Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Exit Dagger

     This seminar would be a cinch. Sidney Bruhl brushed his brown hair back with his fingers. It reached past his ears when he pulled the loose waves straight, just barely. He would have to schedule a haircut. And a shave. He couldn't look like he was struggling to make ends meet. He straightened his suit coat. He licked his thumb and slicked his brow. He was a man of neatness, after all. He would just hope that these college students would remember him for the playwright he once was and not what he currently found himself being. He practiced his smile, and relaxed it. Stage smiles were supposed to be too wide; audiences could see the facial expressions on stage best if they were exaggerated. 

     Taking a breath only steeled his nerves a smidge before he placed his hands on the door and entered the room with grace. His heart fluttered in his chest, but he was not like his wife. Oh, no, he was not Myra. Her heart could race a Greyhound at the sound of a pin dropping across the house. He had control over his reactions. He was familiar with acting. He was a playwright, after all. He controlled things. It was his job. 

     Sidney looked around the room of aspiring writers and couldn't help but take on a general disliking of them all. They were all twenty-something party people who thought they could write plays about their own lives- which were so interesting and unique- and make a fortune off of that. In reality, they were all unseasoned wannabes who would spend their money on the five or so Broadway productions they actually knew about. They would explain at family dinners that they were cultured now, because they went to college and they attended the seminar taught by “that guy wrote The Murder Game” and they understood all of Les Diaboliques and the like. All of the students that he saw before him made him question why he even bothered to show up. 

     Sitting in the third row, a little left of center, a man with a wicked cold stare contrasted the wide-eyed fools that were his peers. His dark hair was combed neatly but seemed to naturally disobey the direction they were swept in at the ends, and his face was narrowed down, but his icy eyes remained trained on Sidney in a tender focus. The man's posture stiffened, like moving would somehow end the seminar prematurely. He had his elbows propped on the small extended desk and his chin rested atop his clasped hands. Sidney’s eyes wandered over this man for a moment longer. The cuffs of his jeans were tucked into his boots, which looked more like polished combat boots than average hiking boots. Sidney had a strange feeling about this character. He looked like he thought that he was the most important person in the world. 

     “Right, so,” Sidney started. He licked his lips and brushed the corner of his mouth. He craved the savory burn of brandy. The students watched him intently. The student with the soft stare leaned forward in his seat. Usually, Sidney was very good at keeping his nerves tethered. That stupid boy had thrown him off. He just looked too familiar, like Sidney had seen his face on the big screen before. Now he was all sorts of jumbled.

     Sidney eased his way into the seminar and, by the start of the second hour, he was on a roll. He talked with his body, getting carried away with stage gestures. But the students laughed graciously in the right places, and wrote notes on the important details. He finished the lecture, and students dispersed. Some approached him eagerly, with starlit eyes and dreams. Sidney grumbled through elaborating on his previous points, and when the last few students started asking for him to read their own works, he dismissed them with a mailing address and busied himself with looking busy. 

     The student with the boots stayed at his desk and watched Sidney's moves. Sidney raised a brow and met the electric blue eyes of the man. He looked small when he leaned back in his seat. Sidney waited, assuming that this student was waiting for a chance to talk to him. He unintentionally smirked, confident that he could read the other's intentions well.

     “You liked the seminar,” Sidney stated rather than asked.

      The man tapped his pen against his notebook. “If I hadn't liked it, would I still be here?”

     Okay, Sidney thought, cocky bastard. 

     The sound of the stranger’s voice was soft-spoken and pleasant to hear. Sidney ran his tongue over the back of his teeth and smiled tightly. “Naturally.”

     When the student stood, Sidney realized that he had underestimated the stranger's height. He rolled his shoulders back, and Sidney’s eyes flitted over his broad chest. The way that this person dressed was polite and dapper. Sidney liked that in a man. 

     “Naturally,” the man repeated. His thin lips reached a charming smile as he approached Sidney.

     “I like your moxie. You are…?” Sidney fished for a name from this young man. He extended his hand toward the man.

     “Clifford,” the student introduced himself, “Anderson.” He glanced at Sidney's outstretched hand and gave a firm handshake. “I must admit, I expected you to look older.”

     “Older?” Sidney smiled incredulously. 

     “Most professors here are old as stone. Why, you're not even graying.” Clifford reached out and pinched a few strands of Sidney's hair between his fingers. The action caught Sidney off-guard, but he didn't flinch back. He should have, but he instead watched Clifford grin as he returned his hand to his side. Sidney could see the five o’ clock shadow on him now, having to tilt his head back ever so slightly to meet Clifford's gaze. The two shared a look that Sidney vaguely understood the meaning behind.

