Chapter Text
Charles Wills had been dead for over thirteen years. His son knew this. He had attended his funeral. Looked into the open casket. Dealt with his mothers tears and the large supply of condolence gift baskets. The funeral was quiet. He had always seemed to have an endless supply of friends. Theatre was a small world. Everyone knew everyone. Though it appeared that none of them had particularly cared about his passing.
Derek Wills has never liked Christmas. Too many memories. Not enough to be merry for. This year was no different. It was Christmas Eve. He was walking down Broadway, on his way home from the latest performance of Hit List. He didn’t know why he still bothered going; it wasn’t like they needed him anymore. Maybe it was because he liked seeing his work being appreciated. Maybe it was because the Ethel Barrymore theatre was dangerously close to the Lily Hayes theatre- where Bombshell was currently being showcased- and if he timed his exit just right he could catch a glimpse of blonde curls and a tantalising smile.
He hadn’t spoken to Ivy much lately. Derek often characterised himself as nonchalant by nature. Ivy had disrupted that. Every laugh, every invite to stay the night, every tug of her hands through his hair; it all made silly knots form in his stomach that, if he were anyone else, he might have referred to as butterflies.
He hadn’t planned to end up in her bed when he had showed up at her party with a card that he had spent far too long picking out. But he had. He had promised he could be casual, for who was Derek Wills if not a man who could handle casual sex. But it was different this time. Or maybe it wasn’t different. Maybe this time he was just more aware of the true magnitude of what he held in his hands every night.
He thought she had been changing her mind. That slowly she was allowing him back into her life as something more than a friend, a sordid ex, a warm body. Apparently not. It had all started opening night of Bombshell. Everything had been fine when he had left her apartment that morning but at the after party she had declined his offer to leave together. It wasn’t fair what he had done afterwards. The whole situation with Daisy Parker was… complicated to say the least. He could blame the booze or his bruised ego, but really they were just excuses and he was too tired for excuses.
Ivy hadn’t returned his phone calls after that. Thirteen missed calls now sat, unacknowledged in his inbox. There was no way she knew, so it had to be something else. He just didn’t know what. It wasn’t fair that he was so hurt because really he had had his chance. Last year. He had treated her terribly and in the end he had lost her to his own idiotic assumption that he could do anything- even sleep with Rebecca Duvall- and still have her looking up at him with those big blue eyes so full of trust and admiration.
He didn’t really know what to do with himself anymore. He could show up at her apartment unannounced, demand an explanation, plead his case. But that sounded too much like a cheesy scene from a romcom and Derek Wills did not do romance. He could go to a bar, find a woman that resembled Ivy so much it might actually make him feel something. But it wouldn’t work and he was tired. So he went home and made himself dinner; a rather generous pouring of scotch.
His loft was big. Too big as of late. Too quiet. It missed Ivys imposing presence. He would never shake her from his life. Not really. Because his mind still knew the exact route to her apartment. Because he still couldn’t bring himself to throw away the bottle of her shampoo that still sat in his bathroom. Because, no matter how many times he had washed them, his sheets still held the remnants of her body glitter from over a year ago. That shit gets everywhere.
He had used the controls on his phone to have the heating on before he got home. This however did not improve the chill much. Derek had always felt the cold, imbedded deep in his bones. That was no surprise really. What with growing up in London only to move to New York.
But never had he felt the cold more deeply than those first few weeks after his return from Boston. Even if it had been mid August. He supposed now that it could have had something to do with the lack of Ivys warmth occupying even the darkest corners of his room.
Ivy was always warm. She ran hot. That’s probably how she could stand wearing the clothes that she did, even in such severe weather conditions. When they had first been together he had found himself pulling her closer to him as they slept. He had never been one for cuddling but there was something comforting about the way her heat would seep into him, sitting soothingly in the pit of his stomach. Like his own personal hot water bottle.
