TITLE: Who Writes Letters Anymore? (Reality Check Remix)
E-MAIL: eli @ popullus.net
SUMMARY: You don't need six days to create a new world.
RATING: PG
POSTED: May 20, 2004
NOTES: The Lovely Celli is also a lovely beta. This was written for the Remix Redux challenge off the original story, To Casey, On His Thirty-Fifth Birthday, by Mosca.
DISCLAIMER: Read




The first inkling Dan had that he was headed to a happy-pill filled place slipped into existence smack between a challenge that today's flashy power forwards would fold after one Barkley elbow to the face and a half-assed joke about the death knell of the WUSA ringing sweeter in his ears than-- Yeah, that's where the "half" part came in.

Not that his heart wasn't in writing that night's script; there were always unplumbed depths to the fine art of soccer-snark. His attention, however, had skidded to a stop, along with his fingers and his mind, and those depths were going to have to wait until he was breathing again.

"Dan?"

The sound that came out of his throat sounded so much like a whimper to his own ears that later Dan was impressed his body had stepped in and came up with a fake sneeze. He even managed to knock over his soda in the aftermath.

Whether Casey bought the ruse didn't matter. What did matter was that Casey immediately offered a smirking, "Smooth," and then a napkin to take the place of the notes Dan snatched up to stem the liquid and bubbles streaming across the desk. What mattered was he didn't, thank god, latch on like a beagle with a squeaky chew toy and nudge Dan into explaining why he'd gone corpse white while replacing the locker room humor (hey, if they couldn't use it, who could?) they'd taunted Dana with in an early draft.

**

That night Dan stood in the men's room. It was a haven of echoing tile with the rest of the crew keeping track of the 48 seconds his watch said were left until they were back from commercial. He stood there, braced himself against the cold sink, dropped his head between his arms, and swore; long and inventive, and carefully under his breath until all that was left was the gold standard of curse words, Shit.

The new doc (Beryl Goldfarb, there was a name no one was ever going to be calling out in excitement or joy) had told him to write a letter, and he was going to. He was. But not now. Not in the middle of the day, right in the middle of a goddamned script, sitting in his office with the reason for the letter chuckling at his own supposed wit only feet away.

The tap groaned in protest when Dan wrenched it open, and he went into an uncoordinated backward dance to avoid the water that splashed out of the bowl. Grimacing, he held his tie protectively against his chest before arching over the water and getting the flow under control.

That one look up, though, that was too much because -- he slammed both hands flat against the counter to keep them from curling into fists -- his reflection in the long mirror was far too tempting a target.

No need to hurry back to the set, not with Casey taking the return and then throwing the broadcast to Kelly for a three-minute segment out in, who knew, Waukegan, maybe. Poor woman always got sent to the cold places. Wherever she was, she was giving him the first chance he'd had all night to get himself under control and his mind off what he'd quickly highlighted and deleted from his screen. He had even saved the file again, just to make sure it existed on his hard drive without those words.

I've become indifferent to women, and it's all because of you.

When did his subconscious take control? And where the hell was the switch to turn it off, send it scuttling back to the mental basement where he kept it by the wall, on a leash?

Another glance at his watch, another bitten-off curse. Dan shoved his hands under the frigid stream and, with a muttered apology to makeup, dropped his face into the water cupped in his palms.

**

"Are you planning on showing up to tonight's broadcast, Dan?"

"Uh...wha?"

"I'd like to know, as your producer, whether I should have the cameras focus entirely on Casey, or whether I'll actually have two anchors tonight. You know, the number that I have on the payroll."

Dana was drumming her fingers on her desk; never a good sign. That Dan hadn't noticed that tic until now wasn't much better. The only thing voted more likely to drive him to mayhem was Jeremy's pen clicking.

He glared at the offending hand, but Dana ignored him. "So?"

"Yeah, I'll be here. I've been here." Defensive, yes, but it was all he had.

"No, Dan, you haven't. Your butt's been sitting in that chair for the past three nights, but that hasn't been doing me or the viewers any favor."

Dan's heart stuttered. It actually beat without a rhythm. "What are you saying, Dana?"

"I'm saying that if you need some vacation time, or if you just need to go soak your head in a bucket, tell me. But you don't come in here with half a game," Dana said, jabbing her finger on the desk to emphasize her point. "You don't get to screw with my show."

Dan opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. "Well. I guess I should thank you for voicing that someplace other than the meeting we just left." Suddenly his heart wasn't the only thing jumping. He shoved to his feet and then stood there, his hands clenching and unclenching, totally clueless where to go from there.

"Dan?" Dana was up too, frowning and rounding her desk, reaching for him. "Danny, I didn't--"

Stepping back, Dan concentrated on not stumbling and falling on his ass any harder than he had already. "I-I'll..." He held up his hand, fending her off, and the idea came. "I'll be there. I just--" Breathe, Rydell. "Can I take the afternoon? Be back in time for the 8 o'clock rundown?"

"Sure." Dana leaned back carefully against the edge of her desk. "If there's anything that--"

"No." He wet his lips, ended up biting down on the bottom one. "No, I'll be here."

**

A sentence on a napkin. Two paragraphs in the margins of a press release. A spill of words, nearly illegible, scrawled on the back cardboard of a used notebook. Dan wrote enough in those few hours after he fled Dana's office to level himself for that night's show. Over the next few days, the rest faltered and stalled and all came together.

He didn't let himself edit. If it was written, it stayed.

On the fifth day -- a day early, he chuckled into his arms, which both cushioned his head on the coffee table and muffled the sound; take that, god -- he finally gave in and wrote what he should have in the beginning.

...this is the thing that I needed to explain. Casey, I am totally butt crazy in love with you.

Yep, there it was. Happy birthday, Casey.

**

Dan didn't get drunk after he went to the store.

He thought about it before not printing out the letter and not folding it into the card.

He did it after he handed over the fluorescent green envelope and stepped back, and Casey snorted at the toilet humor and pulled him into a hug. He got good and tanked. So did everyone else; it was a party, after all.

When the petite brunette at the bar held his eyes for that extra moment, he shook his head and watched her hair swing as she turned away. He'd start over tomorrow.

##

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