     “I am, believe me. One gray hair for every critic’s review.” Although, if that were true, Sidney would have gone silver at twenty. He cleared his throat. “So, you are studying to become a playwright?” That was the stupidest thing that the cunning Sidney Bruhl had ever said. No shit, of course Clifford wanted to write plays. Why would someone not interested in building a career off of studying the ways of the theater attend a seminar on how to write better plays?!

     “You could say that's what I'm doing here. I’m afraid that all I have to offer you are the scraps of ideas shelved right now. College takes up too much time for me to enjoy writing.” Clifford gave a wayward shrug and gathered his belongings. 

     Sidney was unsure of whether or not he liked the way that Clifford absolutely refused to acknowledge him as anything other than an average man on the same level as himself.

     “Well, if you'd like, I'd be willing to look at your scraps of ideas and try to help you make sense of them,” Sidney invited loosely, like he was inviting an old friend out. He liked scraps. He could work with ideas that were already there, fleshed out and waiting for a puppeteer.

     Clifford glanced Sidney over, and Sidney knew that he was trying to read him. “Is it my moxie that makes you so eager to see my work, sir? Or is it the lack of ideas spinning around in that mind of yours lately?”

     Sidney's heart sank and he turned his head to the side, glancing around the empty lecture hall. He brought his hand to his mouth and slid his fingers over his chin. He could kill for a drink. “Well, no,” he said carefully. He was honestly surprised at Clifford's quick wits. For someone who acted unphased at Sidney's status, Clifford had just let on that he cared for Sidney’s work enough to have been tracking his last few failed plays. But he guessed that his failures weren’t exactly a secret to the public.

     “Ideas are the one thing I have a plethora of. The issue comes in having congruent ideas that I can piece together. Any halfwit can have an idea, but a skillful execution takes careful planning.” Sidney studied Clifford’s face, trying to understand the cold behind his charm.

     “I already have people who want to sponsor my work, so I assume I am doing something correct. But.” Clifford tilted his head back and looked down at Sidney with feigned indifference. “If I actually finish anything, I guess another opinion wouldn’t be detrimental.” 

     Sidney knew for certain that he really liked Clifford’s indignation. He could not tell if Clifford adored or hated him. He found himself smiling, almost grinning. “Right. My mailbox is always open. I’ll just have to remember your name. I get manuscripts from aspiring playwrights often. You ought to read the things I get sent. You seem like the type that would find it as annoying as I do.”

     Waving his hand dismissively, Clifford walked to the door. Sidney made the decision subconsciously to follow. “Oh,” Clifford said, “I’ve peer edited enough bullshit to know what you mean. A not-so-notable one I’ve read recently was the ending to a murder mystery that went something like “the killer…was the ex-wife all along!” even though the ex-wife had moved away for plot reasons during the time of the murder. No sense of timeline in that one.”

     “A common mistake that writers can avoid by writing an outline. Timing is everything. Giving the audience a concrete understanding of the times in which events occur is crucial,” Sidney rambled. “Always have an alibi that can be sustained.”

     “I think a worse crime is unnecessary comic relief. I once witnessed a play in which the detectives made jokes about the killer’s sloppy execution of hiding the body. I cannot remember exactly how it went. I just remember that I was disappointed, because the tension was so high and almost reached a crescendo,” Clifford said. Sidney didn’t mention it, but he was pretty sure that Clifford had just explained a scene from one of his recently failed plays. Clifford side-eyed him, which only confirmed what Sidney already suspected. Clifford stopped walking and faced him completely now. Sidney realized then that they were a block or so away from the university. How Clifford had managed to lead him there without his realizing was beyond him. 

     “Good luck getting home tonight, Mr. Bruhl.” Clifford looked at Sidney expectantly, like he was waiting for him to suddenly vanish.

     “Oh, no, I…” Sidney tore his attention from Clifford’s eyes. “I’m staying at a hotel within the city. Gotta catch a train tomorrow to get back to Westport. But thank you.”

     “Really? Which hotel?” Clifford asked, feigning interest. “Hopefully one in a good location. There’s all sorts of delinquent dipshits here who get sadistic if their favorite sports team loses.”

     It seemed to Sidney that Clifford’s insults did not apply to any one genre of people; he seemed to hate everybody equally.

     “It’s the Marriott, the one used for conventions.” Sidney pushed his hands into the depths of his coat pockets. He hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to slink away to one of the local bars and let himself sink. “They didn’t even stock my room with those complimentary liquors.”

     Clifford gave an almost irritated-looking smile, like he had something he wanted to say but wasn’t sure how to articulate his words. “I know some bars close to the Marriott.”

