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Chapter Text

The Hollywood sun beat down on the quietly luxurious Spanish-modern home where Guy Dexter and Thomas Barrow had carved out their quiet life together. It was 1935, and the Great Depression cast a long shadow, even over the glittering myth of Tinseltown. Out on the patio the pair shared coffee and Mexican pastries, the later the work of their very discreet cook.

Guy, still in a silk dressing gown, leafed through Variety. “Another damn article on radio. What’s wrong with my face?”

“Nothing, darling.”

“Then why do I have to do this stupid… what did they title it?”

“Love in Hard Times.” Thomas supplied from the small grove that made up their back yard. “Which I’m personally in favor of. I do love you when you’re hard but…”

“Not on the radio.” Guy finished the line.

“And the reason you’re doing it is because Simpson swore that if you did this he wouldn’t push you to do that comedy movie Kathy Seldon is heading up out on Catalina Island.”

“No! No more beaches.”

“Which is fine. I agree, we spend enough time on location as it is.”

In an abstract way Thomas was fine with location shoots. The problem was with the specific, as in… why did they have to locate movies in deserts or beaches or other uncomfortable places. Why couldn’t they shoot something in a five-star hotel sometime? Or even out in Palm Springs, which could be nice in the winter.

Guy pushed himself up off of the lounge chair. “So now I have to go spend time with Lina Lamont.”

Thomas looked over with a wry smile. “Don’t be a diva.”

“That’s her job.” Guy snapped back.

“Seriously. It’s a fifteen-minute drive, and then twenty minutes on the air. Even with rehearsal time you’ll be done by dinner.”

“The things I do to keep a roof over my head.”

“You’re not exactly on the breadline, love. You’ve invested smarter than most of those studio bigwigs.” He set the basket of oranges down, his dark eyes softening. “We’re all right, aren’t we?”

Guy crossed the patio, resting a hand on Thomas’s shoulder in a touch that spoke volumes. “We’re more than all right,” he said, voice low. “But I’d rather not tempt fate. Hollywood’s a fickle beast, and with work drying up…”

“You are still fussing over the title. Which, yes, is dreadful. But also which, unlike in a movie that has posters, no one will remember and probably half the audience won’t even hear. Also?” Thomas bent over to give Guy a light kiss. “I think you’re much better looking than Lamont or Sheldon. So who cares if this one time you don’t have your face up on a screen.”

“Not better looking than Don Lockwood?” Guy teased.

“Well…” Thomas teased back, the voice to dramatic to be anything but overacting.

“Come here.” Guy pulled Thomas into a one-armed embrace. “Give me a quick kiss before I have to get dressed.”

“One kiss.” Thomas did just that. “Then go out and earn your daily bread.”

“Thinking of which?”

“Yes?”

“Come along. Lina likes you. Plus afterwards we can go out to somewhere fun.”

“With or without the rest of the crew?” Thomas asked.

“Exactly!” Guy answered cheerfully. “With or without the rest of the crew.”

XOXOXO

An hour later, they pulled up to Lina Lamonts’s sprawling estate. It was a gaudy Italian-style monument to silent-era excess, one of the three-acre hillside pretenses of European elegance that almost no one in the business could afford any more. Lina could because it was paid for, and because unlike many she’d been very alert with her investments back when she was the brightest face on the silver screen. Its marble entrance gleamed white under the California sun. Tall formal stands of eucalyptus flanked the driveway, a bit shaggy now that gardeners were pricy but still imposing in their dark greenery.

Lina Lamont herself was standing on the railed balcony. She spotted Guy and waved.

She liked him, and Thomas thought she should. They had worked together on five of the ‘Black Rider’ films to date, and Guy had made Lina look very good. Also, he’d given her more than due credit in the last issue of ‘Hollywood Lowdown’ magazine.

Thomas carried his usual leather satchel, today holding only a spare shirt and a thermos of lemon and orange. Usually it was for scripts and notes. Neither, he noted, had yet been provided. Apparently late writing deliveries were the norm for radio. Personally? Thomas was more of the ‘two weeks early and three copies’ sort of manager, but… he wasn’t going to worry over such a minor production. Mostly he viewed this as a way to keep R.F. Simpson off of Roscoe Dexter’s back. Once Roscoe started fretting (and he was always fretting) he passed the nerves on to his brother. Then Thomas had things to fret about. Better, really, for Guy to spend an hour talking into a microphone and then get a month or more away from studio politics.

