S3, E6 | Poke the Bear

\ Thursday, August 9th, 2007 /
\ 11:27 am est. - 8:27 am pst. /

“That might’ve been the most difficult show I’ve had to get through since the Giuliani fiasco” Taylor quips, twirling her pasta with the prongs of her fork, “it’s not that Vince doesn’t deserve to take his victory lap, it’s just annoying to be wrong.” Delicately slicing into his cooked salmon, Grant uses the silence promoted by his girlfriend’s bite to reply, “be glad you’re not a meteorologist then” the man responds before sliding the piece of his fish beyond his teeth.

“If I were a meteorologist, I’d be covering some midsummer flash floods in South Carolina” Taylor retorts, finishing her bite before reaching for the glass of red wine beside her plate, “I’d much rather cover the evening news, thanks.” More than aware of such a fact, Grant chooses not to delve much further into the woman’s remarks than the simple quip he’d offered, continuing the peaceful enjoyment of their main course without the intention of speaking unless prompted.

Thin straps over her shoulders proving a minimalist accent to the bright red dress she wears, Taylor eats the butter-cooked, tomato sauce-covered noodles atop her plate for another few seconds before speaking once more. “It’s been a pretty tense few months, huh?” she inquires, watching her boyfriend nod silently as his teeth sink into the soft meat of his seafood dinner.

“That’s what happens when you know something bad might be in store and there’s nothing you can do about it” Grant answers honestly, lowering his fork to the side of his ceramic dish, “we’re playing a waiting game that only ends one of two ways.” Her chin hanging low, Taylor stares at her meal for a few seconds without replying, listening to her other half continue before he, too, halts.

“We can’t let this weigh us down anymore than it already has” Grant clarifies, able to take his girlfriend’s pause as an indicator of something more than what she lets on, a simple break in her appetite not the cause for this underlying halt, “we don’t have a choice in this. The last thing we need to do is waste this time worrying ourselves over the stuff we don’t know.”

Setting her fork upon the napkin just beside her plate, Taylor’s eyes wander off a few paces to her right as the man across the table from her awaits a reply. Using the nail on her thumb to gently scratch at her brow, the LMC anchor of eight years leans back in her seat and couples her hands atop her lap, feeling the soft, silky fabric her dress is composed of.

Aware that a bigger conversation than the simple speak-and-reply is on the horizon, Grant takes a wipe to the corners of his mouth and releases his utensils, laying them beside his plate. “Robin’s not gonna be able to get the money in time” Taylor admits, leaving her statement open-ended for the man across from her to elaborate upon, his hesitancy to offer much not already said made evident.

“Probably not, you’re right” Grant confesses, coupling both hands atop the table at the base of his plate, the steam from his fish still rising into the air. “And that means- probably in a few months- one of the biggest shareholders in the company is gonna be the same guy that owns Finley” Taylor remarks, again voicing a stance her boyfriend refuses to even make an attempt at arguing in opposition to.

“Probably, yes” Grant admits, keeping his reserved posture in place as he waits for the bigger picture to be illustrated with the most vibrant shades of verbal paint his better half can provide. Bowing her head, Taylor remains quiet, not adding onto her previous statement as each passing second spent in silence only builds intrigue within her point more in the eyes of the man one table’s-length away.

“Are you building to a point, or are we just trying to make sure we have all the ducks in a row?” Grant soon inquires, cutting through the brief tension left lingering in lieu of a follow-up with a well-earned inquiry. Wearing a frown, Taylor looks off to one of the many dim corners of the dining area- its lighting purposefully meant to present an atmospheric and quiet aura- questioning whether or not the conclusion her boyfriend had called for is worth voicing aloud.

“What is it?” the man wonders aloud once more, persisting through the dismissal and purposeful oath to silence in search of what lingers upon her tongue’s very tip. “Just forget it. I don’t know what I’m thinking anymore” Taylor replies, shaking her head as her attention returns to the meal occupying the plate in front of her, hand reaching for the fork she’d politely set beside her plate before the voice ahead of her refuses the request for verbal advancement.

“There’s something on your mind and I wanna hear it” Grant retorts, watching the woman look at him through her eyebrows, her lowered chin incapable of keeping her eyes from meeting the man’s own. “If you really don’t have anything to say, we can drop it” the man clarifies, wanting to keep from the woman being felt like she’s forced into a corner of demanded explanation, “but there’s something on your mind, it’s bothering you, and I want to try to make it better.”

“It’s just something stupid that annoys me to even think about” Taylor responds, shaking her head gently as she reclaims full possession of her utensil, digging it into a small hill of spaghetti before lifting it to her lip, concluding her thought before taking another bite, “after eight years, it makes me sick to even think about considering it.”

Wanting to respect his girlfriend’s wishes, Grant finds himself caught between two sides, each reacting in opposition to the other whilst offering as valid reason to be taken over the other. Visibly disheartened by everything from the situation, to the conversation, to what both provoke thoughts in her mind, Taylor lets another fork full of pasta slide into her mouth, watched by the man across from her that she already awaits hearing the voice of.

