Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

White.

A blank page or canvas.

The challenge? Bring order to the whole through design, composition, tension, balance, light, and harmony.

It begins with a phone call on a rainy Saturday morning in October. Soft light floats in through gauzy curtains, casting rippling pools across the floor of Rebecca’s living room in her Richmond townhouse. Rebecca sits in a soft, blue-grey chair in the bay window, her feet tucked up underneath her, one arm slung over the back of the chair, the other gently balancing a cup of tea atop the back of the chair as she gazes out over the soft sea of greys and greens of the Richmond Green, blurred by the gauzy curtains. As the shrill ring of her phone sounds, she leans back, reaching to the coffee table sitting in the middle of the room and trading her tea for her phone and swiping to accept the call.

“Babe, you’re never gonna guess what I just heard!” The voice squeals through the phone—Keeley, her best friend and brilliant costume designer, dramaturg, and gossip extraordinaire, whom she is set to work with on the upcoming revival of Sunday In The Park With George in her, “triumphant return to the West End,” as it’s been billeted.

***

In late 2019, Rebecca had been cast in Sunday In The Park With George as Dot, opposite the legendary Zava as George. Rebecca has been a longtime favorite of Stephen Sondheim. She first met him at the ripe age of 20 when she dropped out of uni to star in a revival of Gypsy in the West End, immediately soaring to critical acclaim. Stephen had taken an immediate shining to her, stating that she brought depth to the characters many actresses failed to. Over the next two decades, she was often his first choice when he needed a mezzo-soprano with a broad range to carry a show. As she grew from her twenties, to her thirties, to her early forties, he continued to cast her as she started to age out of playing the ingenue and grew into more mature roles. Their working relationship peaked when she starred as Desiree Armsfeldt in the critically acclaimed revival of A Little Night Music.

Unfortunately, A Little Night Music would be the last opportunity she had to work with Stephen.

During her time in Gypsy as a mere 20 year old, she met Rupert Mannion, a producer on the production and a powerhouse of finance on the West End. Rupert was over 20 years her senior and had recently divorced his third wife, a west end starlet whom he had met while producing Into The Woods a decade prior. While Stephen had grown to admire Rebecca’s talent, Rupert admired Rebecca for her unique beauty and wooed her. She’d show up to the theatre and find her dressing room overflowing with flowers and gifts. He’d seek her out to tell her that she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. He’d take her to lavish dinners and wine and dine her. 

In retrospect, she realized he had love bombed her. At the time; however, she was young and naive and didn’t know any better.

They married when she was 22 in a grand ceremony. With her family wealth and prestige and Rupert’s money, he insisted that they had a wedding fit for royalty. She’d have rather had a small, intimate wedding, but she learned early on in her relationship with Rupert that she needed to compromise.

After the wedding, the love bombing stopped. He was pleasant for the first few years, but she gradually realized he was exerting more and more control over every aspect of her life. What she ate. What she wore. What roles she played.

Rupert was always willing to let her work with Stephen, but oftentimes he would talk her out of other composers' works, stating that she wouldn’t drive an Aston Martin down a dirt road. At first she thought he was looking out for her career and ensuring she only took roles that would guarantee her success and acclaim, but eventually she realized he was only letting her work in shows where he could control some of the creative direction. 

Something shifted after A Little Night Music. Rupert produced the production, and he had been happy to let her star, saying that she was the star vehicle needed to carry the production to success. As the production got underway, she had started to suspect Rupert was cheating on her. She had observed him consistently flirting with the young actress playing Anne, a young thing of barely 19 named Bex, fresh out of the London Academy For Music and The Dramatic Arts. He was mysteriously absent from their homes most nights, and had grown colder and more distant than usual. Shortly after opening night, she confronted him and he scoffed at her, calling her a, “crazy middle-aged bat who can’t bear to see him so much as talk to anyone younger and prettier than her.” 

Two weeks later, she received the notice that her contract had been cut short and she would be exiting the production in two months time.

For the next five years, she couldn’t book a role.

The Sun had been the one to break the story, five years after, that Rupert and the starlet had engaged in an affair right under her nose the entire time.

She filed for divorce, and after a long, brutal battle, she finally found herself free in spring 2019.

When Stephen asked her to star in the revival of Sunday, she nearly burst into tears on the phone. 

Then the pandemic hit. 

Stephen died of cardiovascular disease.

Zava retired from acting.

The production had been postponed indefinitely, until late 2023 when she received a call from director Leslie Higgins asking her availability. She promised anything in her schedule could be moved. She was coming back to where she belonged.

***

“Good morning to you too, Keeley,” she smiles through the phone, “What have you heard.”

“Leslie thinks we have our George! Ted Lasso!” Keeley squeals, her excitement palpable on the line.

“You’re fucking joking me,” Rebecca blanches, “There’s no fucking way Leslie cast Ted Fucking Lasso to play George. God, why did Zava have to fucking retire?”

She’s aware of Ted Lasso. She’s watched a handful of his movies—she’d be deigned to call them films—with Keeley before during girls nights or when she’s feeling particularly down and just wants to laugh while drinking a bottle of wine. As far as rom-coms were concerned, Rebecca enjoys his work, though she’d never admit that. In her mind, he was a comedian, plain and simple, and he did a fine job at that. To go from silly rom-coms to Sondheim, however? That was a transition she couldn’t expect most stage actors to do, let alone a comedian with no stage experience she was aware of.

“He’s like, really fucking good, babe. You’ve got to trust Leslie. Have you seen the slime of Ted in Merrily?”

Rebecca scoffs, her disdain clear. “Oh yes, at the Hollywood bowl? Please. That fucking travesty”

In 2021, Ted had played Charlie in a one night benefit production of Charlie in Merrily We Roll Along at the Hollywood Bowl in California. The production was torn apart by critics and Rebecca refused to watch any media derived from it. The casting was criminal. Willis Beard—an action star—as Franklin Shepherd. Michelle Keller—another rom-com star and famously Ted Lasso’s ex-wife, who physically did not fit the part in the slightest—as Mary. Worst of all was Ted Lasso as Charlie.

“He was literally the only saving grace of that production. Just promise me you’ll watch his Franklin Shepard Inc. it’s like, a fucking masterclass in subtext.”

“Are you fucking joking me right now? Keeley you can’t be seriously telling me that clown can do Sondheim any justice. He can’t act his way out of a fucking paper bag.”

“Just please give him a shot babe. This is happening. It’s finally happening. And with a name like Ted’s attached to the show—babe, this run could last a full year. Just give him a shot.”

Rebecca groans, dramatically throwing her head back against the back of the chair.

“I will work with him, but only because I love you and because I really fucking want this show to work, ok? But don’t expect me to be nice to him.”

Keeley squeals, “Babe, I promise you’re gonna love working with him. Everyone I’ve talked to says he’s literally the nicest person alive. Just wait to judge him until the meet and greet on Monday, ok?”

“Ugh, fine,” Rebecca groans, “I’ll do my best. But when I am inevitably a massive bitch to him, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“You’re going to love him, I’m sure of it.”

“Sure,” Rebecca rolls her eyes, the sarcasm dripping from her tone, “I’m going to love him.”

***

Ted’s arrival in London is precarious, to say the least.

His Friday evening flight from Kansas City to O’Hare is delayed by two hours, leaving him approximately 25 minutes to get from terminal one to terminal five before his gate closes. He knows there’s no way his luggage is making it in time, and says a silent little prayer of thanks that he packed an extra set of underwear and his toothbrush in his carry-on.

He makes it with approximately two minutes to spare before the boarding door closes, and graciously thanks the stewardess who helps him find a space for his luggage since the overhead bin space had been filled by more timely passengers. He obliges when she requests he take a short video wishing her son luck at an audition for his school’s winter play.

He doesn’t sleep a wink on the eight hour flight. Even in Polaris business class, with his lay-flat seat, he finds that sleep totally evades him. Maybe it’s the nerves of moving to a new country. Maybe it’s the nerves of starting a new show. Maybe it’s the nerves associated with seeing the woman he’s been in love with for the first time in nearly 30 years and getting to play opposite her in her triumphant return to the stage.

Yeah, it’s probably that one.

The first time Ted saw Rebecca Welton on stage, he had been a mere 20 years old. A young midwestern boy studying musical theatre at the University of Michigan, he decided to study abroad in London his junior year and get a taste for the West End.

During his year at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art, he made an effort to see every show in the West End that he could afford a ticket to. He saw 57 shows in the 1995-1996 season.

32 of those were Gypsy.

Ted had always been a bit of a Sondheim fanatic. When he was a child, his father collected records of Broadway cast recordings, and he grew up dancing around the living room to the scores of Do I Hear a Waltz and West Side Story. He knew the entire score of Follies by the time he was seven. At ten, he cried the entire bus ride home when nobody recognized his Sweeney Todd costume on Halloween.

Naturally, when he saw the bills up advertising a revival of Gypsy, he had to see it.

He bought his ticket for a Friday night showing. Knowing how he loved Sondheim, he splurged on an orchestra seat. Third row, center left. It was a big purchase for a young man who knew he would likely spend many years as a starving artist, but he had a little inheritance to spend, and he knew if anything, his father would approve of his purchase.

He was immediately entranced by its leading lady; a young blonde thing built like a tree who could belt to the high heavens like Ethel Merman and dance with the likes of Chita Rivera. He knew one performance wouldn’t be enough.

After curtain on the first night he saw Gypsy, he immediately ran to the stage door. Ted was hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman who played Louise who had so captured his heart with her performance.