     Sidney bit his cheek to quell the amusement he gained seeing the response he pulled from Clifford. He debated on continuing to play up his obliviousness. “There’s a local one that I might waltz into. Not sure yet.”

     Once again, Clifford looked like he was fighting a battle within his head. “Right, because you have to get up early in the morning to catch that train.”

     “Well. Not too early. Thankfully, the hotel room did come with complimentary coffee.” Sidney waited to see the defeated look on Clifford’s face. Setting up and then shutting down all opportunities for Clifford to buy time with him was amusing. This was the sort of interaction with his fans that Sidney was used to.

     Clifford chewed his lip and remained silent for a moment. Then, he opened his crossbody bag and retrieved a ticket. He handed it to Sidney almost teasingly, waving it in the air twice.

     “What’s this?” Sidney asked, but he already knew. He examined the ticket.

     “An upcoming play that will either be the new Broadway smash hit, or the longest two hours of your life.” Clifford closed his bag and shrugged the strap up higher onto his shoulder.

     “This is in five days,” Sidney said. He wondered what Clifford expected him to do with this. 

     Clifford placed his hand on his hip, and his hips swayed back. “Then be back in five days. But trust me on this one. It’s that writer’s intuition we’ve got that tells me this will be something you’ll want to tell your colleagues about.”

     “Is this how you keep up your grades? You keep theatre tickets on hand to bribe professors?” Sidney was joking, but he wouldn't put it past this guy.

     Clifford gave a wry smile. “Only the professors who put on seminars for bonus points.”

     He was good, Sidney would give him that. But he was also cocky and ignorant. 

     The Colonial house that Sidney called home looked just the same as it always did. Fine dirt crunched under his shoes as he walked up the driveway. The red, pointed roof looked as spectacular as always, and the sound of the shore could be heard just past the cabin. Sidney took in a breath of fresh air and prepared to greet his wife. He pushed open the heavy oak door. 

     “Myra?” Sidney called out, sounding as exhausted as he felt. He still had the dull ache of a hangover from the previous night.

     “Oh!” Sidney could hear Myra exclaim from somewhere within the house. Her incessant talking increased in proximity until she rounded the corner and greeted Sidney with a wide smile. Her voluminous blonde hair bounced around her shoulders. She wore her favorite white blouse today, but she matched it to a pair of white trousers and white flats. In Sidney’s opinion, it was entirely too much white. White was reserved for dead characters on-stage. Myra looked like she was already dead. Sidney laughed inwardly at imagining the whining ghost of Myra moaning “My heart can’t take it!” .

     Myra swept Sidney into a hasty kiss. Sidney huffed a disgruntled sigh. He hovered a hand over the small of Myra’s back. At least she shut up for a bit when she kissed him. The affection shared between Myra and Sidney almost always came about in the form of Myra’s initiation and Sidney’s reluctant acceptance. It wasn’t that he did not want to be affectionate with Myra, it was just that he felt bothered by himself. He could blame his inferiority complex. Myra provided, Myra had steady finances, Myra took care of the house. And Sidney wrote. He traveled sometimes. But he mostly just wrote. Myra told him so often that his work was important, and his work was hard work. But when he was in his prime, Sidney was turning out at least ten to twelve pages per day. Nowadays, he was lucky if he could form a single coherent page of vague points per week.

     At least two weeks later, after returning from an outing, Sidney Bruhl found a ticket tucked into his coat pocket. He frowned and read the faded date, surprised that it had even lasted in his pocket for so long. He had missed the play. He bitterly poured himself a drink and sat back in his desk chair. He sipped his liquor and thumbed the ticket over. His eyes wandered to the phone on his desk, and he hesitated. He liked to allow himself to make brash decisions. It was fun. The unpredictable outcome of his consequences made for great writing ideas. He set the ticket down and picked up the phone.

     After getting in touch with the university and a good acquaintance there, Sidney managed to acquire the phone number attached to Clifford Anderson’s name. Sidney was lucky that Myra was out of the house. If she were there, she would listen in on the phone call like the nosy mouse that she was. Sidney didn’t like it when Myra listened in on his business. It didn’t matter who he was calling, he thought that Myra should know by now that he would recount all the important details to her directly.

     The static on the other end let Sidney know before Clifford even spoke that the line had been connected and accepted. 

     “Anderson,” Clifford said in a winded breath. 

     “Clifford? This is Sidney Bruhl.” Sidney brought his glass to his lips.

     Faint static on the other end accompanied a short pause. “Was it the worst two hours of your life, or was it a box office hit?”

     Sidney’s gut twisted, and he downed the last of his glass. “Oh, the play was so-so. Not sure how I feel about it still.”

