Chapter Text
And, action.
Paul Matthews blinks awake at his desk. No, not awake— aware. He must’ve zoned out halfway through writing his weekly report. And there’s a song stuck in his head, a vague thing na-na-na-na na-naa-na!-ing its way between his ears. Eugh. It’s a kitschy, jingly tune, probably from some commercial he forgot watching, leaving behind nothing but the song. Part of him almost wants to hum along, but that is a very small, very quiet part. This is Paul Matthews we’re talking about, after all— the guy who always sits out during Karaoke Night, that is if his coworkers even manage to drag him along in the first place. Singing is not, and never will be, his cup of tea.
Didn’t like, didn’t like, didn’t like-a-like ‘em! is right.
He frowns, clicking a few times to refresh the document; for a second the page’s screen was a vacant blue. But it reloads readily, restoring the half-filled document he’d been working on in all of its glorious banality.
Across the aisle from him, in her own cubicle, Paul sees Charlotte Sweetly out of the corner of his eye. She leans back in her seat with an expression as vacant as Paul’s screen had been, hands resting limply on her keyboard, head lolled to the side. He blinks and is about to say something, twitching his head in her direction, but stops again as she reaches up to her mouth, looking down to pluck a hair off of her tongue. She wipes away the saliva on her blue sweater as Paul quickly diverts his attention back to his computer with a suppressed shudder.
Trying to banish that memory to somewhere it will never return, he takes a sip from his cup of Beanie’s coffee. It’s cold from sitting on his desk since this morning, and it’s bitter and swirls thickly before finally making its way down his throat. He winces a little at the texture as he sets it back down, returning to work. The mental image the logo on the side of the cup conjures, however, is more than enough to make up for it.
Behind him, Bill stands to lean over the cubicle wall, draping his arm into his coworker’s corner of the office. “Hey, Paul.”
Paul leans back, not quite taking his eyes off the screen but tilting his head so his friend knows he’s being addressed. “You wanna print from the HP Laser-Jet, not the HP Ink-Jet.”
Bill raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Wow. How’d you know..?”
Paul smiles to himself, shaking his head. “We print stuff every day, Bill,” he chuckles, pausing his typing. “How do you still not know how it works?”
But as Paul’s about to resume his work, Bill frowns. “No, not about the printer. How’d you know what I was gonna ask?”
Everything goes still. Not even the constant clacking of keys from the neighboring cubicles is audible, not even the vents poorly circulating air, not even Paul’s heartbeat.
Something is very, very wrong.
“But you did ask, didn’t you? …About the… printer network?”
Bill shakes his head, making a face. “I was right about to.”
No. No, no, that isn’t possible. “I’m positive that you asked,” Paul replies, his gut churning.
His coworker gives him a side-eye. “You feeling okay, Paul?”
His breath is suddenly much harder to draw in than it had been a moment ago, straining against his ribs, as something sickly-sweet fills his mouth accompanied by a nausea-inducing vertigo.
“Yeah,” he chokes out after a too-long stretch of silence. In an instant the load of sensations disappears, leaving behind a vague dizziness in their wake. His next words don’t sound much more confident. “Just… déjà-vu.” And then he tries to shake off the feeling and manages a weak smile, and somewhere a phone rings, and the buzzing ambience of the office returns.
Bill continues to side-eye him as he draws away, but—thank God—he doesn’t question it further. Paul frowns and tries to return to his work, but he can’t help noticing his hands are shaking.
What feels like just a few seconds later, Mr. Davidson comes into view over the corner of Paul’s cubicle, nudging down his glasses, teeth gritted as he sighs out a greeting. “Hey, Paul…”
Paul’s head jerks up, the words leaving him in a rush with a forced smile. “Yes Mr. Davidson, I’ll get those reports on your desk by the end of today.” And then he gives a thumbs up, followed immediately by horror pouring into his veins.
“You read my mind, Paul.” His boss doesn’t seem to notice, smiling as he pulls away.