The mansion’s music room was crowded, a chaotic blend of old glamour and new technology. Radio technicians stomped by hauling microphones. Cables snaking across the thick carpets, those in turn being covered by layers of moving quilts. More quilts had been hung over the row of French windows. All the things needed to dampen outside sound. Crystal chandeliers glinted above a tangle of wires and folding chairs.

“Thomas!” a cheerful voice came from one side.

“Cosmo?” Thomas asked. “They pulled you into this as well?”

“They pulled Don in, and , you know, wither he goest…”

Cosmo Brown, the wiry pianist, had been a friend of Don Lockwood for… well, they both kept changing the number in their studio bios. Since forever, Thomas calculated. Well before the wedding of Lockwood and Seldon. Thomas sometimes wondered how that worked out. Either Brown was the most amiable friend in the history of the universe, or Kathy Seldon was the most agreeable wife, or the three of them were up to more than dancing. Probably, Thomas was guessing, that last. Not that it was any of his business.

Cosmo kept tinkering at the baby grand. Likely that was why Lina’s place had been chosen for the show. It would be a great source of sound effects. His fingers danced out a cheeky vaudeville riff on ‘Rule Brittania’ as he spotted Guy.

“Welcome to the circus!” he called, adding a comical boing on the piano.

Lina Lamont, draped in a fur-trimmed satin lounge suit despite the heat, held court near a towering microphone stand. “This script’s a travesty!” she squeaked, waving a sheaf of pages. Her voice, a nasal assault even in good times, grated on the room. “Dorothy ‘Dottie’ Clark? A shopgirl? I’m a star, not some dime-store damsel!”

Don Lockwood, leaning against a marble pillar, rolled his eyes. His matinee-idol charm was tempered by exasperation. “Lina, we’re all slumming it for Acme. But… lets be clear… even for R.F. I’m not playing your lover again. My wife’ll have my head on a platter.”

“It ought to be your agent.” Guy countered. “How did you get stuck in this?”

“Your brother.” Don answered. “He promised I could play the violin in the next ‘Rascal’ movie if I did.”

Cosmo banged out a declining note. “From this script what you’re playing is a sucker.”

Don turned to Guy, who was skimming the script. It was a syrupy tale of hero Robert “Bob” Miller saving Dottie Clark from villain James “Jim” Thompson.

“Guy, you’re Jim, the bad guy, right?” Don asked. “Swap with me. I’ll take the villain; you play Bob. Keeps things… peaceful.”

Guy raised an eyebrow, catching Thomas’s amused glance from across the room. “Fine by me,” Guy said, his English accent smooth as ever. “Villain, hero. It makes no difference to me. This script is so wooden I might as well be playing the furniture. Just don’t expect me to memorize this tripe in an hour.”

“Don’t ever memorize it. Better? Try not to remember it.” Don managed a kick-step around the piano bench. “In fact, I was thinking afterwards…”

“Maybe Musso & Frank?” Guy suggested. “We can get a table in the back room and avoid the press.” Normally Lockwood went for the opposite, grabing for any spotlight going, but ‘what is your latest’ might not be a question they wanted to answer just now.

“Sure.” Don took a bow over the microphone stand. “You, me, Thomas, and Cosmo. We’ll get a bottle and try to forget whatever this is.”

“You’ll need to make it two bottles at least.” Thomas was reading even as they rest of them played. The script was laughably trite: Bob declaring, “Dottie, you’re my north star in this cruel world!” and Dottie swooning, “Oh, Bob, save me from ruin!”

Thomas rolled out the lines in the fakest possible voice. It was the kind of melodrama radio listeners lapped up, but at which the actors groaned.

Cosmo, ever the jester, punctuated the complaints with sound effects.

When Lina whined, “I deserve better than this drivel!” Cosmo struck a dramatic organ chord, earning a glare.

Don’s grumble about “radio stealing our jobs” got a mournful trombone wail.

Guy’s dry, “At least it’s work,” prompted a jaunty ding like the coin-drop at the automat. It made Thomas stifle a laugh behind his hand.

“Get used to it. Radio’s cheaper than films,” Don said, tossing his script onto a velvet settee. “No sets, no costumes. It’s just voices. But the people buy it, so if we don’t adapt, we’re done.”

“Plus” Cosmo added. “The money here comes in advance. No waiting on reviews or for the theatres in Podunk to send along the studios slice of the ticket sales.”