She was everything he had hoped and more. Up close, she was even more beautiful; her green eyes glistened like peridot, twinkling under the streetlamp behind the theatre. Her face, free from the heavy stage makeup that was caked on during the performance glowed with a warmth that told him there was so much more to her than just her beauty. He could see who she was as a person. Kind. Gracious. Thankful to meet a fan her own age. She signed his program and giggled at a joke he told. 

That program sits in the front pocket of his carryon as he flies across the Atlantic to go work with her.

After that first show, Ted made a habit of spending his Fridays at The Albery Theatre in what became his regular seat—C17—watching his siren of the stage serenading the audience, begging them to let her entertain them.

He similarly made a habit of visiting the stage door following each show. 

She was as kind and gracious the second and third time as she was the first.

By his fourth visit to the Albery and to the stage door, she started to recognize him. Across his regular visits, he had only seen one other theatre-goer twice, and he was the only person of their age regularly coming to the stage door. 

By his fifth visit, she remembered his name, and he watched her face light up when she saw him at the stage door.

“Theodore!” She called, running up to him and throwing her arms around him, “Back for our regular Friday date, are we now?” She had joked with him once she released him from her arms. He blushed furiously, rubbing at the back of his neck in embarrassment.

The next Friday, an unusually cold Friday in November, he was the only person who braved the stage door. Instead of lingering, she asked him to walk with her and talk. Her flat was only a few blocks away in SoHo and she wouldn’t mind the company.

She left him at the doorstep of her building with a kiss to his cheek and a promise to see him the following week.

Her understudy went on for her the following week.

The next Friday, she was sniffling when she greeted him at the stage door. She explained that she’d felt poorly and had to take the better part of a week off from the show. The bitter cold the week before had gotten to her.

He told her he hoped he didn’t keep her outside for too long on her walk home. She just smiled at him and told him even if he did, it was worth it.

He walked her home again that evening, and the smile didn’t leave his face for another two days.

The following week, as they reclined against the wall of the theatre, chatting and catching up on the happenings of their respective weeks, she reached into her bag and pulled out a ticket. “For next week?” She asked, her eyes hopeful as she handed it to him. 

He looked at the ticket and saw his usual seat, C17. “You know where I sit?” He asked, his brows shooting up to his hairline.

Rebecca looked down, blushing, suddenly bashful. “I look for you every Friday,” she admitted, her voice soft. 

He didn’t know what to say in response. When she raised her eyes back up to meet his, all he could do to express his gratitude was kiss her. Oh, he was so thankful to have not misread the signs when she wrapped her arms around his neck and sighed against his lips. 

The following Friday, as she exited the stage door into the nearly empty alleyway where Ted waited, she bounded right up to him and threw her arms around his neck, placing a soft kiss on his lips. 

“You were magnificent as always, darling,” he said, resting his forehead against hers.

“Only because I had my good luck charm in the audience.”

“I’m sure you’re incredible every night.”

“Yeah, but I try extra hard when I know you’re watching.” She let out a giggle. “You’ve got a ticket at the box office for every Friday here on out. I made sure that you get my comp.”

“You really don’t have to do that.”

“What’s the point of getting comp tickets in a show if I don’t even use them? Besides, I like to have an excuse to put on a show. Let me entertain you, Ted.” She started with her voice low, seductive, but halfway through the sentence she broke into a giggle.

Ted let out a full belly laugh. “Oh darlin, you entertain me plenty.”

“Walk me home?” She asked suddenly. 

“Of course.”

She grabbed his hand and tugged him out of the alley, through Leicester Square and to her building in SoHo. Her pace was rapid, practically breakneck as she wove through swathes of tourists, dragging him behind.

“Come up?” She asked, as they arrived at her door.

“Rebecca—I… It’s not proper.”

“Fuck proper,” she pouted, lightly stamping her foot against the pavement.

“Let me take you on a date,” Ted asked, “Let me at least make an attempt at being a gentleman.”

“Fine. Make it quick though.”

“Dinner tomorrow?”

She frowned. “It’s a two show day. Sunday?”

It was his turn to frown. “I’ve got an audition workshop until 8. Monday?”

“Can we do lunch? I’ve got a dance rehearsal at 4.”

“I got class until 3:30. Tuesday? I get outa class at 2.”

“Tuesday it is.”

Tuesday afternoon strolls around Hyde Park with Rebecca quickly became a staple in Ted’s week. They’d meet at Royal Albert Hall, halfway between her flat in SoHo and his classes in Hammersmith. They strolled hand in hand amongst the manicured gardens, stopping to grab a bite to eat and sharing it on a bench. They fed ducks. One afternoon, as a particularly angry goose chased him down the path after they walked too close to its nest, Rebecca’s shriek of laughter cut through the air and he was hit with a realization so strong it knocked the wind straight out of his lungs.

He was in love with her.

He didn’t tell her then. He figured he’d bide himself time to build the courage to tell her.

He never found the chance.

That Friday, he was not alone at the stage door as he usually was. Word had spread of Rebecca’s breathtaking performance as Louise and she had started to draw a crowd at the door. He waited off to the side of the crowd, content to get his time with her as he walked her home. As she made her way down the line, signing autographs and taking photos, she turned her head and flashed him an apologetic smile. He grinned back at her. He was so proud of her, and he knew his smile showed it. How lucky he was to get to be in love with her.

As she finished signing the last autograph, she turned to make her way towards Ted, but the voice of an older gentleman called her from the door.

“Rebecca, we need you back in here. You’ve got some notes from tonight’s show.” The man had to have been in his 40s, with a full head of grey hair.

“Oh, ok, yes. Thank you, Rupert. I’ll be in there in just a second,” she called back to the man, before turning back to Ted. She grabbed his hands and reached up to place a quick peck on his lips. “I’m sorry, Theodore, darling. I’ll see you Tuesday?”

He smiled at her. “See you Tuesday.”

He did not see her Tuesday.

He waited.

And waited.

But she never showed.

He sat on the base of the Royal Albert Memorial for two hours, waiting for his songbird to grace him with her presence. As the sun began to dip behind the horizon and the light began to fade, he slowly pushed himself up and made his way back to his dorm, feeling confused and dejected, but most of all worried about her.

That Friday, as he stood outside the stage door, he watched cast member after cast member exit the stage door. They made their way through the crowd, signing autographs. Many shouted a quick, “Hey Theodore!” As they passed him.

He waited.

And waited.

Eventually the same grey-haired man popped his head out the door. “That’s everyone, have a good night,” he called to the waiting crowd.

“What about Miss Welton?” called an older woman.

“Went out another door. Sorry.” He popped his head back inside and closed the door.

As the crowds dissipated, Ted felt his spirits deflating. Had he done something to drive her away? Everything had seemed fine on their last date. Perfect even. Had he been too much for her already?

He waited until the crowds had cleared out of the alley before turning tail and heading back towards the crowds of Leicester Square.

“Theodore!” He heard her voice shout from behind him as he was about to turn out of the alley. He turned around to see Rebecca running towards him, her long legs carrying her quickly in his direction.

“Rebecca? Wha—I thought you left already?”

“I’m sorry it took me so long. Hal had some notes for me before I left. I’m glad I caught you. I’m so sorry about Tuesday. I got called in for a fitting.”

“Oh,” he smiled, relieved that she hadn’t blown him off intentionally, “Nah, I get it. Sometimes work gets in the way.”

She grabbed his hand, threading her fingers between his. “Walk me home?” She asked, her big green eyes round and pleading.

He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Come on, darlin,” he pulled her hand gently, leading her down the alleyway and into the crowded London streets, “Let’s get you home.”

They stopped at a pub down the street from her flat. Time flew by, and before they knew it, they had somehow reached 4 AM. As they meandered towards her apartment, she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him for a desperate kiss.

“Come upstairs,” she pleaded, her eyes hooded with lust. Despite her invitation and his own desperation to get his hands on her body, he declined to come upstairs with her. He didn’t want this decision to be one tainted by alcohol. She had mentioned to him months before, in a quiet moment in the park as they sat and watched the ducks, that she had never been with anyone before like that. He didn’t want to taint that by taking advantage when their inhibitions were lowered. Sure, they had only had two drinks. They weren’t drunk in the slightest. But he didn’t want to put her in a situation where there was any possibility she could regret her decision.

Nearly 30 years later, he still regrets it.

It was the last time he spoke to her.

The following Tuesday, she yet again failed to show up at the park.

He waited until the sun dipped well below the horizon and he knew it was past her call time.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to move.

That Friday, at the stage door, he waited again.

He saw her.

As he waited just past the edge of the crowds, the door opened. The same grey-haired man he had seen the week prior ushered her out the stage door and past the crowds, huffing and puffing. He gripped her arm with a ferocity that sent jolts of electricity down his spine as Ted registered the man’s fingers digging into her bicep. He walked at a breakneck speed, practically dragging Rebecca to the end of the alley. As they passed Ted, Rebecca turned to him and thew him a little apologetic smile and wave, before the man pulled her around a corner and out of sight. Ted quickly followed. As he turned the corner out of the alley, he saw the man help Rebecca climb into a large, black SUV. Over the man’s shoulder, her eyes locked with Ted. Her expression looked deeply sad and far away. The man closed the door.

That was the last he saw of her when she was not onstage.

The next three weeks, he waited over an hour at the stage door. Long after the guard told him she had gone. Long after the crowds dissipated. Like Argos, he sat faithfully by. He knew he was delusional. But delusion is what got him into U Mich Drama. It was what got him to LAMDA. It was what got him to be so lucky as to fall in love with Rebecca in the first place.

His luck seemed to have run out.

She never showed.

He kept his promise though, and every Friday made his way to the box office where Mae, the attendant, handed him seat C17. Every week he sat and watched his love from afar as she sang out to the audience, her eyes occasionally meeting his with a fond glance. During the  curtain call, she always gave him a little smile and wave. Sometimes she blew him a kiss.

