All The Lonely People, Chapter 1
Disclaimer: "Mad Men" is the creation of one Matthew Weiner.
Summary: Everyone knew that Pete Campbell was off somehow...yet nobody in the office saw this one coming.
Spoilers: Season 5, Episode 5: "Signal 30".
A/N: This is my first multi-chapter fic for "Mad Men". Special thanks to my wonderful fiancee Tim Vavra for providing me with this idea and brainstorming. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome, but please be kind.
"All the lonely people, where do they all come from?" -Eleanor Rigby, The Beatles, Revolver
August 5th, 1966:
It was a normal day at ad agency Sterling Cooper Draper Price, thirty-seventh floor of the Time-Life Building. Everyone was at their desks and getting ready to start the day. Don Draper, Creative Director, was in his office reviewing the latest copy Peggy Olson and her team had prepared for the new ad campaign for Frigidaire appliances. Much to his disappointment, they were scraping the bottom of the barrel for ideas, and it seemed he'd have to pick up the slack (again). As it was, they had dialogue at all the wrong times and with all the wrong visuals. If they didn't pick up the pace, and soon, the campaign would be sunk, and considering the "new" firm hadn't been around for long, they couldn't afford a loss like this. As it was, he was already on edge with Megan home sick. It amazed him how they hadn't been married for even a year, and already she was his anchor, both at home and at work. Strange, but he missed her: she might as well have been on vacation, instead of back home and in bed.Maybe a stiff drink would help, Don thought with as much optimism as he could muster, and with that he decided to patch up the copy himself.
Just down the hall, Executive Partner Lane Pryce was readying himself for another work day, trying to forget about the embarrassing fight he had with his fellow coworker, Pete Campbell. It just wasn't like him to get into a scuffle like that (and at the workplace to boot) and he still couldn't, for the life of him, figure out what to make of it all. The last thing he clearly remembered was Pete dismissing his having any say in the account, and then calling him a queer; which was positively ridiculous (after all, he was still legally married, even if she was overseas and wanted nothing to do with him, except for his assets). What would she think of him now, if she knew? He couldn't help but wonder; the look on her face, after seeing his bruises and swollen jaw, what a site!
At the same time, he was glad she was still in England, because he wouldn't know he'd kissed office manager Joan Holloway, who had come to check in on him after his win. Silly him, he'd thought she'd be interested, now that he was so brave and strong and had won square and fair in an office fist fight. Thankfully, she had let him down easy and was a lady about it, and he was glad that she hadn't laughed in his face.
Knock knock knock! Lane jumped, looking up just in time to see Joan standing before him in a red dress that perfectly matched her red hair, pulled back in a bun behind both ears and, like always, looking positively stunning. "Hello, Lane," she said in that wispy voice of hers.
"Joan," he said, and his body nearly quivered with anticipated pleasure: dare she might have changed her mind about him? "May I help you?" he asked eagerly (hopefully, not too much).
"I...just wanted to make sure you were okay after yesterday," she said, and he beamed, pleased beyond measure. "Also..." She blushed, and he felt pinpricks all over, "I want you to know that...our little interlude yesterday will be kept solely between you...and...me."
Now it was his turn to blush as she placed a tender hand on his shoulder, and he couldn't help but gaze tenderly back into her eyes.
"Would you like a drink?" he asked her abruptly, in an failed attempt to avoid awkwardness.
"I'm sorry," Jane said with a know wink, "I'm a mommy now."
"Oh," Lane nodded, kicking himself for having forgotten her situation. "Of course...Congratulations if I haven't told you before."
"He's the man of the house now," Joan said, and suddenly there was a glossy, far away look in her eyes: and, to his alarm, a kind of sadness there that he hadn't seen in her before.
He would have asked what she meant had the door not burst open, and there stood Pete Campbell, for reasons Lane knew not of (he hadn't called Pete into his office; he was, after all, the last person he wished to see).
"Mr. Campbell?" he asked evenly. Yet instead of answering Pete Campbell stood there, squinting at both of them curiously, as though they were each a new piece of art: however, from the look on Pete's face, it seemed that he was not pleased with the creator's results.
"This," said Pete, raising his hand ever so slowly, "is for Head of Accounts."