“Maybe you worry about Podunk,” Lina huffed, “I’m a star of the screen, not some invisible yammerer!”

Cosmo hit a wah-wah on the piano, and even Lina’s scowl twitched into a reluctant smirk.

Guy and Thomas exchanged a look, their secret a steady anchor in the storm of egos and uncertainty. Thomas, arranging chairs sound the table of microphones, leaned close to Guy. “They’re all terrified of fading away,” he whispered. “You’re the only one with sense enough to stay calm.”

“Only because you’re here,” Guy murmured back, their fingers brushing briefly, unseen.

The moment was cut short by R.F.’s voice crackling through a phone speaker on the wall, barking for them to “Get moving.”

The radio director called out. “ Sound check in five!”

The script, the switches, the sniping. All of it felt familiar to Thomas, like a prelude to greater chaos that was any day on set.

As Cosmo plinked out a suspenseful trill, Guy flipped to the script’s first page, and Thomas wondered just how alive this live broadcast would be.

Chapter Text

The music room of Lina Lamont’s Griffith Park mansion buzzed with the nervous energy of a live radio broadcast on the brink. The technicians, sweating in their shirt-sleeves despite the September breeze, wrestled with a tangle of cables and microphones, their curses muffled to avoid disturbing the sound levels.

Guy Dexter stood near the central mic, loosening his tie, while Thomas Barrow hovered nearby setting out glasses and napkins. Normally he’d be raiding the kitchen for ice, but apparently that was forbidden on a radio shoot. The radio director fretted that someone might touch a glass, the ice would clink, and then the unscripted sound would be broadcast to the entire nation.

Lina Lamont had her own thermos and was gulping down hot peppermint tea to loosen her voice.

Sound effects were evidently a very serious thing on radio. The grand piano, in the room for Cosmo Brown’s sound effects, gleamed under the chandelier’s light, a silent promise of chaos or salvation. Cosmo himself was pulling random strange and potentially noisy things out of a carpet bag. Thomas had no idea what they all did, but assumed that Cosmo did. He was, after all, the music director over at Monumental Pictures. Sure, he was Don’s friend, but R.F. Simpson didn’t waste money on friendship. It was 1935, and Hollywood’s stars were scrambling to stay relevant in a world where the Great Depression had tightened its grip and the new fad of radio threatened to outshine the silver screen.

The sound check began with a technician’s barked, “Levels, now!” Don Lockwood, now cast as the villain Jim Thompson, stepped to the mic, delivering a test line with his usual swagger: “You’ll never escape me, Dottie!” His voice carried the rich timbre that had made him a star, though he winced at the script’s melodrama.

Cosmo, at the piano, added a sinister chord, grinning like a kid pulling a prank.

“That’s the spirit, Don!” he called, earning a half-hearted glare from Lina and a thumbs-up from the radio producer.

Lina, still in her fur-trimmed fashion, clutched her script. She was cast as Dottie Clark, the heroine.

She strutted to the mic, ready to prove her voice could carry beyond the cowboy B-movies she had been doing over the last years. They had paid well, yes, but they weren’t the ‘high class’ sort of productions she had headlined in the silent days. Her agent had heard a great deal about her desire to move over into some better… or at least some different… sorts of production. This radio show, this short romance, was a good shot at building on her earlier glamorous persona.

“Bob, my heart’s yours forever! ” she began, but her voice (already a nasal assault at the best of times) cracked into a hoarse rasp.

She tossed back another cup of hot peppermint tea, the prime studio cure for dry throats (and late nights).

She tried again. “Bob, my heart is yours forever! ”

This was worse. Higher. Thinner.

“Tone down her mike,” the director ordered. ‘Give it more gain!”

He turned to Lina. “Don’t force it, Miss Lamont. Just speak easily, and the man in the box will push up the volume if we have to. The important thing is just for you to focus on your lines.”

Lina nodded. She took another shot of tea.

“OK. Let’s try that again.”

Lina Lamont stepped back to the microphone. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her eyes widened in panic, hands flying to her throat. The room froze.

“Ba. Bo. ”

“Lina, what’s wrong?” Don asked, stepping closer.

She shook her head, mouthing words that refused to form.

A technician groaned, “Laryngitis? Now?”

The diagnosis was clear: severe, sudden, and catastrophic.

Lina gestured wildly, her face a mix of fury and fear, as if the universe itself had betrayed her star status.