But she never appeared at the stage door again.

After nearly two months, he gave up on waiting for her in Hyde Park. Sitting at the base of the Alfred Memorial filled him with too much sadness to bare. 

He still went to the show every Friday though. He still clapped and cheered for her, ever the faithful man.

As he made his way to the box office on a Friday in May, his world shattered.

Mae, the box office attendant, a kind woman in her 50s with a flash of cropped, bright, white hair, looked up at him with an expression of pity he hadn’t seen since speaking to folks back home in Kansas after his father killed himself.

“I’m sorry, love. C17 went as a producer comp already. I don’t have a ticket for ya.”

He felt his heart drop to his stomach.

“Let me see what I can scrounge up for ya though.” She looked in the stack of remaining tickets. “Here ya are, love. It’s on the house. Thank you for your support. It really means the world to her.”

A13.

Ted made his way to his seat in the front row, center of the orchestra and attempted to school his face. He knew that he must have looked gravely ill in that moment. He certainly felt it. He sucked in a breath and counted to ten with his eyes closed. As he opened them, the lights dimmed and the orchestra queued up for what he knew would be his final show.

The first time she spotted him in the front row, she stumbled over her line, clearly startled by the deviation from pattern. Something was off in her performance thoughout the night. She seemed frazzled, acting as if in a perpetual state of frenzy. She flubbed lines, missed queues, even messed up choreography, which he knew she could do in her sleep. 

Even in her state of disarray, he was mesmerized by her. He stared up at her on the stage, not wanting to take his eyes off of her as if to soak all of her up one last time. She was dazzling. Absolutely radiant. She shined so bright, it almost hurt his eyes to watch. 

By the end, he felt tears well in his eyes. As she ran downstage for her curtain call, he felt tears stream down his face as he openly wept. She made eye contact with him, her head cocked as if in silent question to him. 

“Goodbye, Rebecca,” he mouthed to her, “I love you.”

Her brow furrowed as she struggled to read his lips. Before she could do anything else though, Mamma Rose’s queue to bow began to play and Rebecca had no choice but to rush back upstage and join the line. 

As she walked downstage, hand in hand with her costars for one final bow, she had a large grin plastered on her face. He could see, however, that it did not reach her eyes.

She looked down at him as she gestured to the lights and to the orchestra, mouthing a question he couldn’t understand. He had never learned to read lips. He just stared at her, openly weeping as he caught his final glimpses of the woman he had come to love over the last six months. Her expression grew progressively more frantic at his lack of response, her eyes pleading with his. As the curtain dropped, he could see a glimpse of her feet as she took off running towards the wings before it fully hit the ground.

He stood briefly, taking a deep breath as the rest of his row cleared out. He whispered a silent thanks to the theatre and all it had given him over the last six months. Then he walked out the front entrance to head home. As he walked past the alley that had brought him so much joy and pain, he paused to take one last quick glance. Cheers erupted at the stage door as one of the stars must have exited the theatre. He watched as the crowd morphed and shifted, parting to let whomever it was that was rushing out of the theatre though. He blinked back tears, steeled his expression, and turned away before he could see who it was. He made his way to the end of the block, entered the Leicester Square station, and never looked back. 

He followed her career over the next 30 years. He saw every show she was in. Always seat C17, as an homage to the fleeting romance of his youth.

He grew up, but he never moved on.

When he received a call from Leslie Higgins, offering him the opportunity to star opposite Rebecca in one of the greatest musicals ever written, by golly he jumped on the opportunity.

So as he lays in his business class seat, making his way across the Atlantic to see the woman he thinks may be the love of his life, it’s only natural that sleep evades him.

He wonders what she’ll say when she sees him again. Will it be a happy reunion? Will she explain what he did to drive her away all those years ago?

He feels the tell tale numbness beginning to spread through his limbs, a sure sign he’s due for a panic attack. He closes his eyes and begins to take cyclical breaths as his therapist once instructed him. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. Sure, he thought he knew who 20 year old Rebecca Welton was, but he doesn’t know who 49 year old Rebecca Welton was, so there is no point in trying to anticipate her reaction. She was nearly 30 years older than when they last spoke. In that time, she had gotten married, won two Olivier’s, a Tony, and a Grammy, taken a hiatus from the stage, gotten cheated on, and gotten divorced. She was a whole other woman from the woman Ted knew, who had lived a whole life.

As the plane passes over NewFoundland and begins its journey across the Atlantic, the plane vibrates violently in a patch of rough air. Ted’s thoughts shift from Rebecca to his own mortality as he grip the arms of his seat. Sure, he knows that logically, no plane has ever crashed from turbulence, but it would be just his luck if they did.

Luckily, his plane does not go down in the middle of the Atlantic.

The plane descends into Heathrow at 11:37 AM on Saturday, and Ted breathes a sigh of relief. He makes his way to customs and groans as the E-passport gate flashes him a red alert, steering him to the manned gates. He weaves his way through the barricades, shoulders slumping with exhaustion, and hands his passport over to the border agent.

“Purpose for entry?”

“Work.” He points to the visa page on his passport.

“Filming a movie?” The agent asks.

Ted beams at the young agent. “Starrin’ in a musical.”

The agent quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing as they flip through the passport and stamp the booklet. “Break a leg,” they say with a smile and nod before slipping the passport back under the glass barrier to Ted.

“Thank you kindly,” he nods, taking his passport carry-on bag before walking to baggage claim. He opens his United app and confirms his bags are indeed still in Chicago. With a sigh, he heads to the baggage counter to arrange for his bags to get delivered to his flat.

An hour later, as he flops down on the bed in the furnished flat the producers put him up alongside the Richmond Green, he falls into a deep sleep where his dreams are filled with strolls around Hyde Park and late nights in a dark alley in the theatre district.

Chapter Text

All it has to be is good

And George, You’re good.

You’re really good.

Sunday morning, Rebecca wakes with a start as the sun is just beginning to break the horizon. It’s an hour before her alarm is set to go off, but she decides it’s not worth the effort to try to fall back asleep. 

Her dreams had been wildly vivid, filling her with dread and anxiety. Not that she could really call them dreams, per say; they had been more of a memory than a dream, but an amplified and exaggerated version.

She runs through a crowd, pushing her way through the hordes of people. As she pushes bodies out of her way, hands grab her arms and her torso, trying to grab her attention and keep her from breaking free. She pushes, she shouts, she moves forward. As she finally thinks she breaks free of the crowd, she sees the figure of a man turn a corner. She opens her mouth to shout for him, but nothing comes out. Who is she running after? She knows she should know, but she can’t remember his name; only that she needs to find him. She tries to scream, shout. Something to grab his attention. But her voice dies in her throat. She steps out of crowd and attempts to break into a run, but something catches her ankle and she topples to the ground. As she moves to stand, the crowd surges around her, and she feels crushed by the weight of the bodies atop her. She struggles to breathe, to push her way back up. Her heart races. She gasps for breath.

And then she’s awake.

Rebecca shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath. This dream has plagued her for nearly 30 years. The end of the dream varies based on her levels of stress at any given moment. Sometimes she never breaks free from the crowd. Their hands on her arms are so strong she feels stuck in a vice. Sometimes she breaks free and makes it to the man, but when he turns around his face is foreign.

Sometimes she relives reality, where she broke free from the crowd and ran after him. How she turned the corner and saw him at the far end of the street, his head bobbing above the crowds of tourists, before descending the stairs into the tube. How she sprinted after him, running down the street and taking the steps two at a time, quickly gaining on him. How she finally got close enough to shout his name over the crowds of travelers hurrying through the station. How he didn’t hear her. How he boarded his train. How she sprinted towards the car, her long legs carrying her at breakneck speed towards the car. How the door closed. How he was facing the inside of the car. How he didn’t see her. How she watched, her chest heaving, as the train pulled out from the station. How the tears fell from her eyes as she stood on the platform, her heart in the pit of her stomach.

Those nights are always the worst.

It’s funny how this man haunts her dreams so.

She hasn’t seen him in nearly 30 years.

The image of his face faded from her memory somewhere to the tune of 25 years ago. Truth be told, she’s always been horrific at remembering faces. She cringes every time she remembers a particularly awkward incident, in which she introduced herself to a man at a party, only for him to state they had both acted together for the better part of a year in a production of Passion. Even worse, he had been Georgio to her Fosca. It was no surprise that the face of the young man she knew for only months faded from her memory. Oh how she wishes she had a photograph to look back on.

She remembers he was tall—even more so than her—with brown hair and eyes, and clean shaven, but in her memories his face is a blur.

She remembers his name was Theodore. She never even learned his last name, but she’s certain that even if she had, the memory would have faded long ago, alongside most of the memories from the early Rupert years that she tried so hard to repress. Unfortunately, with the bad memories went so many of the good memories. Her friend Flo, a child psychologist, suggested to her at some point that it was a symptom of PTSD, and she ought to seek therapy for it. She’s probably right, but she is acutely aware of her own problems. She doesn’t need someone else pointing them out to her.

She remembers he was kind to her. How patient he was. How gracious. How loving.

How she loved him, for such a short time. How to this day, she thinks he may be the only man she’s ever actually been in love with.

But the rest is a blur, really.

Truth be told, she doesn’t remember much from the time she was 20-25. Those years—the early Rupert years as she calls them—were tumultuous. 

Between her sudden success and Rupert subtly taking control over every aspect of her waking life, she operated in a perpetual state of high stress. She thinks sometime in those early days, she had already started to fear Rupert, but she was also a new actress on the scene and she needed to do what she could to make it. He told her that while she had potential, she really didn’t have what it took to stand out on her own. But he could give her everything she needed to succeed in the industry. He could help her. He could give her security. He could give her the boost she needed for her career to explode. He could give her love.

