Chapter Text
Ch.1 - Thursday the 13th.
The year was 1947. A great year for television. Hell, a fucking FANTASTIC year for the network. Opening the year with a murder, are you kidding?? Some broad called the Black Dahlia (Not her actual name but..y'know) had been found hacked and sacked by who knows who cos' who cares why, and you can bet your flat backside the studio was onto that like a rat on one of those stupid revolving wheel things. Following that, the studio had then been one of the few selected from Queens to report on the Roswell incident, coverage that required the specially selected reporters for the case to endure a gruelling 29 hour (give or take) coach ride all the way down to New Mexico. It had been a pain in the ass, the heat was intense, the ride gruelling, and it didn't help if you personally found all that space bullshit mumbo jumbo to be tacky and just downright ridiculous...but the media attention that followed was a great career boost into the right direction.
More stories popped up throughout the year. Some mining incident or something in Texas, a breakthrough in the Brooklyn Dodgers, more exciting was the announcement of the Truman Doctrine...that's right. The studio had the pleasure of having their news station be amongst the first to announce to the public of Western Long island the start of the cold war! A damn honour it had been.
So yeah, it had been a great year for television. A good month. A fine week
Yet today...
...Vincent Whittman wasn't feeling so fucking great today.
////////
"Mornin' Vince!"
"How's it going, buddy!"
"C…oming out for another drink tonight, Vinnie?'
"Ha! Only if you're payin, Sam!"
Vincent laughed brightly as he glided down the halls of the studio, a crisp new suit decorated his muscular build. His hair, slightly salt and peppered, was slicked back, his cowlick giving him a mischievous air of boyish charm. Vincent Whittman was a handsome man. A successful, popular and handsome man. 46 years old and lead anchor in the news department. That sounded about right to anyones ears.
The men in the studio nodded as he passed, the women giggled. Rookies stood up straight and the doors were opened for him without a word.
Anyone would want to be in his shoes. People would die to be in his position...in fact..
..people HAVE died.
And that's what was bothering Vincent that morning.
He didn't give a shit about having a drink with Sam (the fucking stuttering dunce, that's right, Vincent clocked his awful stammer the moment they met, no wonder they didn't let that loser get behind the cameras hA - )
No, Vincent didn't care about how any of their stupid days was going. The giggling dames gave him a headache and he was SECONDS away from wringing the necks of all those head nodders...the fuck were they nodding for, Vincent hadn't even addressed them. Infuriating..
No, the only thing Vincent cared about in that moment was his shoe.
His left one in particular.
It had a drop of blood on it.
You force yourself to go out for drinks, come home and spend the remaining hours of the evening prepping for the day ahead...you'd think this certain detail would be attended too first.
No, Vincent wasn't going to blame himself for this. Why should he? He didn't invite HIMSELF out for drinks, it was that god damned SAMUEL. And now thanks to SAMUEL, Vincent was about to have his first meeting with the studio's new chief content officer with BLOOD on his shoes...thanks to SAMUEL, BECAUSE SAMUEL -
"Everything alright, Vincent?"
Vincent unfurled his fists, automatically straightening up in a lightning quick second of alarm, a charming and collected smile returned to his face as he turned towards Robert Cohen, the studio's editor- in - chief, head content leader, overseer and Vincent's boss....
(for now..)
"All good here, Bob. You know how it is." Vincent hoisted the files tucked under his arm. "Just another day in Paradise."
Robert grunted as he re-adjusted his suspenders (so damn old and dated, just switch to belts already ugH..)
"..Ernie should be arriving within the next half hour", Robert jutted an elbow to his right, "I'll have one of the gals collect you when he arrives. You ready?"
Vincent had to fight tooth and nail for this introduction, you bet you're stupid, puny BALDING head he was ready.
"..As I'll ever be, Bob."
The two men stared at each over a moment longer, eyes locked together like two farmyard roosters puffing out their chests.
The tension broke at the sound of a typewriter clicking loudly from a near-by room.
The two men wordlessly departed to the opposite ends of the hall.
--------------------------
The meeting had been an interesting one. Vincent initially arranged it to get an idea of what lied ahead....and by ahead he meant ahead of being a senior anchor at a news station in Long Island. Ernie (Full name: Ernest Pidget - an important one so immediately memorised) was an impressive man. He carried himself well, like a man who demanded respect. He was the VP of news for the entire state, he DEMANDED respect. The man clearly had his connections, his fingers were in many a pie...and many a broad, it would seem. The girls were all but falling over themselves at his mere presence as he walked down the corridors after they're meeting concluded. Vincent could have sworn that he saw even some of the guys giving the old coot goo goo eyes.
Yes, Vincent was impressed. He had a plan now. Once Robert was dealt with, the next step was there...and who knows what he could do once he had reign over the entire network..
Maybe this day wasn't so bad after all
Vincent laughed loudly to himself, lost in thought as he rested his back beside the water fountain. Still reminiscing on all the key moments of the meeting, he barely noticed the presence of a young man entering his peripheral vision. The tart tapping sound of a pair of shiny black speared wingtips on polished terrazzo tile was enough to slightly alert his senses, but not enough to generate the curiosity in finding out who the culprit was.
"...Excuse me, is Mister Pidget still in?"
Everyone was tucked into their offices and behind their desks, leaving the two men alone in the hallway. Maybe this was why Vincent decided to let the mask slip a bit. He hadn't had that bad of an afternoon, why not indulge?
