day, everything's gone. Martha still has to face the crowd.
This place puts the off in off(-off)-Broadway, that's for damn sure. Martha reaches for the weak martini that's been slowly evaporating in the hot, airless closet that masquerades as a dressing room and knocks the rest back in one gulp. The crackling murmur over the tannoy signals the impending half-hour call before the bored stage manager can utter the words.
She closes her eyes, breathes deeply, and waits. The scent of mingling bouquets and the oily make-up fill her nostrils, and she tips her head back in frustration as her concentration drifts again. It's impossible to think of her lines, the blocking or even what this one-dimensional character's stupid name is, not when all she can see are the flashing zeroes on the ATM.
He left a note. She expected a little better, but not much, all things considered. Considering he has every dime she's made in the last thirty years, a note was literally the least he could do.
But Martha can't think about him and his smug, trustworthy face. Every time she pictures the man who waltzed her down the aisle two summers ago, a wave of nausea crashes through her stomach that makes her feel like running for the exit instead of treading the boards.
The shaky plywood walls let her hear the audience filtering in. Most of the tiny room will be filled with jaded critics ready to lambast the production as amateur and Martha as a has-been, but there'll be Richard and Alexis somewhere in the throng.
It's telling Richard that she dreads. All those years of schilling for any part to pay for his education, watching him do homework in the office by countless stage doors, she never wanted him to think it was hard for her. Just because his father had been the first in the long line of lapses in judgment, didn't mean her boy had to suffer.
He'll help her of course. Those books of his that she raves about to everyone but him are making real money now. Martha knows she doesn't even have to ask, he's always been generous to a fault.
God, she's getting old.
A granddaughter fast approaching her teens and a son who'll soon be looking after her. Oh, the notion had always been there, in the abstract, but the reality of having a grown son pay the bills is not something she likes to dwell on. Maybe she can eke out an existence a while longer on this Equity minimum, postpone the shame for a few weeks yet.
The call goes out again, and she pats down her dowdy costume one last time. A few more deep breaths, and a long, hard look in the mirror.
Not perfect, Rodgers, but it'll do.
She makes her way along the narrow corridor, nodding to the crew members she passes on the way. The wings are dark and musty, a universal truth in every theater she's worked. The murmurs from the auditorium are a dull roar now, and she lets it wash over her.
The director calls places and she waits on her mark for the curtain to rise.
Tonight, she begins again. Thank God she's done it so many times before.