In retrospect, she knows she was naive to believe him.

But she was barely more than a girl. How was she to know better?

As the sun rises above the horizon, casting its beams through the east-facing windows and gauzy curtains that separate Rebecca from the outside world, Rebecca shakes her head and forces herself to get out of her thoughts. 

She goes about her morning routine, eating a croissant and drinking a cup of earl grey. The soft flavor of bergamot and black tea washes over her tongue, warming her body as it trails from her mouth deep into her stomach. It’s only October, but she feels the chill of the winter months creeping in, preparing to drape itself across Londonq. She sits in her window overlooking the green and watches the bustle of the early morning activity on the green; the brave souls who are willing to brave the brisk chill of a damp autumn morning.

A woman pushing a stroller, walking her baby around the green.

A group of children kicking a football around the grass.

A man with a ridiculous mustache running on the street outside her house.

A couple taking a leisurely stroll up the path that cut across the center of the green. 

As she watches, she couldn’t help but wonder what had them up and moving so early on a day of rest? Had she not had plans in several hours, Rebecca would certainly still find herself cocooned within the confines of her heavy percale sheets, under the cloud of her eiderdown duvet, basking in the rich glow of the morning.

She is, after all, a child of the theatre and as such, a creature of the night. She was quite capable of waking up early in the morning when required; whether it was as early morning Pilates class to get her out of the house and away from Rupert during their marriage, or to be first in line at an open call in the early days of her career, she was capable of waking before the sun. And she could so so quite efficiently. That did not mean she enjoyed it though. No, not at all. In her ideal world, she would sleep until noon, enjoy the comforts of home until two, and then venture out into the real world in the mid afternoon sun, where she would remain amount the other creatures of London until well into the night, before returning home in the wee hours of the morning, just as the joggers and overly ambitious financiers started their mornings.

Nevertheless, her racing mind has her awake, and she decides she may as well make use of the morning and enjoy the rare opportunity to relax and putz around the house for a few hours. She lounges, she reads, she runs lines. She enjoys the time afforded to her before the clock strikes ten and she realizes she’d better start preparing to attend to her obligations for the day; namely a meet and greet with the rest of her cast and crew.

She met most of the cast in 2019 when the production had originally been slated to run. Luckily, there had been very few changes in either, as most had been willing to keep room in their schedules available for this particular production, knowing just how highly anticipated it was.

The only major change is Ted Lasso as George. 

She knows she shouldn’t immediately discount him based on knowing that he is a film actor, but she can’t help but feel a bit judgemental, rather than curious.

She’s never been one for that Walt Whitman quote. 

She knows he got his big break in the film industry in the mid-2000s. She’s never watched any of his early films, and she knows nothing of the training he may or may not have received. Knowing the few American movie stars she’s had the pleasure of working alongside during her time in the West End and Broadway, she suspects he’s probably had none. She’s only watched three or so of his later movies—he had to have been somewhere around 40 when they were released—and she didn’t believe them to be cinematic masterpieces by any stretch of the imagination.

She’s never quite vibed with rom-coms, thinking their blind optimism that everything works out the way it’s supposed to in the end is an incredibly naive way to go about life. She knows that’s not the case. Love is rare and hard and heartbreaking, and even if you find it, it’s unlikely to stay within your grasp. Life intervenes. Outside forces intervene. And one never truly gets a happy ending. In the end, someone either leaves or dies, and one party inevitably loses out.

Maybe she’s cynical. Maybe she’s right. That’s for her to decide.

She gets herself ready and puts on her armor for the day. She showers and washes her hair, blow drying it and leaving it to set in rollers as she paints her face to give herself the appearance of being alive.

She chuckles as the lyrics to one of her favorite Sondheim songs she’s never had the opportunity to perform flit through her head. She layers concealer under her eyes, painting away dark circles. The thought appears in her mind that while she may have aged out of playing Bobby in the genderbent version of Company she and Stephen had discussed when she was in her early thirties, she was nearing the prime age to play Joanne if the opportunity arose. As she draws on her winged liner with the precision of Sweeney’s razor, she then thinks a revival of Sweeney Todd would be quite delightful. She’s always wanted to play Mrs. Lovett.

One show first.

She needed to get through Sunday before she could think of what was next.

Because there would be a next show. She was not going to let anyone or anything keep her from the stage any longer.

She chooses her outfit for the day, an orange silk blouse with a v-neck and a tight-fitted pencil skirt, paired with a pair of towering black Louboutins. She knew she looked quite imposing in this outfit, and it was a staple on days when she needed to feel a little taller, a little stronger than she was.

Because truth be told, Rebecca is nervous.

She has so much riding on this production. The future of her career as an actress—if she continues to have one at this point—is contingent on this production going off without a hitch.

The press has been so cruel to her in her divorce with Rupert. They claimed she had lost her feminine charm and her talent. That was why she couldn’t get cast; not that her callous ex-husband ran a smear campaign to denigrate her in the eyes of the theatre community.

She needs this production to be a roaring success to prove to the world that she is still it.

All it has to be is good.

And Rebecca, she’s good.

But would Ted Lasso be able to match her? To live up to the likes of Mandy Patinkin or Raul Esparza?

She’s doubtful, to say the least.

So she’s nervous to meet Ted Lasso, an actor whom she thinks very little of, and in the hands of whom her career hinges.

After dressing, she pulls her hair down from the rollers and shapes it the way she wants. She’s got enough volume at the front to lift her an extra inch or two. Her ends are lightly curled under, giving her a little bit of texture while still looking polished. 

Her armor donned and feeling ready, she stares herself down in her mirror, strikes a power pose to make herself feel big, then sets off.

When she arrives at the Crown and Anchor, she realizes that she is terribly early. Knowing the way most creatives operate, she knows it will be a while until most people arrive. She decides to hunker down at the bar, order a drink, and get settled in before the chaos begins.

Not long after her gin and tonic is placed in front of her, Keeley arrives. She’s thankful that her friend, while having a chaotic aura about her, is incredibly punctual. In this case, she too is early.

Keeley hops up onto the barstool beside Rebecca and throws her arms around her neck.

“Oh babe, I’ve missed you! I’m so excited to work with you again!” Keeley squealed, pulling Rebecca into a deep hug.

While rarely one for physical affection herself—touch-starved, some might claim—she does enjoy hugs with Keeley. Rebecca wraps her arms around her tiny friend and pulls her close.

“I’ve missed this too, love. It’s so good to be working with you again.”

Rebecca and Keeley had met 15 years prior, when Keeley had been an assistant costume designer on Into The Woods. Several weeks into rehearsals, Rebecca, playing the role of the Baker’s Wife, went to the costume department for a preliminary fitting. There, she was met by the spritely 20 year old assistant of the costume designer. The imp flitted around her in a flurry as she pinned garments and made adjustments, flirting with Rebecca the whole time. Rebecca was immediately charmed by the girl’s bold, blunt candor and the two became fast friends. By the time Rebecca was cast in A Little Night Music a few short years later, Keeley had worked her way up to lead costume designer and took the role of dramaturg under her belt as well.

Rebecca deeply admires her friend’s work ethic and attention to detail. Keeley’s work received incredible acclaim for her attention to detail and ability to enhance the story through costume. Rebecca’s so proud that she had gotten to witness Keeley grow, mature, and become a powerhouse in the industry through the lense of her best friend.

Even more so, she’s thrilled to work alongside her once more. 

The two chat aimlessly about everything and nothing as more members of the cast and crew begin to filter into the pub.

Higgins comes up to give her a hug and let her know how thrilled he is to finally work with her on this show.

Roy—a former dancer turned choreographer—comes up to grunt a brief hello at Rebecca, and tells Keeley she looks lovely. Keeley blushes and tells him he should buy her a drink later so they can catch up and discuss his vision and how the costumes can fit into the choreography. He grunts, nodding his head, and moves on.

Rebecca raises her eyebrows as Keeley squeals into her hand. Roy and Keeley have been dancing around one another for the better part of a decade now. Roy had been dance captain on Into The Woods before an unfortunate incident with Milky White left him with a bum knee. He’d come onto Night Music as an assistant choreographer and worked his way up to head choreographer over the years. His choreography always managed to showcase Keeley’s costumes and the two had become something of a production dream team.

Rebecca knew just how Keeley longed for the two of them to become the West Ends next creative power couple.

“Keeley, if you don’t kiss him by the end of this production, I swear to God…” Rebecca starts.

“Babes if I don’t do more than that I need you to lock the two of us in a room and refuse to let us out until we fuck.”

Rebecca throws her head back in laughter. “I promise, darling,” she giggles.

She hears someone clear their throat behind her and take a deep breath.

“Rebecca Welton.”

She turns in her barstool to find herself face to face with the one and only Ted Lasso.

He’s looking at her with warm, honey amber eyes and expression so fond, she almost finds it startling. His gaze is so familiar, she almost wants to wrap herself in it like a blanket. She feels as if she’s met him before, but chocks that up to having seen his films. Still, the way he says her name with his Midwestern drawl washes over her like the Ocean’s tide, and she feels so safe, so at home. She wants to drown in his voice. The feeling startles her deeply, how much hearing him say her name sounds like home.

She can’t help but think that Ted Lasso is incredibly handsome. The camera certainly didn’t do him justice in his films. He’s far taller than she expected. Sitting in her barstool, she’s about eye level with him. She suspects if she stood up now in her 120mm heels she might have an advantage, but only slightly. His hair is thick and luscious. It’s dark, save for a few streaks of grey beginning to emerge at the temple. The thought pops into her mind that she’d like to run her fingers through it and hear the sounds he makes when she pulls on it. She’s sure that his midwestern drawl moaning her name would be utterly delicious.