Paul is barely aware of this, is barely aware of anything, as a black cloud of panic closes in on him and swallows up everything else. He stares at his desk, at his computer, at the now-empty cup of coffee, across the way at Charlotte— Charlotte, and the smear of sickening blue on her sweater—
He’s— he’s done this before. It’s a sinking feeling, like every limb is weighed down by tar, pulling him in, trapping him. The little jingle grows louder, deafening, all-consuming. And he def’nitely won’t like thiiis~!
“Hi, Paul!”
Paul’s head snaps to Melissa, though he can barely even process her there, and he responds without thinking: “Melissa, I don’t care about the company softball league.” Everything is folding in around him, and the vertigo is back, and the nausea, and— oh God he just— “Ho-how did I know that—?”
Oblivious to what is quickly spiraling into a panic attack, Melissa’s smile instead wavers a little at his quick dismissal. “Okay, well, it might be—”
“Fun?” He asks, their voices meeting in unison. Like a chorus. Oh, fuck, oh fuck he is actually about to puke. He cannot do this right now, he cannot be talking to her, to anyone, and finds himself glaring up at her, his words deep and intense.
“Yeah. I don’t want to, though.”
Melissa grimaces, turning to go back to— whatever she was doing before, while Paul stares back at nothing. What is happening? His eyes dart back and forth, desperate for something to latch onto, for anything to explain what’s going on— this is a dream, right? What is this?
We must go on with the show~
There’s a spotlight on him. Everything else is dark, and it’s just him, sitting in the light. Being watched.
Of course you are. After all, you’re the star~
“PAUL!”
He lets out a gasp, hands flying up to grasp at whatever’s shaking him, maybe to tear himself away, or drag it in closer, or—
“Jesus Christ, man.” It’s Bill. Bill, his hands on his shoulders, fear and concern all over his face. Paul, in turn, grips his friend’s elbows. “I thought you were having a seizure, what was that?”
“I-I don’t—” Paul releases his hold and gasps a little, then doubles over into a coughing fit. Nothing comes out, but at least he doesn’t feel like throwing up anymore. “I-I don’t know. I mean— it must’ve been a panic attack.” Shakily, he reaches up to remove Bill’s hands from his shoulders. He just— the sensation of being touched is pinging off all the wrong signals in his mind. Don’t get him wrong, he appreciates being shaken out of— whatever that was, he just isn’t a fan of physical contact.
“Wow, I didn’t think Paul Matthews would be the first of us to snap,” Ted Spankoffski drawls, peeking into the scene. “I thought you were the one man in this building who actually enjoys his job.”
Bill shoots him a scathing glare, but Paul holds up a hand.
“It’s not that, Ted, this was…” …What was it? Why can he suddenly not remember? “…It was something else.”
“Maybe you should head home for the rest of today,” Bill’s voice is filled with concern. “We’ll vouch for you with Mr. Davidson.”
“I’ll have Bill finish your report,” Ted smiles.
“Hey!”
“Hey, just trying to help!” Ted raises his hands in an “I surrender” gesture, pivoting on his heel to head back to his workspace. He shoots Charlotte a smirk and some finger guns. “Hey, hot stuff, no smoking in the office.”
“Oh!” She puts a hand to her mouth, giggling. Ted laughs back, but then deadpans:
“No, seriously, Sweetly, Davidson’s gonna get your ass for that.”
“Oh!” She looks at the cigarette in her hand. “…I didn’t even realize.”
Paul swallows back another wave of sticky déjà-vu as she puts it out to take a swig from a metal flask instead.
“I think that’s a good idea, Bill. Thank you.” He refocuses and smiles wearily at his friend, and the other man smiles back, brow still creased with worry.
Something itches on the edge of his brain, and Paul blinks. “Maybe I’ll stop at Beanie’s on the way home. …Do… you want to come?”
