I don't even want to think of the GINORMOUS hiatus ahead of us. Here's a little something to fill the void. I'm not even sure where I'm going with it, so please be gentle.

Obviously, I don't own Smash.


He wakes up with a jolt. It's still dark but the full moon gives a bright spectral atmosphere to the generic room.

Where in the… Boston. I'm in Boston.

The show is finally going somewhere. He has his star and he's off the hook with Eileen. His eyes linger on an earring glistening on the carpeted floor, a golden sandal, a strappy cocktail dress with cherry prints, black and white under the glow. Bread crumbs, he thinks, wiping his forehead with his right hand.

He tries to lean on one elbow to check his phone on the nightstand but his left arm is numb and stuck under somebody's back. It's all coming back at once.


With a frown, he glances at the woman asleep beside him and sighs, lying back down. He doesn't even know why he took her back to his room. He's not usually into brunettes but for some reason he felt irresistibly drawn to her. And still, there is something amiss now. Her silky hair is spread on the pillow and a smile of content graces her regular face. He gently pushes away a strand of hair from her eye. Her make up is all smudged but she still looks beautiful and extremely young in her sleep. He doesn't mind about the age difference though. He never had. They hit instantly and the sex was spectacular. She didn't seem to have second thoughts about leaving the party with him. It only went down to one conclusion. Being an intimidating celebrity has its perks.

He collects his clothes, silently leaves the room, takes a shower. He lets the tepid water run on his face for a long time but it doesn't wash his personal ghosts down the drain. When he's finished, one can barely see through the steam. No shaving, some hair gel, fresh clothes. He wipes the mirror and his reflection prompts him to look away.

Now he stands still before the bay window facing the Charles River. Restless, he opens the mini-bar but decides against infusing his body with more stimulants. His present alcohol level must be appalling. He slouches on the couch, troubled to feel both insecure and unsatisfied. It was a mistake. He should never have brought her back to his hotel. He revives his laptop and gets engulfed in his work, absently biting his nails.

"Hello?" The first image is a pair of endless legs walking towards him. He's expecting to see her in his shirt or wrapped in the sheet but she has her clothes on. She's smiling.

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

"You kinda did," she drawls, "I wasn't planning on falling asleep in your bed."

He smiles back, politely. "I'll call a taxi…" he sits his work on the coffee table and stands up, "… darling."

"Julia," she volunteers.

"Julia." The journalist combs her hair with her fingers while he dials the cab company. "Five minutes," he says.

"Well, see you around… I guess." She waves a manicured hand in his general direction. She doesn't want to put a name on his face. She's no more interested than he is in an encore or in dragging on the moment.

"Of course," he says. She's gone.

It's been a long night. It's going to be a long day. The blocking needs work, the songs need work, his star needs… well, she needs his attention. With two weeks and a half ahead of them in Boston, he's confident they can reach a satisfying compromise.

It's not even dawn. He grabs his coat and gathers the documents he had been working on for the last couple hours and heads to the theatre anyway.