Maybe that’s why, after just a few nights of their ‘just sex’ arrangement, he had found himself waking up to the crack of sun through her too thin curtains and Ivy unhooking his arm from where it lay around her waist. He was supposed to leave in the night. 3 am, on the dot. Be up and out before her morning routine began. Per her strict instructions. But he hadn’t had a decent nights sleep since before Boston and his eyes had drifted shut before he could remind himself the warmth wasn’t meant for him.
He ignores the buzzes of his phone. A phone call from him mother- he’s in no mood for her incessant questions about his love life or the nostalgic remarks that are supposed to convince him to visit her in London- an invitation from Karen to a Christmas party the next day. Not the invite he wanted. Besides, he was not going to sit around at a party where nobody wanted him and be forced to watch Karen and Jimmy canoodling. He switches his phone off and throws it onto the sofa opposite him. Better to avoid the itching need to call Ivy just one more time.
There’s a heavy stomping of feet on the wooden flooring down the hall. Derek just sighs, mumbles some harsh words about his doorman being useless and downs the rest of his scotch in one gulp. The sound of chains clanking and scraping harshly on the floor fills the empty space. Dereks eyebrows crease together but he makes no move to look up from where he stands, pouring another drink. He’s tired and really in no mood for games.
“Hello, son.” His head whips up at the familiar monotone voice. He’s so caught off guard he almost spills the decanter filled with whiskey. Almost. He turns slowly and comes face to face with some kind of ghostly figure that vaguely resembles his- very dead- father. He’s half transparent and draped in chains.
Derek had never cared for his father much. His parents were divorced by his seventh birthday. He hadn’t seen much of the man after that. When he did it was tense and awkward and usually coupled with some kind of theatre event. He hadn’t minded. Derek had always loved the theatre. Even when it was clouded by his fathers imposing presence.
He hadn’t mourned his death. Not really. There wasn’t much to mourn. He hadn’t really known him. Apparently half the theatre community who claimed to be his friends agreed. His mother had mourned. For reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of. He had comforted her anyway. He still sends flowers to her house in London every year on the anniversary of his death. She seemed to appreciate it, despite the fact he hadn’t actually visited her in years.
Derek chugs what’s in his glass and rubs his eyes. He’s hallucinating. He must be. Or dreaming maybe. He had been tired lately, maybe he had fallen asleep and not realised it. Maybe the constant pouring of scotch and lack of any real food was finally getting to him. He was getting older now, his tolerance for the strong liquor was bound to begin to wither sooner or later.
“I’m real, if that’s what your wondering.” Derek looked back over at him. He looked real. Sounded real. He could feel the slight chill his presence had often caused. The dread swirling in his stomach. Still, he shook his head. Because this was utterly absurd.
“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” Derek sighs. He is mostly sure this is a dream but, even if it was, should he not at least find out what exactly was happening? Something to tell the therapist he would never have.
“Why are you here, father?” The question seemed to please him.
“I’m here to save you,” Charles replied with a proud smile.
Derek scoffs. “And what exactly do you think I need saving from?”
“From yourself. From the fate you are creating for yourself.” He lifts his chain heavy arms. “From this!”
Dereks raises an incredulous brow. “Yes, I was wandering about the new style you seem to have adopted in your afterlife. Are chains the latest fashion trend in Hell?”
Charles almost had the nerve to look annoyed but then something almost akin to shame coloured his ghostly cheeks. “I wear the chains I forged in life.”
Derek scoffs. “What happened to ‘alls fair in the world of show business’?”
“Mankind was my business.” His reply was too quick, too sincere. Derek came to the conclusion this most certainly was not real. This was not his father.
“Just get on with whatever it is your here to do,” Derek responds impatiently.
Charles takes a deep breath. “You will be visited by three ghosts-“
“Oh you have got to be kidding me-“
“Past, present and future. Listen to them. Learn.”
Dereks rolling his eyes so hard he doesn’t even notice the other man’s disappearance at first. He abandons the whiskey glass he had been using and takes a long swig out of the decanter, settling back onto the sofa. He doesn’t know how much he drinks. All he knows is that he definitely needs to order another bottle. At some point he falls asleep, nearly empty decanter cradled to his chest.