Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Why?

It should not have been anything new.

She had asked why before, when she bawled to her mother at the age of eight because her lunch had been stolen again by one of the white boys, and it had been anger that had kept her rooted to the spot and forced to stay silent. 

A lady of her kind does not get angry, but instead relies on certain virtues. Patience. Kindness. Faith. Alice smiles warmly at anyone who will so much as look at her, and in return the glares don’t sting so deep. The words that sit on other people’s tongue isn’t hers to bear.

They throw more than words, but boys nonetheless will always be boys. 

So, she shrugs it off through adulthood, and most of the words slide right off to the floor. It really is never anything personal, men are just men with an extra sprinkle of … white arrogance. The Lord would have never forgiven her if she traded an eye for an eye, never mind with the white folk.  

-

“You couldn’t even hurt a fly, Al. What makes you think you’ll survive college?”

“You have no faith in me, Ma.” Alice replied, already determined to succeed. If her brothers had wandered down the same path, shielded by the privilege of masculinity: who was she to reject the ability to try?

“If you drop out, I can’t be there to always help you.”

“I know. You just don’t want me failing.” ‘In life,’ she adds quietly under her breath. She knows how her mother is. 

-

They refused to give her a larger office space at WGBH until she complained enough that her current one had been barely the size of a walk-in closet. There was nothing outright to say she wasn’t welcome, but the sheer atmosphere of it  was stifling.

 Still, her morale was sharpened by determination and ambition, and there were dreams of being another person like Hunter. Alice salivated at the thought. 

Why, had earned her a place at Oberlin, plane tickets to Paris and a white man’s attention if he wanted to listen. If he chose to listen. And … it was luck, or so her mother had chalked it up to.

At WGBH, she learned that waving practically did nothing. There was always a certain turn of phrase to learn, to keep certain tones clipped and her voice succinct, to make it carry further with the right kind of people. Even the volume had to be loud but not too loud, or people would assume aggression. Any apprehension and she was reduced to what a mere intern could do as an assistant producer. 

-

Eventually, after a year, the sting of rejection became familiar. Her ideas were shut down routinely, and she was stuck watching pompous men through the TV camera leaking pretentiousness. It didn’t come so often that she was surprised by it the first time or the second - but the third time she tried after a new year, someone was there to listen. That a slip in the cracks was just about wide enough to stick her foot into.

Alice had never second-guessed many of her decisions. The window of opportunity was so small, and she had crawled out through it with barely any scratches.

Julia Child had quelled her landing with her unfamiliar accent and unique tone of voice. She understood why with the individuality of her client being a selling point they couldn't quite afford to lose. In three days she had flattened out the doubt with chocolate fudge cake so decadent her toes had curled, and the pastries on her desk each morning felt less like persuasion, and more a sign of friendship.

But it was Avis DeVoto who had startled her from reality. She felt herself gasping at each slight turn of phrase, so brash and harsh yet firm and forthright. Cynical, yet not too cynical as to be overly perverse - except the end result was something so charming and so smooth Alice couldn’t help but deadpan at her delivery.

Her presentation was so brazen! So wry!

Avis’s voice was akin to what she imagined molten caramel would sound like, completely chockful of flavour with a rich, whiskey-like undertone. It hadn’t entirely occurred to her how old she was: part of the thrill was the mystery, the woman was far more than the delight of first impressions.

Why hadn’t occurred to her back then, there was no reason for it.

They’d never managed much more than small talk on the first day, but she’d glanced at her all the same. Fleeting. Small, tiny peeks when the opportunity would arise.  Sometimes, it was the other way around.

For the first time in a while, she began to smile back with certainty– more than just a shifty, nervous grin.

Avis wasn’t the one who she had to brace for, who smiled at her genuinely when she passed and acknowledged her presence when they were in the same room. Avis, who gestured to inspect her notes with some semblance of sense when her own eye had been lacking. The woman was a lifeline of engagement: their minds working together to create a plausible outcome for Judith’s proposal of a three-part act. 