Thomas, standing by a velvet curtain, caught Guy’s eye. “Should I get her something? Cough syrup? More tea?”

Lina waved her hands, a universal gesture for no.

Guy stepped forward, ever the diplomat. “Just breath, Lina. We’ll fix this.”

“How?” stormed the radio director. “She can’t speak. Not a word. We’re live in? What? Twenty minutes? No chance for a replacement, and Acme was promised an all-star production here.”

The room erupted in chaos. Technicians were tapping on microphones and fiddling dials. The director was muttering about sponsors. Don cursed the timing, taking it personally as ‘one more thing Lina did to me’. Which didn’t, Thomas thought, help. Cosmo fingered a sad trombone run on the piano, which drew a muffled snort. From Thomas, at least.

R.F. Simpson’s voice crackled through the phone on the wall, his tone sharp with the weight of Monumental Studios’ dwindling coffers. “Fix this, or Acme pulls funding! We can’t afford to lose this gig in times like these!”

Don Lockwood threw up his hands. “What do we do, have Cosmo play Dottie in a wig?”

Cosmo, never one to miss a cue, struck a high-pitched ding-ding and fluttered his eyelashes. “I’d be a vision, but my falsetto’s rusty.”

The quip eased the tension, but only just.

Guy, thinking fast, raised a hand. “I’ll do it. I’ll play Dottie. I can manage a falsetto.” At the general odd look he added. “What? I used to do panto every Christmas back in England. It’s practically a holiday custom.”

“You any good?” Cosmo asked.

“No, but I’m better than dead silence.”

Which, yes. That was generally understood. Lots of heads were nodding around the room.

“Acme is expecting Lina Lamont.”

“It’s radio; no one’ll see me.” Guy flashed a grin, but his eyes flicked to Thomas, seeking silent approval.

Thomas stepped forward, his usual poise masking a flicker of mischief. “Then who plays Bob? You can’t romance yourself, Guy.” The room turned to him.

Don snapped his fingers. “You do it, Barrow. You’ve got an English accent like Guy’s. With this lousy broadcast quality, it’ll pass for him playing Bob. Right? You don’t mind if he pitches you a little woo, do you?”

Guy and Thomas exchanged a glance, their shared secret humming beneath the surface.

“I suppose…” Thomas started.

The director bustled over. “You union?”

“Yes.” Guy said quickly. “Black Riders several times, and then the Chan movie. He’s got his credits.”

“Two roles, and not a word in either of them.” Thomas pushed back.

“Not true!” Guy countered. “You had a line in the second one. It’s in the final cut.”

“Oh?” Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“Absolutely,” Guy answered. “It was ‘ouch!’.”

Thomas nodded, suppressing a smile. “I suppose I can manage a few lines. Never thought I’d be a radio star.”

His dry tone drew a chuckle from Cosmo, who launched into a triumphant fanfare on the piano, as if heralding Thomas’s debut.

Lina, voiceless and fuming, stomped her foot.

Thomas kidnapped her script. “Thank you, Miss Lamont.”

She made claws at the pages like it was her stolen crown.

Don patted her shoulder, a touch too patronizing. “Rest that throat, Lina. We’ll make you sound like a dream.”

She swatted his hand away, retreating to a lounge to scowl in silence.

Cosmo leaned over the piano, his grin wide. “Don’t worry, folks. I’ll cover any cracks with music. I’ve got swells, stings, even maybe a thunderstorm if your falsetto flops, Guy.” He played a melodramatic chord, then a comical plink-plink as Lina glared.

“Come on over, Lina. I’ll put you on the clacker. Just bang it when Don there knocks on a door.”

She glared, but she walked up to the sound effect board.

“Don’t worry folks.” Cosmo finished with a glissando. “We’ll make this the smoothest disaster in radio history.”

The technicians reset the mics, barking orders to test the new lineup. Guy, in falsetto, tried Dottie’s line: “Oh, Bob, you’re my only hope! ” His voice wobbled, high and strained, prompting Cosmo to drown it in a dreamy harp glissando.

“Cranking the tone on the mike”, the sound man said. “Try again. You can make it a little more natural. The board can fix a lot.”

“Oh, Bob, you’re my only hope! ” Guy intoned, pitched slightly lower.

This time the sound tech let it come back into the room. It sounded… not good, exactly. But it sounded more like a woman trying to sound feminine than it did a man trying to sound like a woman trying to sound feminine. So… better.