“Oh, shit, Paul, I’m sorry. I can’t.” Bill smacks himself on the forehead. “I got Alice for one more night before she goes home to Clivesdale. Her mother…” He shakes his head, seeming to know this isn’t the time.
She went to New York to see “Hamilton,” Paul thinks. She loved it. Ugh.
“Doesn’t matter,” Bill continues, interrupting his thoughts. “Long story short, I’m trying to get tickets for the old Starlight Theater downtown— the touring production of ‘Mamma Mia’ is showing tonight!” And his eyes actually light up at that, as though a musical is something to look forward to. There’s that sinking feeling again, inescapable. This isn’t the script—
“Oh, wow,” he tries not to make a face. “She’ll love that just as much as ‘Hamilton.’”
Still smiling, Bill continues. “Heyy, maybe if you’re feeling up to it, do you want to tag along?” His expression goes distant for a moment, almost misty-eyed. “Remember when you used to babysit her? Drive her to school?”
“Yeah,” Paul agrees, a little hesitant.
“She thinks you’re cool. Maybe you can talk me up a bit. Let her know her old dad’s pretty cool, too.”
“Bill…” Paul shakes his head. “No.” He doesn’t want to step within a mile of the Starlight, in fact. Maybe if he wasn’t recovering from a panic attack, maybe if they were doing something more pleasant—skydiving, perhaps, or swimming with sharks—he’d be more willing to join them. But just the thought of that place sends a horrifying jolt down his spine. The idea of sitting there, trapped in a musical… that is his own personal Hell. “Sorry.”
Bill visibly deflates. “I’m trying to—” He cuts himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright. I understand.” He gives his friend a firm pat on the back. “Feel better, okay?”
“Sorry about that. But hey, I’ll grab you something from Beanie’s. My treat. What do you want?” Paul tries to smile, but Bill’s heading back to his desk.
Bill bites his lip and doesn’t respond; doesn’t even turn around. He’s supposed to say something. He’s supposed to say he wants his daughter back. …As if that will ever happen.
“H-how about an iced caramel frappe?” Paul offers, trying to silence the tune of his thoughts. That’s Bill’s favorite— Paul will always remember that. “Nothing better!”
“You going to Beanie’s?” Ted wheels back in suddenly in his office chair, bumping up against Paul’s leg just as he steps out of his cubicle. Or, he would’ve bumped into Paul, if the other man didn’t sidestep him at the last second. Avoiding any more unnecessary physical contact would be great, thanks. Ted, having overshot his colleague, spins around to face him. “You didn’t—”
“Invite you, yeah, I know, sorry Ted, do you want to come?” Paul squeezes his eyes shut, just wanting to get this over with. Before his coworker can open his mouth to respond, Paul continues: “No, you don’t, so leave me alone.”
“Whoa, Mr. Attitude over here,” Ted picks at his fingernails, smirking. “You’re right, I don’t. I don’t wanna show you up.”
Paul swallows. He should just leave, now, instead of entertaining this longer. But it’s like something holds him in place— Now, now, Paul, the scene isn’t finished yet. She can wait.
“What do you mean?” he feigns, and part of him wonders what he’s even asking that question to. The wall is awfully appealing all of a sudden, and Paul fixes his stare on it.
Ted does another spin in his chair. “Paul. Come on. I know why you walk that extra block instead of just going to Starbucks across the street. You’d make the trip to Beanie’s even if you were dying.”
That’s a new line.
“I don’t wanna give my money to some corporate chain, it’s just gonna— take that money and put it in a bank and go and—” Paul backs away as Ted tries to scoot closer and bump into him again. Giving up, Ted resigns himself to maneuvering into the aisle, blocking Paul’s path as he rocks back and forth in his chair.
“Are you sure it doesn’t have anything to do with that cute little barista over there?”
Paul returns his full attention to the nearest wall, hands clasped carefully in front of him, as Ted continues.
