Fic Post: Lost Inning
Title: Lost Inning
Timeframe: Post Wedding
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "But yes, this right here is Pride. So the question you get to ask yourself is what matters more right now? Your pain or your craft."
For some reason, she knew the exact time. At 3:54 exactly, she started to sob. Sitting on floor by the bed, Ruby's head in her lap, still sandy and crusty from the beach, with the sound of the shower behind her as Carlos rinsed off, she stared at the clock, blinked once, and started to cry.
It wasn't a slow trickle of tears. She wasn't blinking away emotion as she sat there.
No.
One minute she was petting the dog, the next she was screaming. Air escaping her body even as her lungs tried to trap it in, her tear ducts unable to keep up with the commands from her brain. In a breath, an instant, her entire being decided it was done and any personal foundation she had left just started to crumble. Her howling was unconscious in its passion, sucking her closer and closer to the black hole she'd been circulating for years.
She just couldn't take it anymore.
Never. She never should have said anything. She never should have convinced herself to come forward. She should have just dealt with it quietly, found a therapist, and never revealed who. There wasn't any evidence. Nothing except her broken brain and the soul that was collapsing inward. And except for a tiny, tiny group of people, there was no support. Especially now from the industry. That much was being proven.
Everything hurt. She'd been so numb for so long but now it just hurt. Everything hurt. Everything. Every breath was a shard of ice every tear a razor slice down her cheek. Everything.
And she hated herself for all of it.
She had no reason to complain. A husband who loved her, friends who cared, enough money that she didn't need to work for the rest of her life. She'd had her run. She'd had her time. She needed to walk away. Let him win.
He was right. He'd threatened her and been right.
If she walked away, there was a chance she'd never work again.
She knew how the industry worked. And once the networks started cutting contract time, it was a lost cause. They didn't want her. They were done with her. They'd patted her on the head and let her have her tantrum and now it was done. She needed to be a big girl and let the boys determine everything. Even Lori was saying they'd lost this one.
Nothing else was working, so she sobbed, heavy, hard, empty tears that wouldn't change a damn thing. She was trapped. He'd won, again.
Consciousness returned 20 minutes later. She was still on the floor but her husband was next to her, the dogs crowded nearby. The sobs slowed to hiccuping tears and she wiped her face and looked at Carlos, who at least didn't look worried. He was long past that stage of his understanding of her moods. No, he looked relieved and she knew he was glad she was finally letting all of this go.
"I hate him, Carlos. I hate myself for letting it happen. I hate myself for not stopping it. I hate ... I hate myself more than I hate him and that's the worst part."
He reached over and wiped her face before he said anything. She was dripping snot, which made her almost laugh. God she was disgusting.
"Hold on," she said, trying to take a breath. She coughed and sneezed and snot ran down her lips. "I'm going to go rinse off."
"Okay," he said.
The shower pecked at her slightly sunburned skin and the steam made her lightheaded, so she sank to the floor and balled up under the stream of water until she felt waterlogged. Her arms no longer had the strength to hold themselves and she was about to forgo washing her hair when the door opened and Carlos reached in. He knelt behind her, getting soggy all over again, and washed her hair and rubbed her back until she was ready to get up. Wrapped in her favorite towel, her hair up in an old t-shirt, she made her way back to the bedroom and changed into a pair of leggings and an oversized Hathor Rising tank.
She was still crying.
"I don't know what to do, Carlos. I feel like giving any ground means losing, but I can't just keep walking away from shows. I'm going to get a reputation and then no one will work with me. I need to work."
The words were punctuated with an overdramatic flop onto the bed and she stared up at the ceiling and contemplated a mural design of the milky way and wondered if it was worth commissioning. "I don't want any children we have to see their mother as a failure. I don't want you to see me as one. I don't want to see myself as one."
"Well," Carlos said quietly, "there's little chance of me seeing you as one." He stretched out on the bed next to her and took her hand.
"I know," she wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand. "So what do I do?"
"What do you want to do?"
"I love this job, Carlos. I love it. I love every moment I'm on that soundstage. I love this character. I love how she makes me feel."
"So? Is she that important that you feel like you are giving up your dignity?"
She mused on the question for a while. "You know, if they'd said we want to cut costs and are asking people to cut a few shows out of the rotation and not told me about the poll, I'd have gone with it."