At first Lane didn't see the object in Pete's hand, but by the time he did, it was too late: the gun fired, and Joan screamed, and the body hit the ground.
Seconds passed, and still Joan didn't move, and neither did the body on the floor, bleeding, so much blood (Joan had never seen so much blood). All the while Pete Campbell stood over Lane Pryce, unmoving, unblinking. To Joan, he looked like a human-clad robot, unfeeling, unthinking-a living machine. She wanted to scream again, but time had come to a standstill, and so had she. All she could do was stare at Pete Campbell, for she could not look at the body below him, knowing what she would see, and she didn't want to see. Couldn't see.
After what seemed like an eternity, the robot came to life and moved, turning towards her, startling her so much that she shrieked. "Just do as I say," he said, "and nobody will get hurt." His voice sounded strange as he spoke; hollow and muffled, as though they were standing inside a tunnel. He motioned for her to come towards him, and, knowing that she must do as he said, she came. She tried to ignore the smell in the air; it was a rotten smell and if she focused enough on it, she might vomit. "Don't say a word," he said, and immediately he grabbed her, holding her fast against him, and the world seemed to tilt dangerously as he pressed the cold barrel of the gun against her head. She could hear the rush of oncoming footsteps outside and people shouting. People were coming. No, she wanted to warn them, don't come in here! but she knew she could not. "Whatever you do," said Peter Campbell through clenched teeth, "don't move, don't speak, and whatever you do, don't you dare try to run."
She felt the scream building in her throat and bit down on her lip to silence it, making it bleed.
Seconds later, the door swung open, and there in the doorway stood a panting Roger Sterling and Don Draper, both frozen in place with astonishment, staring with horror at what was taking place before them.
"Oh my God." It was Don Draper' who dared to speak first, whose face belied disbelief as he stared down at Lane Pryce, lying there motionless and bleeding out on the floor; then, back at Pete Campbell, who still remained standing, all the while holding a gun to Joan Holloway's head. "Pete..." No one in the room had ever heard Don Draper sound so wounded. "What in the hell did you do?"
"What the hell does it look like?" All were speechless as Pete continued to hold his threatening pose, practically leering with aperverted pleasure. "Funny, I thought being Director of the Creative Department, that you'd have better observational skills than that."
Don was at a loss. Did he think this would hurt him? Besides, a man's life was at stake, and damn him to hell if it mattered what Pete Campbell thought of him-ever. "Roger," he instructed slowly to his silent partner, "call the police." When he received no answer, Don turned to look at Roger Sterling, who might have looked like a mannequin in a fashion store's window if he wasn't practically trembling with a barely suppressed rage.
"Roger?" Don pressed again, still hissing the words, but a bit louder this time, "Call. The Police. "
"You move an inch and she's dead," declared Pete with conviction-who, much to Don's chagrin, had overheard. Damn.
"You wouldn't." Roger Sterling was seconds away, Don knew, from going ballistic: he'd seen that look in his partner's eyes before, as Pete Campbell had a knack for pissing the senior partner off many times in the past (far too many for Don to count). He would have empathized completely, if not for the fact that each one of their lives were at stake.
"Try me." Pete Campbell looked almost pleased at the challenge, and cocked the gun with a resounding click, before returning the barrel to a grimacing Joan Holloway's head.
Something inside Roger Sterling snapped. "You sick little fuck!" With that the Senior Executive rushed forward, prepared to attack, but in his rage he had forgotten about the loaded gun, and Don shut his eyes as the shot rang out, the smell of smoke in his nostrils, burning, and there was a sickening thud as Roger fell, and Joan let out a scream that would forever haunt Don's memory.
"No!" Joan was shouting, her voice almost unrecognizable in its brokenness and defeat, "No!"
He didn't want to look, to see Roger on the ground, but somehow Don managed to open his eyes, and Pete Campbell was gone.
Gone: but where could he have gone? The window wasn't open. Just outside the door, women were screaming; men were shouting. What was happening? Joan on the ground, cradling Roger's head in her arms. The blood...oh God...there was so much blood. Like a war zone. He hadn't seen that much blood since Vietnam, and even then he hadn't fought combat. Everyone running and shouting. Pete: where was Pete? He had to find Pete.
Determined, Don Draper took off running.