Vincent snorted. ""Wouldn't YOU like to know..."" not even bothering to lock eyes with the man to his side, his response casually mimicked the unknown man's slight (What was it, kinda Southern-ey, some type of Louisianan) accent. "How about you go excuse yourself and scram, kid."
The man didn't say anything back.
There was silence as the older man ignored him, continuing to recount that earlier meeting.
Ernest was such powerhouse, and ten years older to boot! Vincent would overpass him in no time, he could feel it, he just needed to..
A slender, light brown hand lightly touched on his shoulder.
"..SIr...(The sir came out weirdly strained)...apologies, but I really must know where Mister P..-"
Vincent's lip curled at the contact. He eyed the brown hand of the stranger, pawing it with his own, much larger hand into a painful grip. The strangers words halted, a burst of breath escaped him as his hand was aggressively pulled forward, his body being pulled along with it.
The irritation and frustration from earlier returned to Vincent at full force, an insulting threat about the man's right to be even near the water fountain already formulating on his lips before Vincent even locked eyes with the man...
...and then he did.
The man who was currently trapped in his (painfully tight) grip was...well quite frankly, he was beautiful. There was no other word for it. Even his grimace didn't do much to mar his fine features. Big, soft brown eyes behind light, INCREDIBLY dated, yet strangely endearing pince-nez glasses, held up with a little upturned nose that could rival that ginger kid in those Little Audrey cartoons. His hair was a deep hickory brown, and he had curls! The way they curled around ears admittedly made the older man's breath hitch.
His slightly pink toned lips, though tightly pressed into a line, had upturned edges that suggested the shadow of a smile that had been there before...before..
...Oh god, Vincent was still strangling the poor guy's hand.
Vincent hurriedly let go of him, a bit of crimson shame seeping up his neck as he now realised how small the hand had been in his own, which probably didn't make the pain any easier. The nameless man snatched his hand back quickly, placing it behind his back as if to rid Vincent the opportunity in grabbing it a second time.
While still standing where he had been (so crudely) pulled, the man's face pooled back into the calm expression he probably had before Vincent had pawed at him like some brainless caveman.
"I...uh..". Vincent scrambled with his words lightly, still reeling at the horrid words that almost left his lips. The other man raised an eyebrow as he waited for him to continue with his pathetic, but well deserved apology, the ghost of his smile returning, polite rather than genuine.
Snap out of it Vincent, this isn't the first time you've locked eyes with some Casanova...though this is the first time you've borderline attacked one..
..Nope, forget that. Snap out of it. Now.
Vincent took a sharp breath, pulling himself together (finally). His charismatic smile returned as he staged a look of ease, a brow furrowed as he fully turned to the man, giving him the attention a good looking young man with a question deserved.
*Ahem.. "So sorry about that, fella", Vincent ran a hand through his hair, the slicked back strands miraculously staying in place.
He leaned against the wall behind him, getting a better look at the guy. Tall (but shorter than him), a tight waistcoat that accentuated his lithe figure and...the goddamn smallest waist he's seen since that issue of LIFE Magazine featuring Rita Hayworth)... Vincent had to brush a knuckle against his lip to make sure he wasn't drooling..
"..Anyway!" He snapped up and continued, "What brings you to the studio? You got a screen test booked?"
Alright, the man wasn't exactly the usual type they had in the actors studio, but surely there were exceptions if you were nice to look at?
If not, Vincent would make a note to change that once the network was his...
"..I'll be more than happy to take you down to the sound stage, hey, I can even put in a word for y-"
"That won't be necessary." The man answered curtly. His face was neutral, other than that false smile still plastered across his lips.
Vincent's nail pierced into his palm.
"...Look, I really didn't mean to give you such a bad first impression." He rattled on, " I'm not..not usually like this, I'm Vincent by the way, Vincent Whittman, I just had a-"
"Yes well, thank you. I'll be on my way now."
The man had ultimately decided that he's had enough of this encounter, not sparing the step below a media mogul any more of his undeserved time.
Vincent felt slightly sick at the immediate dismissal, the rest of his jumbled and lame apology died into his throat, forming into a clump.
Just as the man turned away, Robert stuck his head out of his office.
"Ah, there you are. Ernest was on the dial calling for you! Get over here kid!"
Not quite the usual respect granted to newcomers and guests within the studio, but the man didn't seem to dwell on it and made his way farther along the hall.
Vincent felt sweat forming below his brow.
"Wa..hey wait!?'
The man turned his face to the side, his brow still raised as he turned his gaze towards him once again.
Vincent gulped.
"..What's your name?"
The young man lowered his face slightly. The corners of his lips raised and he finally, FINALLY had a real smile on his lovely face. Vincent couldn't explain what it was. Why the sight of this made him feel the way he did that moment. The bright lights of the mystery man's eyes danced behind his glasses, before cruelly disappearing as he slowly turned his back down towards the hall.
"...Wouldn't you like to know."
The venom in his words, the mocking mimickery of his own slightly vowel merged, queens accent...
GOD this man fucking hated his damn guts, didn't he?
He walked into Robert's office and that was that.No name. No nuthin.
Samuel reappeared, as welcome as a bluebottle at a picnic.
"Heyyyy Vinnie, so about th..those drinks, how a..about-"
"Take the drinks and stuff them up your Ass, Sam."
Vincent shoved the stunned man aside and skulked back to his office.
Today was the fucking wORST.
......
And there’s fucking drops of blood on his right shoe!?! Why didn't
he notice that fuuUUUUCKCKCKKKKCKCKCKCKCC...