She hasn’t wanted someone so suddenly in almost thirty years. Not since—

No. She can’t go down that train of thought. She’s got too much riding on this to go down that rabbit hole.

She plasters a bright, professional smile on her face. It’s the same one she wears when she meets fans at the stage door—she stopped truly getting to know them or putting her real self on display for the public decades ago—or when she conducts interviews. It’s a mask; another layer of her armor to protect herself. Her reputation.

She holds out a hand for him to shake. “And you must be Ted Lasso,” she says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She watches as a series of flickers of emotion flash across his face. They’re so brief, hardly there for a moment, and so faint—what one could describe as microexpressions—and she barely has time to clock and decipher even before his face moves onto the next one. First there’s confusion. Then hurt. Then anger. Then the briefest glimpse of what she can only interpret as utter devastation, before he schools his face and smiles at her.

She notices that his smile does not quite reach his eyes, and she hates that she doesn’t know why.

He sticks his hand in her’s and shakes it.

“Y’know,” he starts, “I’m so darned excited to be working with you, Rebecca. Who’da thunk all these years later we’d get to star in a show together?”

She can’t help but think he’s fishing for something, but she’s not quite sure how she can take the bait and what he’s looking for from her.

“Yes, I’ve had quite the hiatus since my last show, all those years ago. I’m so thrilled to be returning home to the stage. I can’t say I ever expected to be starring opposite an American film actor though. Tell me, do you really think that Sondheim is the appropriate venue for a stunt cast?”

A flicker of hurt flash across his face. She knows she’s being a little callous, a little harsh, but she takes this far too seriously to risk her career in the hands of an underprepared star. And if being mean allows her to push her basal instincts aside for a moment to focus on what’s at stake, so be it. It’s a defense mechanism, surely. She needs to keep her defenses up with him to ensure that nothing can go wrong with this show.

“You gotta know how much I love Sondheim,” he says.

She purses her lips. “No, I can’t say I do. I’m sorry, Mr. Lasso, but I can’t say I’ve followed your career, so I’m not familiar with your interest in Sondheim.”

There’s that flicker of hurt across his face again. He schools his expression, a somber look crossing his face before he opens his mouth.

“This show means more to me than you have any idea. And getting to star opposite you, Rebecca… Heck, it’s the honor of lifetime. I wish I could go back in time and tell my 20 year old self about this. He’d be thrilled.” He smiles, his mustache curving up, dimples settling into his cheeks. She feels the strangest urge to press her thumbs into his dimples.

He continues, “I grew up worshipping Sondheim. As a young man, I saw more Sondheim shows than probably anyone who wasn’t actively performing in them. I know what a huge honor it is to get to be in this show, and I promise you I’m gonna put in the effort to do this show justice. You ain’t gotta believe in me. I’m used to people underestimatin’ me, but I got enough belief for both of us. I promise you, I ain’t gonna let you down this time. It’s an honor to get to star opposite you, Rebecca. It’s been a dream of mine for decades..”

***

When he lays eyes on Rebecca for the first time in a decade—since he last saw her in Night Music—Ted thinks he feels his heart stop in his chest.

As soon as his pulse resumes, it’s rapid; beating so fast he thinks it may leap out of his chest.

She’s here. She’s really here.

And she’s beautiful.

He only sees her from behind, but he knows her instantly.

Her hair is different than she wore it when they were young. Longer. Down past her shoulders. And lighter. Last time he saw her, she had been a slightly darker, brighter blonde. Still obviously bleached. But in stark contrast to the practically white platinum that now cascades down her back.

Even though he knows she’s had a rough go at it—what with her very public divorce and the way the media wrung her through the wringer despite the split being no fault of her own—he can tell that time has been kind to her. He moves towards her, slightly off to the side. When she throws her head back in laughter at something her friend says, he gets a better look at her face. Her eyes crinkle as she laughs, smile lines showing that joy is far from a stranger to her. Her skin is glowing and tan, as if she’s just come back from a vacation and not spent her time in the dreary haze of London.

He takes a deep breath and decides it’s now or never before he loses his gusto.

He clears his throat.

“Rebecca Welton.”

She turns in her chair, and Ted feels the air leave his lungs with a sudden wush. 

Seeing her again like this—looking in her eyes—Ted feels that a part of his soul that has been restless, screaming for the last thirty years go quiet. He feels at peace for the first time in his adult life.

Her eyes, as she meets his, are even greener than he remembers them. Maybe 30 years have dimmed the colors of his memories, but as she stands before him in technicolor, he suddenly feels as if he’s really truly seeing the color green for the first time. He’d forgotten the little flecks of gold that dot her irises, how the color explodes out from her pupils like the leaves on a fine green fern, covering a backdrop of soft blue. 

He sees something flicker across her face before she plasters a smile on her face and sticks out her hand to introduce herself.

The peace that he feels suddenly bursts like a water balloon popping overhead, dousing his dreams in freezing cold water. Surely she has to know. 

She has to.

Or maybe she’s still angry at him for whatever he did, all those years ago, that drove her away. He still doesn’t know what it is, and the thought keeps him awake more often than not in the middle of the night as he racks his brain for some misstep he made all those years ago. He’ll spend every day of this production making it up to her if that’s the case.

She must be pulling some sick joke on him. Maybe in her anger, she’s lashing out at him for whatever misstep he made. But to resort to cruelty? It hurts. It makes him angry.

Then the thought hits him like a freight train.

Maybe she just doesn’t remember him.

Whatever they had was so insignificant that he’s no longer a part of her memories. The realization nearly topples him over, drawing all of the strength from his knees. He’s spent the last thirty years pining over a woman who doesn’t even remember he exists.

Everything in the Crown and Anchor suddenly feels sharper. The malty, earthy scent of beer permeates the air, threatening to drown him in a sea of amber mist. The shrill laughter of his soon-to-be castmates slices through the air like knives, piercing his eardrums at a decibel he didn’t know possible. The blood leaves his fingertips as they begin to vibrate. He takes a breath, sucking in as much air as possible to sooth his aching lungs.

And then it’s quiet.

He schools his face and forces a pleasant expression as he shakes her hand. He’s not going to make assumptions yet. No sir-ee, he knows what that does.

He decides to prod a little, try to figure out which is the real reason Rebecca doesn’t seem to know who he is.

Maybe she just don’t recognize him.

That must be it.

Thirty years, 50-some odd pounds, and a bit of facial hair later, and Ted realizes he looks quite a bit different from his 20 year old self. He certainly sounds different too.

In college he had tried to mellow out his accent. He wasn’t shirking his midwestern roots, but he knew if he wanted to make it as a serious actor on the stage he had to perfect a neutral American accent. He spent four years, including his time in London, speaking as neutrally as possible.

As his stage career faltered, however, and his screen career took off, he found that audiences were charmed by his midwestern drawl. He embraced the accent he was raised with, adopting and enhancing the drawl, making his voice into a warm blanket to wrap viewers up in and make them dream of a simpler life.

As he returned to the stage in his late 40s, Theodore’s accent returned. It was an easy shift when he had played in Merrily, and surely it would be in Sunday too.

Maybe, when he spoke with a more neutral accent Rebecca would remember.

Until then, he figured he’d poke and prod a little bit, see if he could get her to acknowledge who he was; what they had.

Y’know,” he starts, “I’m so darned excited to be working with you, Rebecca. Who’da thunk all these years later we’d get to star in a show together?” He hopes that if he gently reminds her of how they know each other, she might remember. He lays the bait, sets the framework for her to acknowledge their meeting all those years ago.

She doesn’t take the bait, instead talking about her hiatus from the stage. Then makes a biting remark about how Sondheim may not be the appropriate vehicle for him to take to the stage.

It hurts. He thinks back to long afternoons where they spent hours walking hand in hand, discussing the merits of various Sondheim shows. He thinks of how he had told her one of those days that she might be the only person his age who appreciates Sondheim as much as he.

You gotta know how much I love Sondheim,” he says, an impassioned plea for her to say something, anything that might indicate a hint of recollection.

She purses her lips, her eyes narrowing as she looks him up and down, a look he clearly recognizes as judging him. “No, I can’t say I do. I’m sorry, Mr. Lasso, but I can’t say I’ve followed your career, so I’m not familiar with your interest in Sondheim.”

It’s a stab in the gut. She really has no idea who he is. He knows the hurt must flicker across his face. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve—it’s part of what made him such a good actor. He attempts to school his face to the best of his ability to convey just how serious this is to him.

“This show means more to me than you have any idea. And getting to star opposite you, Rebecca… Heck, it’s the honor of lifetime. I wish I could go back in time and tell my 20 year old self about this. He’d be thrilled.” He smiles, his mustache curving up, dimples settling into his cheeks. She feels the strangest urge to press her thumbs into his dimples.

He continues, “I grew up worshipping Sondheim. As a young man, I saw more Sondheim shows than probably anyone who wasn’t actively performing in them. I know what a huge honor it is to get to be in this show, and I promise you I’m gonna put in the effort to do this show justice. You ain’t gotta believe in me. I’m used to people underestimatin’ me, but I got enough belief for both of us. I promise you, I ain’t gonna let you down this time. It’s an honor to get to star opposite you, Rebecca. It’s been a dream of mine for decades…”

He can see clear as day that she’s fighting the urge to roll her eyes, and she’s losing the battle. She used to find his impassioned speeches so endearing. She had just as much hope as he did back in the day. He knows she had a rough go at it for a few years, but he can’t help but wonder what it was that broke her spirit.