If she leaned close enough, she could smell ominous, yet kind hints of cinnamon on her. Surprising, for a woman who seemingly smoked more cigarettes than she’d singlehandedly consumed in a lifetime. 

Why had only begun to seep in after the night they’d ridden in the cab together at half-past two in the morning from Julia’s house. Her eyes were unnaturally heavy, burning under the guise of professionalism and lack of sleep. The early mornings would have ruined her, where moments like these were lost with the simplicity of memory. 

It was the same night Avis had slept with her head against her shoulder with such an absent-minded closeness that her whole body had simply froze up. It was nothing more then sensible friendship and circumstance she was certain- they were all tired and exhausted from the long day: but she accepted it all the same. The woman was different when asleep. Quiet, but never lacking. Alice had struggled to believe who she was then.

A friend. 

No, not quite: an acquaintance. 

An imprint.

Her corrections remained stained in her notebook, blue where her own usual penmanship was black.

They’d barely touched, or even conversed, communicating with as few glances as possible. The only best thing they had in common was an unspoken loyalty to Julia. They’d never spoken about it further beyond that. They never needed to. In a professional light, they were acquaintances at best. 

Avis had even claimed it to be sisterhood the day after. Alice chalked it up to that alone and called it a mere chance.

It wasn’t a new feeling. It couldn’t have been. 

So then … really, why?

Chapter Text

Three days after the pilot taping, Alice was still bereft of an answer.

 There was never anytime to think when she had to start juggling funds around and filling in the gaps where Russ fell short. It was like everything was done on purpose with the slowing down of production, making up excuses just to run another project he didn’t like back into the ground. It wasn’t fair, but it was still Russ. 

“You still haven’t gotten me that coffee yet, Alyssa. And that hotplate… ” Russ says, flicking his fingers in a motion to dismiss her with his back turned. This time, her eyes are lowered to the ground, she doesn’t say anything out of line, never does - but her reply is the same. 

“You’re mistaking me for the intern. My name isn’t … Alyssa,” she blinks again, confused. She returned the hot plate a week ago, or had he already forgotten?  “We have a meeting in twenty. I can’t speak for you like I did last time. Hunter wants you to be there, prompt.” 

Otherwise, it’s me who gets the short end of the stick, she wants to say. She chides his familiar tardiness with a gentile habit. Alice doesn’t raise her voice, nor speak unless necessary. There’s only so much she can take around the office before the stress comes crawling back in with grey hairs afoot.

“Fine. We’ll see how much this show has to give. I still think it’s a lousy idea.” Russ still wasn’t looking at her even though her palms are clammy with nervous sweat. The initial meeting to pitch the idea of the French Chef had been a success, but maybe her luck was already beginning to run out. 

“We’ll see, Russ.” Alice falls back onto her heel, clipboard in hand. “I’ll pass on your drafts to Mary after for revision, and then I can get you that coffee you want.” 

“Thank you.” 

Maybe, she is thankful the ‘Al’ doesn’t form this time. 

Evidently, the meeting goes well: or at the very least, better than expected. She chimes in when necessary, leaving fleeting yet encouraging comments to sway for Hunter’s approval. The smoke doesn’t quite clear from her nostrils until she is fifty metres away in her office, but the stench lingered to permeate her clothes: as drab and colourless as they were.

Whilst Roland and the others had seemed impassive to the news, it was still her job to convince them that it was a path worth pursuing. That a woman in the kitchen would do more for the housewives who had some extra time to kill if the reception was there, and that if people wanted to watch it - it was a win regardless. 

Afterwards, in a moment of private indignation and frankly - even a little frustration; she had accused Russ of trying to kill the project. It wasn’t subtle any longer when it was so obvious half her efforts were being chased away by a meandering sense of entitlement. They had some viewers, letters as written feedback, what more did she have to prove to win over his scepticism?

“As I said, I’m not trying to kill anything. Al. I’m being realistic. We don’t have the money for this- the sets are expensive and the food costs, labour - It’s not tenable. I’ve made a list to draft up for Julia tomorrow just so she can see the costs.” 