“Reset the tone, and Mr. Dexter, you can go down half an octave or so. Don’t use your normal voice, but you don’t need to strain for the top notes.”

“Oh, Bob, you’re my only hope! ” Guy tried a third time.

Thomas, stepping to the mic, read as Bob: “Dottie, you know how I love you. I’ll never let you down.” His steady baritone, so close to Guy’s own, carried a warmth that made Guy’s lips twitch into a private smile. Their real affection bled into the lines, unnoticed by the others but electric between them.

“That’s fine Mr... Who are you anyway?”

“Barrow.”

“Great.” The director spun back to his crew. “Lock mike level for Mr. Barrowed.”

Which? Who cared. Behind the chaos, the Depression’s shadow loomed. A technician has been talking earlier about a friend who’d lost his job when a rival studio shuttered. Another had confessed to lining up for relief. Poverty just beyond Hollywood’s glamour. The actors felt it too. Don’s bravado hid a fear of fading relevance, and even Cosmo’s jokes carried an edge of defiance against hard times. For Guy and Thomas? They may have had decent investments but that wasn’t enough. To stay here, in the one place they were almost safe? Acting, working on set, it was more than a job. It was a chance to prove their place together.

As the final sound check wrapped, the announcer’s voice boomed through a speaker, counting down to the live broadcast. “Five minutes, people!”

Guy adjusted his stance, falsetto ready. Thomas gripped the script, his calm exterior belying the thrill, also the terror, of stepping into the spotlight.

Cosmo cracked his knuckles, promising, “If this goes south, I’ll bury it in cymbals.”

Lina, still silent, shot daggers with her eyes.

The room pulsed with nerves, hope, and the unspoken truth… in Hollywood, you adapted or you vanished.

Chapter Text

The temporary broadcast station of Lina Lamont’s mansion crackled with tension as the Acme Products radio drama went live. The red “ON AIR” sign glowed above the microphone cluster. Everyone unneeded slunk out of the room.

The sound man flicked a switch.

From Chicago, where the Acme company was based, the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers. He came across smooth as velvet: “Welcome, listeners and dear friends all across America, to Love in Hard Times,the all-star production staring Don Lockwood with the glamorous Lina Lamont and that villain you love to hate Guy Dexter, all brought to you by Acme Products. Acme quality you know. Acme quality you can trust. Acme quality you will love, even in Hard Times! ”

Cosmo Brown, perched at the piano, launched into a jaunty opening theme built on the Acme jingle, his fingers dancing over the keys to set a hopeful tone.

Guy Dexter, script in hand, adjusted his stance, ready to channel Dorothy “Dottie” Clark in falsetto.

Thomas Barrow, beside him, stood tall as Robert “Bob” Miller, his usual reserve giving way to a quiet thrill.

Don Lockwood, as the villain James “Jim” Thompson, flashed a roguish grin.

Lina Lamont sulked beside the piano, her voiceless fury a silent storm.

This was radio. The show had to go on… live, unscripted, and unforgiving.

“Chapter One“ came the announcer’s voice. ““When Boy Meets Girl“

The broadcast plunged into the tale, set in a soup kitchen turned dance hall. Both were indicated, first by the clatter of plates (performed by Lina on two tea cups) and then by the sound of jazz piano (performed by Cosmo Brown).

Thomas, as Bob, spoke first, his English accent softened to fit the American hero: “Dottie, you’re a vision in this dim old hall. Care to dance? ”

His voice, warm and steady, carried a sincerity that made the technicians glance up, impressed. Guy, in falsetto, replied as Dottie:

“Oh, Bob, I’m just a shopgirl, and you’re General Manager at Acme Shoes. Are you sure you want me? ” The high pitch wobbled, and Cosmo swiftly covered with a dreamy violin swell, drawing covered smiles from the crew.

As the broadcast went on the actors huddled around the mics, scripts folded to keep them silent.

Don Lamont as the lout leaned over to ask “Who is that pretty girl? I want her. ”

Guy Dexter shifted back to his normal voice to play a ‘bystander”. “She’s Dottie Clark. Real pretty, but she’s Bob’s girl. ”

“We’ll see about that,” was Don’s line, delivered in a moustache twirling sneer.

Cosmo Brown left the piano briefly. It was less than a minute, just enough for him to play the bandleader declaring “Last dance, people”. He two-stepped back to the piano, getting there just in time to play that dance.