“I can’t help but admire your enthusiasm, Mr. Lasso, but this isn’t Hollywood,” Rebecca sneers, “Good looks, charm, and camera work can’t make up for a lack of talent. Eight shows a week is serious business and it’s fucking hard work.”

“I’m as serious as a heart attack,” he interjects.

She loses the fight against rolling her eyes. “Clearly.”

“You don’t gotta believe in me—I’m used to being underestimated. People’ve been underestimating me my whole life. But ya know what, that just motivates me to work harder. And ya know what, Rebecca, I ain’t gonna rest until you believe that I’m right for this role. Cause all of us, we gotta be a team to make this thing work. And if one of us ain’t believing in all of us, we ain’t gonna work. And I really want this to work. And I know you do too. So I’m gonna do what I can to get us to a spot where we’re ok, so we can put on a gosh dang good show.”

“We’ll see,” Rebecca says, standing up from her bar stool, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go speak with Leslie.” Rebecca stalks off in a huff, her heels clacking across the dark hardwood of the bar. Ted watches her walk away, leaning back against the bar and letting out a deep sigh. This is going to be more work than he thought.

“Don’t worry about her,” he hears a voice pipe up down the bar. He looks to the seat next to where Rebecca was sitting and sees a tiny, spritely woman in a bright pink coat with her hair half up in what had to be the tallest ponytail he’s ever seen. “She’s a tough nut to crack, but she’ll come around eventually.” The woman reaches out a hand for him to shake, “Keeley Jones. Costumer, dramateurg, and Rebecca’s best friend.”

He takes Keeley’s hand, giving her a firm shake. “Ted Lasso. I’m a big fan of your work. Those costumes you did on A Little Night Music? Masterpieces. I’m real excited to work with ya on this here show. I just know you’re gonna make us look real good.”

“Oh I know who you are,” Keeley giggles, “I’m a huge fan also. Your movies are, like, fucking fabulous. You’ve really got the pining man thing down.”

In the distance, he sees Rebecca talking animatedly to Leslie Higgins, her fury evident. The man cowers in his seat as her hands flutter about around her. He lets out a sigh, staring longingly at Rebecca.

Keeley tracks his line of sight. “You know, she’d never admit it, but she liked your movies.” Ted’s gaze snaps back to Keeley “I made her watch a couple on girl’s night when she was in a particularly bad spot.” She takes a deep breath, pulling her lips between her teeth as if she’s debating whether to say what she’s about to say. “She’s putting a lot of pressure on herself with this show. It means so fucking much to her. She just—she needs time.” Keeley takes his hand in her tiny hand across the bar and gives it a gentle, comforting squeeze. “She’ll come around to you, I promise.” She stands up from the bar and gives him a nod. “Just give her time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a hot choreographer making eyes at me across the room and I need to go flirt with him.” She walks across the bar to where a grumpy looking man with the expression of Oscar the Grouch wearing all black stands with his hands in his pockets. Ted sees how the man’s face somehow lights up while also maintaining a facade of general displeasure as Keeley saunters up to him and lays a hard on his arm. 

Ted sighs, running his hands through his hair and allowing himself a brief moment in his thoughts before he schools his expression. He slaps on a big smile, laden with that midwestern charm that brought him his fame. He makes his way through the bar, introducing himself to the rest of the cast and crew.

That night at home, as he wonders what he can do to win Rebecca over. He begins to pull ingredients out of his pantry to bake a batch of cookies when a memory washes flashes across his mind’s eye.

They’re twenty again, him and her, walking hand in hand around Paddington, a deviation from their usual Tuesday route around Hyde Park. As they pass a small bakery, he watches her eyes light up. 

“Ooh, Theodore, look! They have my favorite kind of biscuit. You need to try them. Come on!” She tugs his hand and pulls him into the bakery. She orders a package of the “biscuits,” as she calls them, for them to share. A simple shortbread. But for such a simple cookie, the expression on her face is nothing short of euphoric as she bites into the shortbread. Her eyes roll back in her head and she lets out a moan that sounds completely unholy.

He remembers trying one of the biscuits and loving it, but what he loved even more was watching the delight on her face.

As the memory fades, and he’s back in his kitchen, he finds he’s gathered butter, flour, powdered sugar, and vanilla bean, and he knows what to do.

Chapter Text

First of all, you need a good foundation

Otherwise it's risky from the start

Ted has never ascribed to the belief that Mondays were a thing to dread.

He didn’t quite know what it was about the anti-Monday lobby that made so much of the population react with such vitriol. As much as he loved that Garfield cartoon, he couldn’t help but wonder if its popularity is really what catapulted Monday from just being any other day to its status as the number one public enemy of joy. Sure, that orange cat was dang cute, and he enjoyed a lasagna as much as anyone else, but that cat really had a bit too much power when it came to public sentiment. Ted happened to find Mondays to be the best day of the week.

Maybe it’s his unconventional career, where Mondays have never necessary marked the beginning of his work week—and often in his time in New York, they’ve been a day of respite. Having never worked a standard 9-5 job, he’s never really had a standard work schedule. Between sporadic filming and rehearsal schedules, he’s never quite felt the need to dread them like so many do. Mondays are no worse than any other day.

Really though, Ted likes to attribute his love of Mondays to his innate sense of optimism. If one considers Monday the start of the standard work week, then Monday provides an opportunity for a fresh start; an opportunity for rebirth. Mondays are an exciting day. They’re the start of something new. What about Mondays wouldn’t he find exciting?

This Mondayin particular has Ted especially excited. This Monday certainly marked the start of something new; it marked a turning point—an opportunity to pivot his career and prove to the world that he was a serious actor. More importantly though, it marked his first chance to rekindle the fire that had simmered low for thirty years within him. It was his chance to repair things with Rebecca and move forward.

So yeah, Ted is very excited this particular Monday.

As he traipses across the Richmond green, heading towards the hall that would serve as his home away from home for the next several months during rehearsals, he can’t help but let a grin spread across his face.

Today feels ripe with potential.

In his backpack, he’s armed with his script and score—pages highlighted and margins peppered with notes regarding his interpretations of the words—a pen, and a little pink box he’d folded out of spare cardstock the night before. Nestled inside that box sit three perfectly golden rectangles of shortbread. Three little reminders of a stroll around the streets of London some thirty years before. Three opportunities for him to win Rebecca over.

He’s early when he arrives. Rehearsal doesn’t start until ten, but he’s always been a morning person, and he’s been up since the sun rose. It’s just after 8:30, but he figures there’s no better way to make an impression, to prove that he’s eager and willing and capable, than to be the first person there.

He’s not, though.

As he pushes through the double doors that separate the world they’ll build from the world they know, he sees her. She’s got her back to the door, pacing in front of one of the many tables that create a C-shape around the perimeter of the room. She’s dressed in solid black. Tight trousers cling to her lower half, ending at her waist, from which point up she’s covered in a thin, clingy turtleneck. He can’t help but trace the curves of her figure with his eyes as she paces. Her hair sits in a high pony tail at the back of her head, bobbing as her long legs carry her in quick, short steps. She’s singing simple scales, obviously the beginning of her vocal warm up before today’s table read. The clacking of her heels sounds through the hall, sharp staccato notes echoing like a metronome keeping perfect time in 4/4 in line with her scales. She sings an ascending then a descending D major scale, before modulating up to an Eb major scale, then an E major scale, and an F major scale. He can’t help but be mesmerized at the ease with which she belts out the top notes of the scales.

As she modulates up into F# and continues through up the scale, she pivots on her heel, intent on continuing her pacing in the direction of the door. Rather than belting out an F#5 as she reaches the apex, she lets out a sound somewhere between a scream and a squeak about half an octave higher than the note she intended to sing and jumps back a step, her hand leaping up to over her heart.

“Christ!” She exclaims, “Where did you come from?”

“Hi Rebecca,” he says, shrugging sheepishly as he advances further into the rehearsal space. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your warm up there. You seemed really in the zone.”

“So you intended to just stand there and watch me sing until I noticed you?”

He shrugs, holding her gaze, his eyes softening against his will. “What can I say, I like hearing you sing.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Lasso.”

“I ain’t sayin’ it to flatter ya. I really mean it. You got a voice worth listening to.”

Her brows narrow as she studies him. She slowly approaches him, her gaze hard and steady like a big cat stalking its prey. She looks primed to pounce.

While he knows he probably should, he feels no fear.

He knows that while she projects the image of a lion, she’s more in line with one of those little sand cats.

Beard had sent him a video of one the night before, and he had watched it about a dozen times. Darned cute little buggers those things are. Sure, technically they have the highest kill rate of any wild cat—and Rebecca sure has a vicious tongue and had taken down her fair share of enemies—but all he sees is a cute little kitty cat. And beneath all of Rebecca’s tough exterior, she’s like a cute little kitten. He just wants to pinch her cheeks and tell her how cute it is when she tries to intimidate him.

She stops a few feet from him, holding her ground like he holds her gaze. She looks poised to kill, and he looks ready to accept his fate—whatever it may be—as long as it’s by her hand.

She lets out an adorable little huff, placing her hands on her hips in defiance. Clearly, she’s displeased that he’s not meeting her challenge, and he finds her petulance utterly adorable. She’s ready to fight him, and for what?

He feels a low chuckle welling its way up in his throat and fights for his life biting it back. He knows she would not take kindly to him laughing at.

“I ain’t tryin’ to disturb your warm up there, Rebecca. You take all the time you need, and I’ll just be over here outta your way.” He gestures towards the tables around the perimeter. “I’m sure there’s a lotta work you gotta do to get yourself ready for today. Real exciting and all, first table read of the show.”