She fights to hold her tongue again, shifting in her seat. Her eyes flickered to a spot on his desk as she fought for something else to say: something hopeful to break the silence. “You’re being impossible, Russ. I–I’m sure there’s a way:  I can find some … spare money from my funds or something, or- maybe Avis has something?”

“This isn’t some kind of fundraiser we can all just do. We just don’t have the numbers. I’m sorry, and I don’t know who Avis is.”

Alice resists the urge to flinch at the harshness of his tone. Maybe he isn’t even a smidge sorry as he says he is. What was a little sincerity every now and then? She’d fought against Russ’s insistence (and pessimism, if she was being honest) to finally secure what Julia Child had deserved. The woman had so much to give, and even her imposing nature had grown on her. Alice simply had to give credit where credit was due. 

Looking at the list of costs, a voice began gnawing at the back of her brain. Despite the monumental costs and the tight budget - they’d find a way. Even before factoring in the seemingly impossible task of delivering the news herself, and the extra zero that seemed so large now that she was staring at it in person.

“There’s a way. I assure you when Julia comes tomorrow- it’ll be fine.” Fine. She holds herself to being just ‘fine’, nothing more - nothing less.

By the end of the week, her body was completely drained.

 Her wrist ached with the constant note-taking and with extra people being hired for the show, the schedules became more rigorous and prone to fault with even the slightest mistake being made. It was then she missed Avis’s keen eye to look over her formations, her voice to still her otherwise errant thoughts. 

She hadn’t seen her for a while. Between breaks in filming, the management of funds and the behind-the-scenes work: it was difficult to be anywhere except at WGBH. The Coq Au Vin rehearsal had been her only solace away from a hectic work life- when she had first felt the weight of her glance heavy on her being. 

It was as if she missed it all of a sudden without any kind of reason as to why. Alice heard specks through the grapevine from Judith, who confirmed Julia was hosting weekly cooking classes for extra funding: creating perfect soufflés and chocolate mousse recipes from scratch. Amidst the chaos, her mind began drifting to Avis again, even though they barely spoke beyond a meagre ‘good morning,’ and whatever bare scrap of professionalism she had to keep in her presence on set. Being crouched down so low, kneeling on the cold floor and grasping at a woman’s leg - peering at the older woman for approval… it was a new feeling that had never passed through her before.

There was work to be done, but she was so tired.

With only an hour left of the day, and measurements to amend, schedules to look over: the exhaustion was slowly beginning to creep in. Between long hours and barely any time for lunch that day, even her feet were beginning to protest. Paul had given her re-iterations of the cabinet dimensions to re-allocate before construction of the set was finished, and Russ even more instructions with regards to script reviews.

Her mind began floating between Avis and quiche, how the pastry would feel in her mouth and–

Cinnamon. Yes.

The possibility of sprinkling cinnamon onto pecan pie and… 

She had her head propped up in her hand when her eyes glanced to the door, following the sound of footsteps. There, lingering on the threshold: was the singular woman she’d been thinking about. 

Avis, dressed in monochromatic clothes she could only describe as highly fanciful. In her hands was a smouldering cigarette, still lit and blowing smoke into her small office. It wasn’t like she minded. Anyone else, and she would have gestured impatiently to the ashtray she had put down by the entrance. But, then again - very rarely would she ever have an audience this late into the evening if she wasn’t busy going back and forth between the set and WGBH.

“Alice? Apologies for coming here so late and with such short notice.” Avis speaks, like honey on the wind. There is something else about her- something … 

She’d called her a nimble genius.

“N-No, it’s okay, come in – what did you need?  I can get you the schedules for tomorrow–no, Wednesday– I know Julia needs them and Paul also needs the amendments…”  The sudden rush of energy had surprised her, but she was guilty of underperforming with the shooting date so soon. Between the vision of what Hunter wanted, and then Russ’s obligations … there was no way to work in a straight line without undermining at least one of her superiors.  “…If you need a copy of the recipes Julia has planned, I can–“ 

Dammit, already she was rambling. 