"So really, they underestimated your sense of pride."
"It is pride, isn't it?"
"Deservingly so," Carlos said. "But yes, this right here is Pride. So the question you get to ask yourself is what matters more right now? Your pain or your craft."
That made her heart stop a moment and she rolled over and looked at him. He looked up at her, his eyes gentle and tender, and reached up to touch her nose.
"You aren't winning this one, baby. I wish you were. I wish you could set him on fire. Fuck, I would but it would get traced back to the guy who loves you. I want him rotting. I want him being eaten alive, slowly, by dust mites and chiggers. I want him suffering. Not just for what he did to you, but what he's done to all those other women and how their families have suffered too. For all the girls who get raped and get told their story doesn't matter. For the guys too. I want this done and over. But you aren't winning this one."
She sniffed and wiggled to put her head on his chest. "I know."
"And I think you're going to start feeling a lot better if you stop tying your pride to what happens in the business. Even if it's because of this fucking bullshit about it being a controversy, it's still business. You talk about how it's all a numbers game and right now, it's a numbers game. You lost this inning."
"You just made a baseball reference."
"It happens."
She sighed and wiggled closer. "You have a point."
"And I don't think you're going to ever feel ... well ... complete ... until you accept that right now, for whatever reason, he's winning it. You were doing well when you were talking to the women's groups, working with that group in the Union. Get back to that. That's where you win. Not in the conference room. Not today."
"So you think I should take the cut?"
"I think you take it today, you win in the conference room tomorrow."
"It just feels like I'm giving up ground ..."
"I know."
"All right," she said. "I'll do it. Fine." The words were bitter and tears touched her eyes again. "But only because I know you're right."
"This time," he said and smiled a bit. "Come on. You haven't eaten."
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten," Carlos admonished. "Please. Don't let him win this round too."
Sighing she pushed up off of him. "Okay."
He nodded and got up. "We've got leftovers from last night. I'll go warm them up."
"Call me when they're done," she said. "I'm going to just close my eyes."
"Okay," he said. They both knew she probably wouldn't eat. She appreciated that he didn't do anything other than squeeze her knee and get up to go to the kitchen.
She was asleep before he left the room.
Timeframe: Post Wedding
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "But yes, this right here is Pride. So the question you get to ask yourself is what matters more right now? Your pain or your craft."
For some reason, she knew the exact time. At 3:54 exactly, she started to sob. Sitting on floor by the bed, Ruby's head in her lap, still sandy and crusty from the beach, with the sound of the shower behind her as Carlos rinsed off, she stared at the clock, blinked once, and started to cry.
It wasn't a slow trickle of tears. She wasn't blinking away emotion as she sat there.
No.
One minute she was petting the dog, the next she was screaming. Air escaping her body even as her lungs tried to trap it in, her tear ducts unable to keep up with the commands from her brain. In a breath, an instant, her entire being decided it was done and any personal foundation she had left just started to crumble. Her howling was unconscious in its passion, sucking her closer and closer to the black hole she'd been circulating for years.
She just couldn't take it anymore.
Never. She never should have said anything. She never should have convinced herself to come forward. She should have just dealt with it quietly, found a therapist, and never revealed who. There wasn't any evidence. Nothing except her broken brain and the soul that was collapsing inward. And except for a tiny, tiny group of people, there was no support. Especially now from the industry. That much was being proven.
Everything hurt. She'd been so numb for so long but now it just hurt. Everything hurt. Everything. Every breath was a shard of ice every tear a razor slice down her cheek. Everything.
And she hated herself for all of it.
She had no reason to complain. A husband who loved her, friends who cared, enough money that she didn't need to work for the rest of her life. She'd had her run. She'd had her time. She needed to walk away. Let him win.
He was right. He'd threatened her and been right.
If she walked away, there was a chance she'd never work again.
She knew how the industry worked. And once the networks started cutting contract time, it was a lost cause. They didn't want her. They were done with her. They'd patted her on the head and let her have her tantrum and now it was done. She needed to be a big girl and let the boys determine everything. Even Lori was saying they'd lost this one.
Nothing else was working, so she sobbed, heavy, hard, empty tears that wouldn't change a damn thing. She was trapped. He'd won, again.