She crosses her arms in front of her body, shielding herself, and her expression softens a moticrom. “Thank you,” she says, her tone still tinged with displeasure, and as he realizes now, a fair heaping of anxiety. Her breaths come a little shorter than he would expect for a seasoned professional with as much time as she’s had in the industry. Her hands grip her biceps on either side of her torso, her nails digging into the flesh of her arms. He’s certain that if it weren’t for the thin black material covering them, he’d see red half moons blossoming on her skin where her manicured nails work the flesh.

That’s when it hits him. She’s terrified.

It’s her first show back in a decade, and her first show ever that did not involve her ex-husband.

She’s alone and afraid, feeling like a cornered animal.

The rest of her career rides on this show, and it begins now, with this table read.

She doesn’t know if it could all be over as soon as it’s starting.

“Oh hey!” He exclaims, grabbing his backpack off his back and pulling it around to his front, “I’ve got a little something for ya before we start. A little peace offering, as it were.”

She cocks her head, and he can see her curiosity bubbling up beneath the surface. She’s trying to remain impassive, but he knows she’s moved before she’s even seen what he has.

Receiving gifts, especially little trinkets and other thoughtful tokens, has always been her love language. He remembers 30 years prior how her eyes would light up like a kid on Christmas whenever he said he brought her something that made him think of her. He learned early on that while her family was insanely wealthy—the main course when people say eat the rich kind of wealthy—and showered her with gifts, they never put any mind to gift giving. Nothing was ever chosen with love, or care, or even Rebecca’s interests in mind. Everything was the latest in trend and luxury, but neither parent ever really thought about Rebecca in their purchases. Ted’s tokens of affection had always been small, but every one had been chosen with her in mind. She’d told him he was the first person to ever do anything like that for her, the look in her eyes so soft he could melt. He wanted to promise her everything she’d ever wanted right then and there, if only she’d keep looking at him like that.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out the little pink box that sits atop his binder. “Here. When I get nervous, I like to have something to do to keep my hands busy. I figured, who doesn’t like cookies? Or—erm, biscuits as y’all call ‘em here.” He holds his hand out towards her with the box.

“Oh no, I really shouldn’t,” she says. He can see her internal struggle play out on her face.

“Come on, we got a long day ahead of us. Gotta keep your blood sugar up to keep you going through the day.”

“I really should try to avoid—I mean—I need to watch my… For costumes and all…” she trails off, staring with a look of almost longing as he lifts the lid, revealing three perfectly golden shortbread biscuits.

“Ain’t nothin’ you need to be worrying about, and whoever told you otherwise needs to be taken out back behind the barn for a stern talkin’ to. Come on, it’s just a couple biscuits. Think of it as a morale booster to get ya going.”

She wobbles her head from side to side a little, an indication he’s getting through to her. “Oh alright, if you insist,” her expression melts into something sweet and giddy, her lips curling up in the corners into a small smile. She reaches forward and lifts one of the biscuits from the box with a delicate thumb and forefinger. She raises the biscuit to her mouth and takes a bite, her other hand coming to cover her mouth as she begins to tentatively chew. He watches with glee as her eyes widen in shock before they roll back in ecstasy. “Oh, fuck me,” she moans around the bite of biscuit. The sound is guttural, borderline obscene. His eyes widen and his eyebrows jump up to about his hairline at her reaction. He feels something stir deep within him at the knowledge he elicited that sound out of her.

“I take it they’re alright?” He jokes, his voice coming out half an octave lower and slightly more choked than he wanted it to. He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, hoping to rub away the flush that’s beginning to crawl from his cheeks down his neck to his chest.

She swallows the first bite and enthusiastically shoves the rest of the biscuit—nearly two thirds of it—in her mouth before taking the box from his hands.

“Ted,” she says around a mouthful of biscuit, “I do not say this lightly. These are the best fucking biscuits I have ever put in my mouth.”

He can’t help the grin that forms on his face. “Well thank you kindly, little lady. I got a whole batch with your name on them at home then. I’ll make sure to bring you another box tomorrow.”

Her brow furrows. “You didn’t bring them for the cast?”

He looks down sheepishly, the flush growing darker across his cheeks. “Well no, I—uh—I thought you might like…”

“Thank you, Ted,” she says, her voice soft. He can hear the smile in her voice, and when he looks up, her incandescent smile bathes him in a glow that lets him know they’re heading back to where they ought to be. Back to alright.

She looks almost sheepish as his eyes fall upon her, but her smile is so bright. “It’s been a while since anyone’s thought of me—to do anything for me. Thank you.”

“Anytime, Rebecca.”

She begins to move like she almost wants to move towards him, and for a moment she thinks she’s going to hug him, but she stops herself short. “Thank you, Ted,” she says again, her voice gentle and delicate. His heart flutters at the sound.

He nods, returning her smile, before slipping his backpack onto his back. “I’ll get outta your hair now and let ya finish up before everyone else gets here. Enjoy the biscuits and your warmup, Rebecca. I can’t wait to hear ya sing some more. You’re gonna blow us all away, I can already feel it.”

He walks over to the tables and finds the seat with his name on a placard in front of it. He sets his bag down and walks off towards a hallway leading from the back of the room, figuring he’d take the time to use the head and give Rebecca her space to warm up. As he exits the room, he hears Rebecca’s voice pick up behind him again as she resumes her warm up. The melody she sings stops him in his tracks and he has to stop himself from turning back to join in with her. Instead, he forces his feet to carry him down the hall, his memories consumed by a scene from thirty years before.

***
It was an unusually warm Tuesday, early in spring as Ted and Rebecca found themselves sitting amongst the crowds that gathered in Hyde Park to bask in the rare sliver of sunshine that had broken through a truly gloomy winter. They lay side by side, shoulders brushing, on a heavy cotton picnic blanket atop still-brown grass that had yet to recover from the recent chill. In front of them lay a binder of sheet music, open to a page of vocal exercises comprised of a series of trills and runs Ted had yet to master.

As Ted attempted to hum the melody, Rebecca’s foot landed atop his calf and began to lazily drag up and down in a solo game of footsie. Ted made it about halfway through before his breath shuddered and he lost his way.

“Darlin, I’m struggling enough with this as it is. If you keep distracting me, I’m never gonna get it down and I’m gonna fail.”

“Oh what a shame that would be,” Rebecca teased, leaning in to place a gentle kiss upon his cheek, “Then you’d have to stay another semester and retake the course.” Her lips curled upwards, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

A grin blossomed across his face. “You want me to stay in London, huh?” He felt on top of the world at that moment, with the implication that she wanted this long term. That she wanted him to stay with her.

Her eyes softened. “Of course I do, darling.” She leaned in and placed a languid kiss upon his lips. His smile broke as he met her and sucked her bottom lip into his mouth. She groaned softly into his mouth, and he was glad he was lying on his front, otherwise he’d be giving the public of London quite a show. She pulled back and rested her forehead against his, her eyes closed as she whispered, “I don’t know how I’m going to survive when you leave me.”

“Rebecca, baby,” he whispered, bringing a hand up to cup her cheek. She opened her eyes to look at him, and the trepidation in her gaze nearly killed him. “Then you’re never gonna find out how, because I’m never gonna leave you.”

She met his gaze with eyes so bright—with a smile so incandescent—that he was certain that she was the reason for the spring then and there. She shined so brightly that she had brought the warmth and sunlight to London months early with her glow. How grateful he was to see it up close and bask in her.

She closed the distance between their lips once more with a kiss burgeoning with so much feeling, with so much intensity, that he could only describe it as one thing. Love.

She pulled back and tucked her head against his shoulder, giggling with glee. “Now then,” she flashed him a luminescent grin before turning towards the binder of sheet music, “Let’s figure this thing out so you can have some hope of passing your class, shall we?”

She studied the sheet music for a moment, her fingers swishing in front of her as she counted out the rhythm. She hummed a few stretches, before going back to the beginning and singing the whole thing through perfectly on an “ah” vowel.

“Try it with me,” she said. She tapped a long finger against his forearm, counting them in at half speed before slowly carrying him through the exercise. As he fumbled in the same spot as before, she paused, tapping out a four count and waiting for him to catch himself before continuing through the remainder of the exercise. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”

“You make everything look so easy,” he sighed, leaning against her shoulder.

“A few more runs and it will be easy for you too. Come on, focus, Theodore.”

He took a deep breath, counting to four, and let it out with a sigh. “Ok,” he said, “let’s run it again.”

They stayed in the park for hours, running the exercise until he had it down pat. She was an hour late to her call time that afternoon, but as they walked up the stage door hand in hand, she couldn’t be fussed to care.

He couldn’t help but be the slightest bit disappointed when he passed his vocal exam later that week. He knew with her teaching though, he had no chance of failing.

***

She isn’t sure why she felt compelled to sing that particular exercise as part of her warm up. Maybe it’s nostalgia catching her deep in its throes. Maybe it’s biscuits with a handsome, charming American who is far too kind to her. Maybe it’s the combination of the two that’s sending her back to a warm spring day where she learned this exercise with a boy with a buttery American accent and a blurry face, where she experienced love for the first time.

The exercise had become a staple in her warm ups early in her career. She would wander the halls of the theatre, twittering about like a bird as she tested her vocal agility. After her marriage to Rupert, she’d often wander the empty halls of their too-large home, listening to the sound echo off the walls.

Rupert always hated it.

Two years after they’d wed, he’d set her up with a private vocal coach who implemented a regimented warm up routine and allowed no room for deviation. At the time Rupert told her that a song bird of her caliber required nothing short of the best to fly. She realizes now that it was simply another way for him to exercise total control over every facet of her existence.