“The latte hottay, as she’s known throughout the land?” And his smirk grows bigger, then, though of course Paul only sees that at the edge of his vision because is is refusing to look at Ted and his stupid Borat impression: “My wife?”
Paul remains silent for a few moments longer, then suddenly springs into action, shoving Ted to the side and making a run for it. “Okay, I know it’s Borat, bye Ted—”
Ted starts after him, shouting. “Hey, get me a chai iced tea, eh!? Eh?!” Then he gives up, falling back into his chair. “Ehhh.”
Paul stumbles out of the CCRP offices and into the street, pausing for a moment to take stock of his current state. Like a good 90% of days in Michigan, it’s overcast, leaving the sky cloudy, hazy blue with the promise of a thunderstorm on the horizon. It’s cold, too, and damp. And in spite of everything, he still has that fucking song in his head, as if it’s taunting him.
Oh, he pines after a cute lil’ barista… isn’t that worth a show-stopping fiesta, yeah?
Paul curls his hands to fists and puts them to his head, his ears ringing. “Okay, Paul, okay, just calm down. This is fine. You’re just having a weird day, like a really weird day. Oh God, am I crazy?” I don’t think so~
He puts a hand to his mouth and shakes his head vigorously. He’s just gonna go into Beanie’s, and that shitty coffee will shock him back to his senses, and just seeing Emma’s face again will make him feel better.
Something runs cold in his veins.
She’d never told him her name.
“Nope, nope, nope nope nope. Not thinking about it. Coffee now, let’s go.” Thank God there’s no one else milling about to call the police on what looks like a crazy person talking to himself. He hurries on down the block. Exercise, yayy, that’s good for him! Right?
By the time he gets to Beanies, pushing open the door with a welcoming ding, he’s already feeling better. That walking in the fresh air really did help, and now cooler heads have prevai—
“FUCK! FUCK, NO, GOD, PLEASE, NO!”
Paul, for his part, barely even processed the furious customer shoving past him; as with Ted, he sidestepped the man as he entered, hearing something about “bullshit” but otherwise not catching most of his words. His full attention snaps to the source of the screaming, a woman at the Beanie’s counter with wide, fearful eyes who scrambles to back away at his entrance.
Emma.
“Emma, what’s the deal over here?” One of the other baristas frowns; Emma whips around to stare at her as she speaks, but then just tries to shove past her, continuing her string of terrified curses. She never fully takes her eyes off of Paul.
“She wouldn’t sing for him,” another customer bursts in, and when Emma screams “SHUT UP!” he doesn’t even flinch. Wait, isn’t that— that’s Ted’s little brother, Pete, isn’t it? “And I still have not received my hot chocolate!”
Paul balks at his statement. Is he seriously worried about his drink right now? Did— is no one else seeing the barista having a full-blown screaming fit?
“SHUT UP!!” Emma shouts, even louder, her voice cracking as she tries to push past the high schooler.
One of the other baristas tries to console Pete, and as she does, Paul starts to move towards Emma. Pete mutters something about “blood sugar” and heads back to his seat, as though he isn’t aware of half of what’s happening. Emma, for her part, seems to have realized that the coffee shop only has one way in or out, and Paul is standing between her and the exit. She shrinks away from him as he approaches, pulling a table between them and holding up her hands. Paul realizes with a start that she’s crying.
“P-please— please don’t—”
“Emma, we already warned you twice,” says one of the employees at the counter. Paul barely hears her, or the rest of the conversation the two baristas have behind him.
“Emma?” He tentatively reaches towards her, but then draws back at her flinch. “Wh— what the hell is going on?”
Emma’s chest heaves as she stares up at him, and the terror on her face morphs into confusion, then realization, then shock. “Y-you’re—” She grabs the chair next to her for support, forcing herself to her feet. “You’re not— you’re not singing. You’re you.”
There’s that sinking feeling again, even deeper now.