Consciousness returned 20 minutes later. She was still on the floor but her husband was next to her, the dogs crowded nearby. The sobs slowed to hiccuping tears and she wiped her face and looked at Carlos, who at least didn't look worried. He was long past that stage of his understanding of her moods. No, he looked relieved and she knew he was glad she was finally letting all of this go.
"I hate him, Carlos. I hate myself for letting it happen. I hate myself for not stopping it. I hate ... I hate myself more than I hate him and that's the worst part."
He reached over and wiped her face before he said anything. She was dripping snot, which made her almost laugh. God she was disgusting.
"Hold on," she said, trying to take a breath. She coughed and sneezed and snot ran down her lips. "I'm going to go rinse off."
"Okay," he said.
The shower pecked at her slightly sunburned skin and the steam made her lightheaded, so she sank to the floor and balled up under the stream of water until she felt waterlogged. Her arms no longer had the strength to hold themselves and she was about to forgo washing her hair when the door opened and Carlos reached in. He knelt behind her, getting soggy all over again, and washed her hair and rubbed her back until she was ready to get up. Wrapped in her favorite towel, her hair up in an old t-shirt, she made her way back to the bedroom and changed into a pair of leggings and an oversized Hathor Rising tank.
She was still crying.
"I don't know what to do, Carlos. I feel like giving any ground means losing, but I can't just keep walking away from shows. I'm going to get a reputation and then no one will work with me. I need to work."
The words were punctuated with an overdramatic flop onto the bed and she stared up at the ceiling and contemplated a mural design of the milky way and wondered if it was worth commissioning. "I don't want any children we have to see their mother as a failure. I don't want you to see me as one. I don't want to see myself as one."
"Well," Carlos said quietly, "there's little chance of me seeing you as one." He stretched out on the bed next to her and took her hand.
"I know," she wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand. "So what do I do?"
"What do you want to do?"
"I love this job, Carlos. I love it. I love every moment I'm on that soundstage. I love this character. I love how she makes me feel."
"So? Is she that important that you feel like you are giving up your dignity?"
She mused on the question for a while. "You know, if they'd said we want to cut costs and are asking people to cut a few shows out of the rotation and not told me about the poll, I'd have gone with it."
"So really, they underestimated your sense of pride."
"It is pride, isn't it?"
"Deservingly so," Carlos said. "But yes, this right here is Pride. So the question you get to ask yourself is what matters more right now? Your pain or your craft."
That made her heart stop a moment and she rolled over and looked at him. He looked up at her, his eyes gentle and tender, and reached up to touch her nose.
"You aren't winning this one, baby. I wish you were. I wish you could set him on fire. Fuck, I would but it would get traced back to the guy who loves you. I want him rotting. I want him being eaten alive, slowly, by dust mites and chiggers. I want him suffering. Not just for what he did to you, but what he's done to all those other women and how their families have suffered too. For all the girls who get raped and get told their story doesn't matter. For the guys too. I want this done and over. But you aren't winning this one."
She sniffed and wiggled to put her head on his chest. "I know."
"And I think you're going to start feeling a lot better if you stop tying your pride to what happens in the business. Even if it's because of this fucking bullshit about it being a controversy, it's still business. You talk about how it's all a numbers game and right now, it's a numbers game. You lost this inning."
"You just made a baseball reference."
"It happens."
She sighed and wiggled closer. "You have a point."
"And I don't think you're going to ever feel ... well ... complete ... until you accept that right now, for whatever reason, he's winning it. You were doing well when you were talking to the women's groups, working with that group in the Union. Get back to that. That's where you win. Not in the conference room. Not today."
"So you think I should take the cut?"
"I think you take it today, you win in the conference room tomorrow."
"It just feels like I'm giving up ground ..."
"I know."
"All right," she said. "I'll do it. Fine." The words were bitter and tears touched her eyes again. "But only because I know you're right."
"This time," he said and smiled a bit. "Come on. You haven't eaten."
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten," Carlos admonished. "Please. Don't let him win this round too."
Sighing she pushed up off of him. "Okay."
He nodded and got up. "We've got leftovers from last night. I'll go warm them up."
"Call me when they're done," she said. "I'm going to just close my eyes."
"Okay," he said. They both knew she probably wouldn't eat. She appreciated that he didn't do anything other than squeeze her knee and get up to go to the kitchen.
She was asleep before he left the room.