Guy and Thomas stood close, their shoulders brushing, their real affection seeping into the performance. When Thomas delivered, “Dottie, you’re my north star in this cruel world,” his eyes flicked to Guy, a private vow beneath the line. “As long as I have you, I can face the world and I know that somehow I’ll win.”

Guy’s falsetto reply: “That’s one of the many reasons I love you Bob, you make me believe in tomorrow,” came over less about Dottie and more about their shared life, a secret woven into the airwaves.

The crew, oblivious, grinned at the melodrama, but Don raised an eyebrow. Not that he didn’t have his own secrets to not be shared. The emotion was coming across, even though the limitations of the microphone. Even hundreds of miles away the listeners were sensing something deeper.

Cosmo, ever the maestro of chaos, punctuated the romance with sound effects. He has soft chimes for Dottie’s blush, a lively fiddle tune for the dance. Lina, glaring from her seat, mimed gagging at the script’s syrupy lines.

Now and then Cosmo pointed at her, indicating a series of quick dance steps on the sounding board or the clap of wood on wood when someone ‘left the room’. And you had to give her credit. Lina came in like a trooper.

So her silent tantrum was ignored as the broadcast rolled on.

“Chapter Two” came the announcer’s voice. “Heartbreak on the Shop Floor”

During the ad run all the men took the chance to stretch. Radio did not demand a long time, but it was comparatively grueling. There were no breaks and no second takes. Thomas grabbed for his thermos, passing out prop cups full of slightly-too-warm garden-orange lemonaide to all the table. Not normally the first choice of anyone except Guy, but today it was taken gratefully.

“Five seconds to air”, the radio director called. Then they were all back at work.

The plot thickened as Don Lamont, as Jim Thompson, slithered into the story. The script’s stakes mirrored the Depression’s harsh realities. It spoke of money woes, betrayal, distrust.

“Dottie, that Bob’s no good. I know he’s made you promises, but he won’t keep them. He’s not reliable like Acme is. ” he growled, his villainous purr perfect for radio. “Plus! He’s been stealing from the till. Trust me, I’ve got proof. ”

Lina grabbed a book, flipping the pages to give the sound of counted money.

Cosmo added a thunderclap, amplifying the tension, though his wink to the crew suggested he was enjoying the chaos.

Guy’s falsetto trembled as Dottie wavered: “Bob, tell me it ain’t true! Tell me you’d never look at another girl! ”

Thomas, as Bob, leaned into the mic, his voice firm: “Dottie, I’d never betray you, and I’d never betray Acme, the most honest company in America. Jim’s lying to tear us apart.”

The line was pure pulp, but their chemistry made it sing, their real bond lending weight to the fiction.

Cosmo Brown again stepped in, this time as the boss declaring “We don’t hire thieves here at Acme. If you’re dishonest, you have to go”.

Lina stomped some more, the sound of Bob Miller walking out angry. She did a really good job, probably because she was.

While the ads ran (again done in Chicago) the technicians whispered between themselves, marveling at how “Guy” (really Thomas) sounded so convincing as the hero.

Lina, clutching her throat, scribbled furious notes. **Damn you Don. I’M THE STAR!!!**

Cosmo handed her a hand crank siren, letting her play it at the point where the police come for Bob Miller. From the way she cranked, you’d think the whole FBI was coming for Public Enemy Number One. Still, it let her get out her frustration. That was something.

Cosmo’s effects grew bolder: a creaking door for Jim’s scheming entrance, a dramatic organ sting when Dottie stormed off in the story.

In the climax of the scene Don ad-libbed a villainous chuckle, earning a nod from Cosmo, who tossed in a cymbal crash for flair. Guy and Thomas, caught in the performance, exchanged glances that spoke of years of trust. They were acting, yes, but they were acting out a love that endured, their love a quiet rebellion against the world’s constraints.

“Chapter Three” came the announcer’s voice. “Together Forever. ”

All the actors grabbed for more of the fruit drink, taking the brief sixty seconds until the story needed to resume.

The climax arrived as Bob uncovered Jim’s lies, exposing him as the real thief.

Lina whacked the clapper, sounding out the slam of the door as Jim was taken away.

Thomas’s voice rose: “Dottie, I’ve cleared my name, but my position as General Manager at Acme Shoes is gone. I’ve got nothing but my heart. Will you take it? ”

Guy’s falsetto had softened, sounding almost natural now: “Bob, it’s always been yours. ”

The script called for a kiss, and Cosmo, grinning wickedly, produced a loud smooch by kissing Lina’s hand.