For twenty years, every day before rehearsals, before every performance, she sang the same 17 minute series of vocal exercises in order to warm up.

It wasn’t until after her divorce when she was jobless and alone that the melody returned to her. As she sat on her dove grey couch in her otherwise barren, grey living room of her newly-purchased home on the Richmond Green, the notes of a tune long forgotten began to filter through her head.

She opened her mouth and sang through the melody as it ran through her head. It was the first thing she’d sang in nearly 20 years because she wanted to, not because he told her. That simple act of freedom—of defiance—brought her immense comfort in that moment. She felt freer than she had since he’d ensnared her all those years ago, when she was just half her current age.

From that day, the exercise became a staple in her warm up routine. Usually though, she’d perform it as one of the last parts of her exercise. Today though, she feels as though she could use the courage the exercise gives her early on in the day.

Truth be told, she’s bloody terrified for this table read. If she wants her career to have any chance of coming back to life, she needs this show to go well. She needs to not only be loved by audiences—to draw crowds and pounds—but also the cast and crew.

And she’s already bloody fucked it up with her leading man.

In their divorce, Rupert had as good as blacklisted her from the London theatre scene. He’d spread rumors that she was a diva. She was undirectable. That was why she couldn’t get cast, not because he’d all but forbid any of his legions of friends from casting her. And since she’d only worked for Rupert and his minions since her first show, it was his word versus her’s.

Even Hal and James—whom she’d worked with so many times—said their hands were as good as tied.

She was uncastable.

She owes her life to Leslie for being willing to take a chance on her.

She’d met Leslie on the set of A Little Night Music when he had been Rupert’s assistant director. They’d grown to be fast friends, frequently taking lunches together during their breaks during rehearsals or sharing meals between shows before she ungracefully exited the show. He told her they’d orbited the same sphere for years; he’d played the cello in the pit for Gypsy before making his transition to directorial work. They bonded over a love of Sondheim’s complex harmonies and classical music. It was much later that she found out that his meals with her served as a cover so Rupert could bed his starlett of choice without her noticing.

She can’t help but think his willingness to cast her had just as much to do with his guilt over his culpability in Rupert’s infidelities as it did his desire to see her return to the stage.

In a sense, they are both deeply indebted to one another. She hopes this show can be an opportunity to move forward and get at least one director who’s willing to work with her again.

She finishes her warm up, moving through the remainder of the exercises before the rest of the cast begins to pour into the rehearsal hall.

The cast mingle about, chatting and greeting one another as if they hadn’t just all been together less than 24 hours prior. She moves herself herself behind her assigned space at the table and stands, attempting to fix a pleasant expression upon her face. She knows deep within her though that the expression is almost certainly would read as pained to anyone who dared to look in her direction. The thread of anxiety runs too deeply through her veins to accurately portray herself as joyous and friendly.

Artists are bizarre, fixed, cold.

The line she’s sing shortly once the read would began runs through her head. That certainly described herself. Bizzare. Fixed. Cold. She lacks the bubbly effervescence of the ingenues she so often found herself cast alongside. She wasn’t a social butterfly who could so easily make the rounds and chatter about with every cast member and win their favor, as much as she wanted to. She was too awkward—Rupert had told her that many a time. She wasn’t good at small talk. She wasn’t good at making friends.

She observes the movement around the hall, watching her castmates get better acquainted with one another, and feels her pulse thrumming in her chest, harder and faster than she’d prefer. Her breaths come short, and she wills herself to close her eyes and take a deep breath.

As she breathes, she senses movement next to her. She opens her eyes to find that Ted has assumed his place next to her at the table. He looks over at her and gives her a warm, small smile and a nod.

“Break a leg, boss.”

“I’m not your boss, Ted.”

“No,” he chuckles, “But something tells me you’ll still be the boss of me during all of this.”

She can’t help but chuckle in return. She isn’t sure why, but something in his warm smile and his presence next to her makes her pulse slow and her breathing deepen just enough that she thinks she may be alright after all.

***
As they lay side by side in the grass under the Prince Albert memorial, their hands intertwined as Rebecca taps nonsensical rhythms into the back of his knuckles, Ted thought he knew for the first time what happiness feels like.

The blue sky above them clear and bright, the grass beneath their backs as green as Rebecca’s eyes, and her hand—God almighty—her hand, warm and soft against his, simultaneously delicate and strong; it ignited a pleasant warmth in Ted’s chest that made him feel like all the love may just bubble over and spill out from within him.

Her movement caught his eye, and he turned to find her head lolled over to the side facing him. She wore a lazy grin on her face, and he couldn’t help it as his own grin situated itself on his face to mirror her’s. He thought some of that love might just have poured out through his grin for her to see.

“Tell me a thought, Theodore,” she said.

“Hmmm…” he pondered, thinking back to his Theatre in The Modern Day seminar he sat in the day before. “Did you know that a production of a Sondheim musical opens in the greater London area every 23 days?”

She giggled, her nose scrunching up as she laughed at him, “That’s not a thought, that’s a fact.”

“Well what would you call a thought then?”

“Well,” she turned back to face the sky, worrying her lip between her teeth as she thought, “It’s a fact that this producer says he wants me to only audition for his and Stephen’s shows because he wants me to win an Olivier. It’s a thought that I think he’s a miserable old prick who just wants to work with me because he thinks he’ll have a chance of sleeping with me.”

“Does he?”

Her head lolled back towards him as she giggled, “Not a chance in hell. Now you. Tell me a thought.”

“Well, I’d like to be in one of Stephen’s shows one day. Maybe Night Music or Sunday. Maybe with you.”

“You think we’ll do a show together someday?” she asked, her voice soft and full of hope.

“I think anything’s possible.”

“Now that is a thought,” she grinned, and it took everything in him to not kiss the grin right off her face.

***

As the cast and crew go around the table introducing themselves, Rebecca takes a calming breath to settle herself. Despite being at the helm of the cast alongside Ted, she’s seated at the center of the C-shape of tables, so she’s firmly in the middle of the introductions.

Leslie begins, stating his excitement at finally getting this production off the ground after years of behind the scenes work. Other members of the creative team follow, giving a brief overview of their visions, then members of the ensemble.

As they work their way through supporting actors, she glances over at Ted. It’s as if he senses her eyes on him, and he turns to meet her gaze, giving her a reassuring smile.

“Howdy y’all,” Ted stands up and starts as his turn to speak arrives, “I’m Ted Lasso, and I’ll be playing the Georges. It’s an honor to be making my West End debut as a part of this cast. I mean seriously, a schmuck like me starring alongside Rebecca Welton here?” He lets out a long whistle. “I gotta make sure I’m on my a-game. I’m thrilled to call London my home again for the next bit of time. It’s real good to be here. I’m lookin’ forward to making some incredible memories with everyone in this room and givin’ folks a show to remember. I ain’t no Mandy Patinkin, but I’m going to do my best to bring the Georges to life in my own way to honor the late, great Stephen Sondheim. But more than that, I’m doing this to honor that kid in drama school, with a dream and $5 to his name, who dared to think that one day he might get to do this very show in the West End. Who dared to dream that he might be lucky enough—that someone might think he had enough talent—to star opposite Rebecca Welton. It’s a real honor to be here. Y’all really can’t appreciate how grateful I am for the opportunity. I’ve dreamt of this moment for as long as I can remember. If you give me the chance, I promise I ain’t gonna let you down.”

Rebecca felt her breath catch in her chest as Ted spoke. His heartfelt, passionate introduction made her question her initial assessment of him. But more than that, she had to follow that; how on earth could anything she had to say compare?

She stands and takes a grounding breath.

“Hello, I’m Rebecca Welton. I’m playing Dot and Marie,” she began. “Um—thank you to Leslie for the opportunity. The stage has been my home since I was a girl. It’s good to be back. It’s strange, it’s frightening; but I’m truly thrilled to be here.” She nods and sits back down.

“Rebecca,” Leslie interrupts, “It’s really wonderful to have you here. It’s been too long since we’ve gotten to see you work.”

“Thank you, Leslie,” she demurs, brushing a piece of hair that’s fallen from her ponytail behind her ear.

The cast continues to make their way around the table as they introduce themselves, and then it’s time for the table read to begin.

The first notes of the piano twinkle throughout the hall, and the words fall from Ted’s mouth.

“White; a blank page on canvas.”

And so they begin.

His voice is warm, but pointed as he says the opening lines in time with the music.

Then it cuts to her, as the music shifts from languid to staccato, and she fills her voice with petulance, feeling the heat of a warm Parisian afternoon wearing far too many layers wash over her and her anxiety melt away as she settles into the groove of the table read.

She finds herself often glancing his way as she sings, gauging his George’s reactions to Dot’s minute movements, and as she does so she realizes that this is going to be a fun show.

There’s something so funny about his interpretation of George’s interjections; he injects a quiet, steady strength and seriousness into the lines that contrasts so strongly against the drama of her Dot’s exasperation and frustration. She’s not sure why, but something tells her they’re going to have great chemistry.

As they get into his introduction to color and light, she can’t help but feel a tightness in her throat listening to his voice.

He’s beautiful.

Genuinely, his tone comes out of left field, shocking her so that she almost forgets to come in on her mark.

As she sings, “I could look at him forever,” she looks at him and finds his eyes already on her, his, “I could look at her forever,” ringing tandem throughout the space.

She holds his gaze, and she feels her heart begin to race in her chest, a feeling she hasn’t felt in so long welling up in her chest.

His warm, amber eyes are soft. There’s so much light his his eyes, so much life. He’s so beautiful. It almost brings her back to something she hasn’t felt in thirty years.

I could look at him forever.

She thinks she might just.