XXXX
Joan Holloway had never seen so much blood. Roger lay in her arms, trembling uncontrollably; he was cold to the touch. He was trying to say something, but he kept on spitting up blood. "J-Joanie," he kept saying over and over again, "Joan..." She watched helplessly, cradling his head in her lap, rocking him, holding him as carefully as she possibly could, so that he would be feeling the least amount of pain.
"Shhh," she whispered tenderly, stroking the side of his face, the part with the remaining stubble that she adored, "Don't talk. Hush now." She bent down and kissed his forehead, as she did with Kevin at home. Kevin. Even as she held Roger Sterling, the thought flashed in her mind: What would happen to him if she didn't come home?
Roger was still trying to talk to her, but she couldn't be sure if any sound was even coming out at all, so she leaned down in an effort to hear him. What she heard made her heart skip a beat and her blood run cold.
"Joanie," he whispered, and though his eyes were having trouble focusing, somehow he focused them right on her. "Joanie...I...love...you."
The words took his last breath.
XXXX
The only time Don Draper had experienced such chaos was in the Vietnam War, and even then he hadn't experienced combat (he had been helping to build a field hospital), and there weren't this many bodies. The office floor was utter chaos, people scrambling desperately to get out of the way. Office desks were in disarray and papers were scattered all over; some were splattered with blood.
At least four victims lay on the floor, and Don could tell by the unblinking stares of those whose bloodshot eyes remained open that these were already dead. Some lay over their desks, motionless.
"Stop!"
The voice that spoke was Pete Campbell, who was standing stock still in the middle of the floor, and the gun in his hand was now being pointed at Don Draper.
"Pete." How he managed to utter the name Don wasn't sure, he only knew that this had to end, because the police were coming-they had to be-soon. "Come on," he said, daring to look Pete Campbell in the eyes-eyes that looked crazed with defiance and purpose. Before he knew what he was doing , Don started walking across the floor, towards the madman with the gun. "You can't go on like this," he heard himself saying. "It's over."
"Don't come any closer Don; I'll shoot." Pete's voice was wavering, his hand was trembling, and his face was pale; Don took this advantage to edge himself a bit closer, all the while locking eyes with Pete Campbell, who was still pointing the gun steadily right at him.
"Why are you doing this?" He had to ask. Had to know.
Silence followed quickly by a gasp and, to Don's amazement, two large tears slid silently from Pete Campbell's eyes, each one tracing a line down both cheeks. His mouth was open but it made no sound, even as his taught body trembled. Later, Don would remember the expression on Pete Campbell's face, and the words that would haunt him forever: "I thought I told you," said Pete flatly. "I'm nothing."
Before he knew what was happening, Pete was holding the gun to his own chin...shutting his eyes tight to brace himself against the impact, and without thinking Don bolted, lunged forward, and grabbed Pete Campbell by the waste. The last thing Don remembered before the police came was catching the man in a headlock before rolling about on the floor, Pete struggling and shouting all the while, before he couldn't stand it any longer and promptly knocked the man out.
Then, finally, the police came.
They came quickly and took Pete Campbell away in handcuffs, reviving him only to apprehend him. Took several bodies away too, only two that Don Draper recognized.
Took Joan away in an ambulance. Found Peggy Olson in a hall closet, alive but cowering with uncontrollable fear.
Found Bert Cooper shivering, passed out after hiding alone in the elevator, because he was too old to take the stairs, and was treated for high blood pressure and palpitations, and kept overnight for monitoring.
Discovered Pete Campbell's secretary Clara gagged and bound to his desk, almost suffocated to death, but miraculously still alive.
Found Don Draper in shock, took him in for questioning, which seemed more like days than several hours.
"Anyone we can call?" he was asked when, finally, it all ended.
He wanted to say "Megan", but she was home, ill; he would not disturb her with this. In the end he said "No," and took a cab home by himself.
The house was quiet when he entered. Too quiet.
God I need a drink.
He poured himself a shot of whiskey, somehow downing it with shaking hand.
Sleep...don't wake her...just sleep it off and you'll be fine.
Yes, that was all he needed...Sleep.
Decided, he stripped off his blood-stained shirt (throwing them in the wastebasket), showered, and then, exhausted, joined his wife in bed.