She gave him a look like he’d dipped it in mud.

Cosmo shrugged and mouthed ‘IN THE SCRIPT’.

That provoked stifled laughter from the crew, which in turn earned a more serious glare from the sound man.

Lina looked like she very much wanted to shout at someone, but… still no voice.

In the story, still going smoothly despite all the ‘backstage shenanigans’, Bob and Dottie vowed to face tomorrow’s hardships together. They swore their love would be a beacon of hope to all of those at the ‘soup dance’.

Cosmo closed with a triumphant wedding march and fanfare improvised from the Acme theme, his piano swelling to mask any lingering voice cracks.

As the ‘ON AIR’ sign flicked out Cosmo plinked a cheeky ding and whispered, “We pulled it off, folks. Monumental Pictures lives another day.”

The mansion erupted in hushed sighs of relief as the announcer came back on to wrap up: “And so, love triumphs, thanks to Acme Products. Acme, your partner in tough times! ”

Guy and Thomas stepped back from the mics, their hands brushing briefly, a shared victory in their eyes.

Don clapped Guy on the back, muttering, “Not bad for a last-minute save.”

Lina, still voiceless, threw her clacker to the floor. Her glare promised retribution.

But hey, Thomas thought, the broadcast had been a success. Heck, it was a triumph. No one was going to complain about that. Not even Lina, not once she realized that her production credit had been saved. She had, after all, been an audible part of the production.

The technicians, glad to be done with another day, began the long job of packing down all the many bits of machinery they had that moving pulled in. Tomorrow they would be somewhere else, recording something else, doing the same job and yet different. That was Hollywood for you.

Yet for Guy and Thomas, this performance had been more than a job. It had been a chance to speak their love, however veiled, to the world.

Chapter Text

All the actors gathered in Lina Lamont’s Griffith Park mansion exhaled a collective sigh. The Acme Products radio drama, Love in Hard Times, had gone out over the airwaves without a hitch, despite the chaos of Lina’s laryngitis and the last-minute casting shuffle.

Guy Dexter and Thomas Barrow rested together on one of Lina’s fancy sofas, their scripts crumpled from nervous gripping. Around them, and even under their feet, the crew was picking up the padding. Long electrical wires were being rolled up, and the big slab of dials and tubes that made up the sound board was being carefully taken into pieces so it could be boxed up and carried into the waiting truck.

It had gone well, Thomas considered. Guy’s falsetto had held… at least for long enough…and Thomas’s steady performance as Bob Miller had anchored the show.

Don Lockwood, still buzzing from his villainous turn as Jim Thompson, was tap dancing all over the marble floors. Thomas was just glad he wasn’t going to be the person who had to polish them again in the morning.

Cosmo Brown, at the piano, struck a final, cheeky ding that echoed through the room. “So. Dinner people?” he asked. “Or maybe a tea dance?”

Lina, relegated to the sidelines, glowered from her own velvet settee, her voiceless rage palpable.

“You too Lina. You’ve never been more delightful company.”

Guy caught Thomas’s eye, a private smile passing between them. Their performance, laced with their real affection, had been a risk and a thrill, a secret shared across the airwaves.

Thomas murmured, “You make a delightful Dottie, love,” his voice low enough to stay between them.

Guy chuckled, brushing Thomas’s arm briefly. “And you’re always well cast as my hero.”

The moment was fleeting, as the technicians began coiling cables and taking away the microphones.

“Good work by you guys too”, Guy said as they passed.

The crew swapped relieved glances, aware that a flop could’ve cost jobs in these lean times.

“All joking aside, Lina.” Guy said. “Come join us for dinner. The four of us were thinking Musso & Frank. You should go too. Get your picture in the paper, and it’s private so no one will be asking questions.”

“Yeh, Lina.” Cosmo added. “And they’ve got soup. Good for the voice.”

“You!” she squeaked. Tried to, rather. It came out as half a whisper.

“Ignore the clowning, Lina.” Thomas insisted. “You’re a friend and … Guy always likes you. So come with us tonight, or come by tomorrow and I’ll make you a frosty orange dream. You enjoy those.”

She shot another nasty look at Cosmo, but finally nodded.