     “Really? I thought that the part where Ira revealed his ulterior motives was cleverly planned out,” Clifford commented. 

     A bit of hesitation on Sidney’s part occurred. He licked his lips and went to say something, but stopped himself. It was best to keep from wandering into lies.

    “You didn't see the play, Mr. Bruhl.”

    “I had all the intention to go, I just-” Sidney glanced at the ceiling beams as he decided on which excuse he should use. On the other side of the line, Sidney heard a breathy chuckle. 

     “It’s a good thing you didn’t go. The actors spoke too fast. The plot was terrific, but an old woman- she must have been at least eighty- fell asleep on my shoulder before we reached the intermission. I managed to talk my way backstage. The props manager had these pills filled with stage blood. Actors can store them in their cheeks and bite down on them on cue. I asked her- the props manager- if I could stick one up my nose. I figured that I could pinch my nose and it would yield the same effect. Well, she said no to letting me take a few, so I swiped them. Right under her nose,” Clifford bragged.

     Sidney tittered at Clifford’s side story. He leaned back in his seat and got comfortable. “That sounds like quite the night. I’m partial to the weapons with tubing, though. Stage blood is unpredictable, but attaching it to a prop yields a more realistic spatter. I’ve always been worried about actors spitting out those capsules while they deliver lines.”

     “You have a knack for writing the most gruesome stage combat. That's my favorite part about your work. When I first saw that garrote onstage, I felt as though I was the one about to die. I had never seen something so real like that. The motion was so powerful.” Clifford’s voice took on a darker tone at the last sentence.

     Sidney smiled, even though no one was around to see him smile. He eyed the garrote hanging on the wall behind his desk fondly. When he took a moment to think about it, having a wall of various weapons, not all of which were fake, was a hobby that only a select few would understand the appeal of. Myra was fine when the collection was just a few daggers and sabres. She complained a few times when the collection expanded to maces and rifles, but gave up bringing it up after the collection spanned to the other two walls of Sidney’s study.

     “If I could have written the weapon as a wire of sorts, I would've. A good wire can-” Sidney sucked air through his teeth, “-sever the neck in an instant. Have you touched any of your shelved ideas as of recent?”

     A brief silence followed Sidney's words. “I’m working on one. I can’t decide how far I want to go with the lead character. Would it be annoying to have some element of supernatural aid?” Clifford’s voice faded for a moment, likely due to him switching the phone to his other ear. “Or would it enhance the dramatics?” 

     “Hm, well. That depends. There is no shortage of supernatural aid in playwriting. I would need more context, but maybe play it up like everyone finds the notion preposterous, and then make it truly supernatural. Or vice versa. It’s extra legwork, but at the end, you might end up with two entirely different stories. Your characters will surprise you.” Sidney pulled his attention from the wall of weapons and glanced at the ticket on his desk. “I was invited to go to an upcoming production. It's a little out of the way. I don't know where you live in relation to the city, but it's in that amateur playhouse. The one by the river.”

     He had been invited to bring a plus one, and he knew that the colleague who gave him the tickets intended for him to take Myra. Myra was always under the weather, though. Myra's favorite escape route was her heart. God forbid Sidney exist in his own home without hurting Myra's heart. She was such a successful woman, strong in will and determined in spirit. Her business strategy was unmatched. Sidney wondered why the hell she insisted on being his wife.

     “Yeah, I know the one. Have a few acquaintances who work there. Or they volunteer there. Nobody gets paid much,” Clifford disclosed. 

     “Let me make up for the ticket that you wasted on me,” Sidney requested.

     “If the acting is bad, I’ll throw stage blood capsules in place of tomatoes.” Sidney could imagine Clifford's cheeky smile. Clifford was very weird. He was Sidney's kind of unusual.

Chapter Text

The Play

      As predicted, Myra felt faint on the day that Sidney left to attend the play. Her words were “I feel dizzy, I just don't understand why”. Sidney reminded her that drinking, smoking, and not taking her meds were all contributing to why. Myra had whined and disregarded Sidney's words and kissed the corner of his lips, clinging to him like he was a soft pillow. He felt that he was a pillow sometimes. A slim physique, yet squishy from his years of never leaving his desk chair. He had certainly mastered the sin of sloth. At least he had mastered something. 

He had a fluttering, almost giddy feeling in his gut as he got ready for the evening in his hotel room. Sidney actually looked forward to seeing Clifford again. He would simply need to keep himself under control. He was a nuanced man with a precious ego to nurture. He was not in the business of helping out the underdog. 