“Oh my God, it’s you!” Emma lets out a cry of relieved joy, barreling into him in a hug. “You’re actually you!!” Paul flinches at the sudden contact, but something warm melts inside of him at Emma’s touch, and he gently puts his arms around her as she sobs into the front of his suit. …Okay, actually, the wetness isn’t really that nice. He gingerly tries to peel her off, enough to look her in the eyes.
“Emma, what’s going on?” he asks again, trying to keep his voice low.
Behind him, the baristas keep talking: “Don’t bother coming in for your next shift.”
Emma shakes her head, rubbing furiously at her eyes. Her whole face is red, eyes watery and a blue trail of snot dripping from her nose. She wipes that off on her sleeve and doesn’t answer, chest still heaving.
“Y-you remember my name,” she says instead.
“Remember?” Paul feels his brows crease in confusion.
Emma takes one more deep, long breath and then grabs his elbow, pulling him to the side by the door. Paul lets out a yelp, but follows her.
“Listen. Okay? I guess— you don’t remember everything, so just— listen to me. Even if this sounds crazy.” For a second, she looks like she’s about to start sobbing again, reaching to squeeze his hands. “Promise me you’ll think about the implications.”
Paul remembers this. He’s supposed to be saying it, though, and not yet—
“Okay,” he says, meeting Emma’s eyes. “Okay, I promise.”
Emma’s eyes flutter closed for a moment from sheer gratitude, and for a second Paul’s worried she’s going to pass out and he reaches to steady her. But she catches herself, continuing. “Okay. Okay, Paul, I think…” She swallows thickly. “I think that we… are trapped… in…” and it comes out almost a whisper, “a musical.”
Paul stares blankly at her for a moment. “Um—”
“Don’t say anything,” Emma pleads, and he stops. “Let it sink in.”
“Okay,” he starts after a few beats of silence, “that is pretty horrifying.”
But he doesn’t think about the implications— he can’t bring himself to, because if he does, then what is already a horrible prospect will become something real, something that takes his hand and ushers him to dance, that fills his heart with Song and causes sticky-sweet bile to rise in his throat and makes his lips part in a smile. And that is not something he can ever allow himself to accept.
So no. He does not think about the implications.
Emma stares back at him in despair.
“Please, Paul, you’re the only one who’s even acknowledging me.” Her voice cracks as she waves desperately at her coworkers, who, Paul now realizes, seem to be having an entire conversation with missing dialogue in between the lines— lines that Emma is supposed to fill in. Everything is spinning, now.
“I-I gotta go,” he stammers, and feels like a coward but he can’t stay here. “Emma, I-I have work, I’m sorry, Mr. Davidson is going to kill me if I’m late to my shift, a-and I’m never late, I really— I gotta go. I’m sorry.”
He pries himself away from her and it hurts, leaving her standing in the doorway with that wide-eyed stare boring into him, like she’s watching her one hope fading away. “I’ll be back,” he swears. “Tomorrow morning. Like I always am, okay?” He forces a smile, but she still just stares.
Paul curses under his breath and ducks out the door, guilt swimming in his stomach.
It’s not until he gets outside that he finds a trashcan to throw up in; he doesn’t glance down at the contents of his insides-turned-outsides, in fact at just that awful blueberry-molasses-viral-sweet smell he gags again, thankfully only dry heaving this time, and quickly puts the lid back on as none other than the girl from Greenpeace approaches him. She looks like she’s saying something, but he doesn’t hear it. “I’m already donating,” he lies, “and I know there’s no campaign to save the sea turtles, so beat it.”
“Spare change for the—?” Paul doesn’t even look at the disheveled homeless man, fishing a buck of indeterminate value from his wallet and practically throwing it at him before hurrying onward. He hears, maybe, the man making a noise of surprised pleasure, which means he probably gave him one of his twenties. Whatever. He can keep it.
He’s gotta get to work. He’ll sit down at his desk and let some mindless paperwork lull him back to Drowsy Town, and it’ll be fine. This is all just one bad day.