As they collected their coats the front door swung open, and R.F. Simpson strode in. His pinstriped suit and fedora a stark contrast to the mansion’s baroque glamour. His face, usually creased with studio budget worries, was alight with enthusiasm.

“You did it, you beautiful lunatics!” he boomed, clapping his hands. “That was the best damn radio show Monumental has ever done!”

That got cheers from the tech crew.

Cosmo banged out a sour note. “It was the first radio show Monumental has ever done.”

R.F. Simpson ignored him. “Lina! Brilliant, brilliant Lina!” He took both her hands in his. “I never knew you had it in you. Your Dottie was perfection. That’s best speaking part you’ve ever managed!”

Lina froze, her eyes darting to the others in panic.

Guy stepped forward, his actor’s poise kicking in. “Sorry, R.F., but I think she used up all her words doing the script. She’ll have to rest her voice for a while.”

The crew stifled gasps, knowing she hadn’t uttered a word.

“You were good too, Guy.”

“R.F., it was a team effort. The broadcast machinery, you know, it blends voices sometimes.” He kept his tone smooth, his English accent lending credibility.

Thomas nodded, playing along. “Exactly. Those mics and the static. It makes us all sound a bit alike, doesn’t it?”

Don, catching on, chimed in, “I think you made a great villain, Guy.”

“Right!” R.F. Simpson crowed. “Every bit as good as your romantic role, Don. I’m so impressed by how I cast this. I’m a genius.”

“That you are, R.F.” Cosmo Brown said with a grin. “That you are.”

“And Cosmo. Your music glued it together. Genius, sincerely. I’m really proud of myself.”

Cosmo, never missing a beat, plinked a triumphant chord, adding, “Just doing my part to save Hollywood, boss!”

Lina, still voiceless, forced a tight smile and nodded vigorously, clutching her throat as if it might miraculously recover. She mimed out “THANKS, R.F.!”

R.F., oblivious, just smiled. “Modest as ever, Lina! You just rest that golden throat. We need you in top shape. This could be big. Acme’s talking repeat broadcasts, maybe a series. Radio’s the future, and you’re all riding the wave!”

His words carried the weight of the Depression’s reality. With studios scrambling for cash and radio stealing movie audiences, this gig might well be a lifeline.

The crew exchanged nervous glances, the lie hanging heavy.

“Come on, guys!” Don Lamont spread out his arms. “We couldn’t have pulled it off without all of you here, and you know just how thankful we are. Aren’t we, R.F.”

“Yes, yes”

“And Lina?”

She froze, got the hint, and started miming kisses.

“So all of you know we are all in this together.” If it sounded like the praise had an edge of something else? Don Lockwood was a good enough actor to keep it … unproven. Just a reminder of what was at stake.

Guy and Thomas, standing close, felt the pressure most keenly. They needed not just to keep their jobs, but to protect their hidden life in a town that thrived on gossip.

Don, sensing the need to deflect, clapped R.F. on the shoulder. “Let’s celebrate this one first, eh? Before you sign us up for a hundred more.” Cosmo added a comical toot-toot on a kazoo, earning a laugh that eased the tension.

As R.F. chatted with the technicians about logistics, Guy and Thomas slipped toward the mansion’s foyer. Their hands brushed as they passed through the arched doorway. Outside, Hollywood at dusk glowed orange in the smoggy sunset, the city sprawling below like a dream teetering on collapse.

“That was too close,” Thomas said, his voice low. “But we pulled it off.”

Guy grinned, his eyes warm. “We always do, don’t we? You and me, against the world.”

Back inside, R.F. was still raving, oblivious to the cover-up. “This is what Monumental Picture’s needs. Fresh audiences across the country! Radio’s not the enemy; it’s our way forward.”

His optimism might have clashed with reality, but it sparked hope. The actors nodded, playing their parts in the deception to secure their futures. Lina, her throat still useless, mimed agreement. She had no choice. Her star status had been preserved by the group’s quick thinking.

As they headed out to dinner the city’s lights flickered like stars fighting to shine.

Wasn’t that what they all were?

In the car, Thomas chuckled. “Dottie and Bob, eh? We could’ve been a hit.”

Guy laughed, squeezing his hand. “We already are.”

The broadcast had been a gamble, but it had proved they could navigate this new bit of Hollywood’s chaos together. With radio rising and the Depression lingering, their future was uncertain. But who ever knew the future. So long as they had each other they’d face it head-on, ready for whatever role the world demanded next.