Alice gestured for her to take the chair opposite, for the rare opportunity she had guests in her office to see her specifically. Most of the time, it was a request straight to Russell. On the off-chance everyone else was busy, they’d come to her office to shoot their not-so-subtle glares and brandished air of superiority. 

Naturally, she would play the fool and pretend not to notice. 

“My dear, I’m not here on behalf of anyone except myself. I know Julia has a tendency to bribe you with cakes, but unfortunately, I have none of those,” Avis chuckles, lowering her voice to whisper in hushed tones. “Woman to woman–I’m not so good at baking myself. I can peel an onion, but heaven forbid I try my hand at marzipan.” 

Alice watches her take another drag with anticipation. How the smoke escaped from such a smart mouth, falling into the evening air.  “Well… marzipan is hard. It always comes out sticky and wet in my case, so…”

She couldn't stop looking at her. Once or twice, she would do a full sweep of her face just to soak it in, like the quietly stolen glances from before wasn’t enough. During the shooting of the episode they hadn’t spoken - yet the woman had shielded her from Russ’s more callous remarks. She didn’t have to, but she did. The feeling of her hand on her back had stuck like an imprint.

And, if the woman noticed - she didn’t let on.

“When your marzipan is sticky, add powdered sugar, it helps to smoothen out the texture.” This time, Avis leans closer, returning the sweeping glance. A tinge of heat brushes just under her jaw, although she can’t quite figure out why. “I came by to check on you, actually.”

That alone is enough to make her heart swell with joy. “I’m flattered, really. No one visits me … that often.” The smell of cinnamon strikes her suddenly again, followed by the musk of something … earthier. Bergamot? 

“They should! I was hoping Russ wasn’t working you too hard. You’re doing a wonderful job with the show.” 

“Thank you,” the quiet lasts for only just a second - but it is really all it takes for a smile to form. “–for visiting me, I mean. It means a lot to me.” 

With anybody else, she would have been antsy at the praise. With Avis, the caution had dissipated. They talked more about the shooting of the pilot, and Julia’s pull-through for the funding: although she was careful to only just about skip over the part where she had been stuck between a woman’s legs for the better part of five minutes. When she asked about Julia, there were gaps of silence. Questions she knew better than to pry on.

“There are some things that I have no doubt Julia keeps from even me,” Avis mentions wistfully– resting her hand in her lap with the cigarette, now reduced to a mere stub, balanced between index and middle. 

“You? like what?”

“Secrets, my dear. Between you and I, I can safely say that Russ seems like a pompous ass.” 

“He’s my boss- but well, I would hesitate to agree.” The conversation felt organic and natural. Never mind the forced politeness she’d be forced to put on when the thin line between acquaintance and friend became blurred.

At times when the arrogance wasn’t a defining factor in what she could and couldn’t do, Alice could afford to be a liability for the one time the success didn’t fall onto her shoulders. But, being with the older woman in the here and now, she had never felt like such to begin with. 

The smell of cinnamon, although subtle - had permeated her entire being. In her absence, she would recall the scent for the rest of her days. “Avis– before you go, can I ask you a question?”

The woman turns, the dim light dancing on her dress collar in a way that shifted her stomach in a tight, burning pattern. “Of course. Ask away.”

 Alice watched her light yet another cigarette, having placed the other in the ashtray by the door. The smoke, again: is a fascinating sight. Her mouth is dry with words.  “Your perfume… I’ve been wondering since the day we did the Coq Au Vin rehearsal…”

 A beat of silence.

 “This may be impetuous of me but- I can’t quite put my finger on what else belies your fragrance. My mind believes it to be cinnamon, but there’s a heavier scent. I’m thinking bergamot, though…” She remembers the memory of her head against her shoulder in the cab. With just how many questions arose from such a simple action, how they twisted in her gut like a mechanical maze. 

“Patchouli, cedar and Amber. The cinnamon you smell is still very correct. I’m impressed– most pick up on the amber first.”

The draft of smoke drifted in her direction, followed by hints of cedar. Before she could even regain the capacity to respond, the sound of footsteps began to recede into the distance, leaving her alone in the office.

And still, the fluttering in her chest wouldn't stop.