Still, his mind toyed with the idea that taking on an apprentice of sorts might boost his public image. But it realistically would just make the public feel bad for Clifford. Maybe he would become known as “that guy who studied under the other guy who wrote The Murder Game”. He felt a fleeting sense of anxiety at the prospect of dying without a legacy strong enough to last. Was that what he really wanted? Someone who could continue the name of Sidney Bruhl? This was no time, he decided, for another midlife crisis. Yes, he did anticipate dying at eighty-something.

Clifford stood leaned against the brick wall outside the entrance to the theater, jotting something down in a pocket notebook. Sidney assumed he was waiting for him. He had the tickets to get in, after all. He put on his best friendly yet controlled smile and headed over to Clifford. Upon noticing Sidney, Clifford grinned and stood up straight. He wore a leather jacket in place of his modest blazer from the seminar, but he kept his boots. Clifford had tied the leather laces around his ankles. At least they went with his outfit now.

“I’ve been considering a new plot,” Clifford started. He greeted Sidney with a handshake.

“Another idea?” Sidney asked, a little exasperated. 

“It’s the same one I mentioned over the phone. But I’m in a slump with the next goal for the main lead,” Clifford explained as the two men checked in their tickets and entered the theater.

“I can’t help you without reading what you have so far.” Sidney pinched the fabric of his pants below his knees and sat. Clifford sat in the seat beside him and turned to face Sidney. His lips parted just as the house lights dimmed.

“I’ll tell you afterwards,” Clifford decided.

The performance was good, and Clifford did not throw tomatoes or blood capsules at the stage. The two of them decided to further their conversation at a local bar that Clifford insisted was “classy enough for you and laid back enough for me,”. The bar was nice and small, but in a cozy sense. It was more of a hole-in-the-wall type of place. 

“So, you've got something cooking?” Sidney reminded Clifford. His eyes met Sidney's briefly, then he sipped at his drink and passed Sidney his notebook.

“Yeah, it's about an aspiring novelist who meets his hero and writes about it. But the saying goes that you should never meet your idols, and I want the play to double down on that.” Clifford watched Sidney drink his beverage. Sidney could see his gaze just over the rim of his glass.

“Wow, I wonder where you got your inspiration from,” Sidney said with biting sarcasm. He thumbed through the notebook and read the hastily scrawled points. They were rather good, even for Sidney's eyes.

“I got my inspiration from a cranky drunk who doesn't seem to realize that the first ever play I became infatuated with was one that he wrote.” Clifford glanced at Sidney's drink again, but what he asked next made Sidney realize that he was really eyeing his wedding band. 

“Which play would that be?” Sydney asked. His eyes flitted over the pages of Clifford's notebook.

“Gunpoint, of course. How come Mrs. Bruhl doesn't attend the plays with you, if you don't mind my asking?”

Myra was probably at home waiting up, putting numbers into her checkbook and biting her nails over how much Sidney spent on plays and taxis and hotels and drinks.

“Your notes are incriminating.” Sidney passed back the notebook, ignoring the question. Some of the notes sounded much too real to not be true, and Sidney wondered briefly if he was sharing drinks with a criminal. “But you're a natural nonetheless.” 

“I want to make something so evil that it infects all who touch it,” Clifford stated with sudden seriousness.

Sidney let that statement turn around in his mind as he finished his martini. “I have a proposal for you.”

Clifford’s interest seemed to be caught now if it wasn't already. “Oh? A proposal based off of the chicken scratch I carry around? You should see my actual notes.”

Sidney took a breath and looked at Clifford. “That’s what I'm getting at. How old are you, Clifford? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-nine,” Clifford corrected. “You can call me Cliff. It saves time.”

“Cliff. I was your age exactly when In For The Kill made its debut. But I didn't work alone. I studied under someone else. George Kaufman, to be exact. If you're absolutely serious about becoming a true playwright, then I'd like to extend myself as a resource to you.” Sidney needed another drink for this. Even though the drinks were what had put him in this situation. Drunken words were truly sober thoughts, he supposed.

Clifford's face sobered, then he let out a breathy laugh and shook his head. He must've seen Sidney's confused reaction, because he quickly wiped his laughter away and hummed. “Are you doing this because you really think you have no ideas left to busy yourself with? It's wise, taking on an apprentice to keep your foot in the business.”

“Do you want the damn help or not? It's not out of desperation that I make this offer. You've got a drive that I've only ever seen in myself. You have potential. This semester is ending soon. You have a lengthy break coming up. Why not spend that break getting ahead of your competition?” Sidney watched Clifford closely as he considered the opportunity. 

“Alright,” Clifford said, “you’ve got me intrigued. Let's make a plan.”