“I won’t think less of you regardless” Grant mutters aloud, keeping his voice audible enough to catch the ears of his significant other, her eyes trailing up to him in silence. “I don’t want you to think that I’d look at you as less for whatever’s on your mind. I know that’s something you already know, but it’s something I don’t ever want to let you think about” the man further details, “if something’s bothering you, I want to know about it. Even if I can’t do anything, I still want to know.”

Looking in the man’s direction for a few moments before lowering her eyes once more, Taylor pulls back in her seat and looks at the half-eaten plate of food sitting in front of her, considering what’s been said. Pressing both rows of teeth into her bottom lip as she builds the courage to break from the reluctant display she’d presented, the quiet anchor takes her glass into hand and downs every last drop of wine that sits within it, a satisfied sigh offered as she lowers the rim from her mouth.

“I don’t know that I want to do this anymore” Taylor confesses the moment she’s given reprieve from the tall, transparent chalice, “I don’t know that I want to keep getting behind that desk when everything seems so rocky and ready to fall out from under our feet.” Clearly having withheld every last bit of this revelation to the best of her ability, the distressed anchor comes clean with what’s coiled around her mind like a snake to a mouse, letting everything free at once.

“I’ve spent eight years coming into work, busting my ass, and trying to leave something behind that dwarfs the guy that tried to take everything from me. For eight years- I have loved that place” Taylor admits with a smile, her head shaking as she admits her uncertainty toward what lies ahead, “and now, I might be watching the final few months of it tick by before it changes forever- and not in a good way.”

Finishing her remark, Taylor lets out a deep sigh as she stares off into the distance, visibly relieved to have such a monumental weight lifted off her shoulders. Sliding her fingers through her curly hair, the woman’s attention is called for by her boyfriend after a few solitary moments, his calm voice bringing her back to a level earth she’d distanced herself from in recent weeks.

“You’re not alone” Grant explains, watching her demeanour remain unchanged for the moment, “I know it’s cliche to say that, but it’s true. If anything, I’m just glad I’m not the only one that feels that way.” Though it takes a slight convincing, Taylor’s visage gently turns into a look of conviction, one reassured by the man’s own uncertainties, making her feel as though she truly isn’t on her own in these feelings.

“I know I haven’t been here as long as you have, but I’ve still gotten to see some of the best LMC’s got to offer. It really fucking sucks to think some fat prick with a surplus of oil wealth might come in and rock our goddamn worlds” Grant explains, watching his girlfriend’s disheartened expression begin to lighten, “after everything with Howard, and Kelsi, and the Giuliani nonsense, I was just ready to get on with doing the news. That’s all- I just wanted to do the news.”

Her displeasure subdued, Taylor remains silent as her boyfriend continues to speak, enamoured with every word that he utters. “After that night at Vickers’- with Ross and Robin- it felt like everything was starting to fall apart. Like Robin buying him out was a lifeline- what Kelsi was with Howard- something we used to keep our hope going” Grant carries on, leaving nothing to the imagination, “watching that lifeline get severed like that made me feel like chaos was just never-ending.”

Softening in his seat, Grant’s dejection-filled face begins to lighten into a visage more youthful and optimistic in nature, his words following a similar verbal trajectory. “After a couple of days of that, I started asking myself why it mattered so much. Not why LMC did, or why you did, or why any of it did- but why Russo did” the gentleman recalls, watching his girlfriend’s expression follow a similar upward path as his does.

“Russo may be big, but he’s nothing compared to the fish we’ve already fried. Sure, they’d been having the human equivalent of raw sewage dropping by every now and then, but he wasn’t worth worrying over” Grant continues, able to see the path of his girlfriend’s eyes changing, taking the same turn alongside him that he’d already begun to traverse ahead of time, “with everything we’ve overcome, there’s no way that fear-mongering prick should concern me in the slightest.”

Finally cracking the faintest smile in the corner of her mouth, Taylor finds her pessimistic outlook softening to the point of collapse, each word her partner utters speaking to the determined, fiery heart she wears openly. “From my perspective, this chump is below us in every way shape, manner, and form” Grant concludes, lifting his fork and quickly stabbing into the centre of his salmon cut, letting the utensil stand out of the fish with ease, “his kind of scum won’t bother us.”

The faint grin having grown into an outright smile, Taylor hides her expression of amusement behind puckered lips and lifts herself from the chair, rounding the table to her boyfriend’s side. In spite of no solution being offered to the problem at their hands and nothing more than a few words of defiance shared, the woman takes her seat upon the man’s lap and places a hand to each side of his face, her lips quickly pressing into his before pulling away with the same pleased look.

“I love how you get me” Taylor remarks, watching her smile find itself duplicated in her boyfriend’s face, his eyes meeting her own as he swipes her loose locks of hair behind one ear. “It’s my greatest accomplishment in life” Grant responds, pulling the woman in for another kiss as the evening continues to age, one minute after another bringing the couple into the dawn of yet another new day.

= Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward =

\ Friday, August 10th, 2007 /
\ 1:34 pm est. - 10:34 am pst. /

“It’ll just get worse before it gets better” Doug replies, looking to the head of the conference table that he and the rest of his eight o’clock colleagues occupy, “the guy upstairs called it. The banks are constricting and firms are shutting down.” Pulling his eyes out of a folder of papers, Aiden looks to the man speaking with a nod, “the dollar isn’t worthless, the banks aren’t burning down and the federal reserve isn’t depleted. Let’s not write home about a crisis just yet” he concludes.

Letting the stack of documents fall onto the table ahead of him, Aiden silently stares at the empty seat to the exact opposite end of the table from where he sits, a subtle look of displeasure worn upon his face. “We’re going heavy on the domestic stories tonight, if anyone is opposed to that- speak your peace” the executive producer announces, standing from his seat with eyes on the unimposing gathering, not a soul offering a rebuttal to such declaration.

“Great. Meeting adjourned” Aiden concludes, reaching toward the table’s surface to shuffle his papers together, letting the crowd of producers spill out of the conference room as he organises the various articles he’d entered with. Keeping to himself as his peers disperse, Colin pretends to gather his belongings until only he and the executive producer remain, the room filled only by the sound of the second hand ticking along the nearest wall.

“Does she just not show up to these things now?” the associate producer inquires, the question earning the attention of his superior, who pulls his eyes away from the loose notes he bundles together. “What?” Aiden asks aloud, not understanding the question as it was intended. “Carly hasn’t shown up to the rundown meetings since June, what gives?” Colin reiterates, looking to the man for clarity on something he’s entirely unsure of, “does she just not come to these anymore?”

Lifting his eyebrows, Aiden returns his sights to the folders of notes he stacks upon each other, shaking his head as he thinks of a reply to offer. “Carly’s got a lot going on at the moment. We put together a show in here, get it put down onto a script and send her to air with it” the executive producer answers, a dismissive grin paid back to his subordinate, “it saves her time and frees her up to tend to other matters. It’s optimal for the way things are now.”

Nodding, Colin lets his response answer the man’s reply before uttering a sheepish “okay” as he stands up, turning around to exit the conference room. “Why? Is there something you wanted to tell her?” Aiden wonders aloud, taking notice of the man’s sudden attempt at departure, “I can pass it along if you’d like?”

“Oh no, it’s okay” Colin replies, slightly anxious at the social situation he finds himself in, not often left in a conversation without the involvement of his peers, “it’s just a bit disappointing when she’s not here, y’know?” Squinting, Aiden presses his open palm against the table and looks to the man responsible for provoking the discourse by staying behind, looking for added context.

“No, I don’t know” the superior responds, a curious look in his eyes held as he returns the question, “what do you mean?” Stuttering silently, Colin tries to speak at first as his lips can do little more than briefly press together and quickly pull away. “It’s- it’s just that- it’s off. It feels off” the associate replies, tucking his leather-bound folder of papers beneath his arm, pressing it close to his side, “it just feels like the energy’s kinda gotten sapped out of here without her.”

Keeping his mouth shut as his chin lifts into the air, Aiden stares off at the distance for a moment as he takes his subordinate’s feedback into consideration, letting it sit with him before following through on his end of the conversation. “I’ll see if I can try to help that along, alright?” the lead producer retorts, wanting to do right by his staff in spite of the task it calls for him to undertake, “thanks for bringing it to my attention.”

With a brief smile and the bow of his head, Colin leaves the room with a slight release of tension, heading directly for his desk as he’s watched on by Aiden, the man’s path taking his executive producer’s line of sight directly toward one specific office in the back of the bureau. With a begrudging expression on his face, the man standing alone in the conference room looks on at Carly’s office, her figure able to be made out from behind the frosted glass concealing her within.

|

\ Friday, August 10th, 2007 /
\ 3:41 pm est. - 12:41 pm pst. /

“Well, they haven’t started boycotting. That’s gotta count for something” a man in his mid-forties remarks, wearing a clean-shaven face and recently-cut brown hair, “eight o’clock may not be bleeding viewers anymore, but they’re not gaining any ground in the key demo.” Sitting a few seats to the right, Vickers lets his head lean atop his hand, elbow digging into the hardwood surface of the spherical desk he and a number of important executives in the company occupy.

“He provided you with a plan when he was promoted to E.P at eight o’clock. It was clearly outlined that the timeframe to see results is still in a year’s time” Vickers remarks, defending his respected subordinate whilst facing the familiar woman at the head of the table. “No, the timeframe to see the result is still in a year’s time” the man responsible for bringing up the topic to begin with corrects, “his estimates suggested a five percent lift in the demo by now. He hasn’t gotten there.”

“He hasn’t gotten there yet” Vickers corrects, matching the amendment of the man he speaks to with one of his own. “That’d be more than enough reason to justify removing him from the position in good faith on Robin’s part” the younger gentleman in the black suit and white dress shirt replies, turning his focus to the woman at the table’s forefront, “a painless termination for a minute sum, or a demotion he probably was in line for weeks ago at this point.”

“What do you expect of the kid, Reece? He’s had how many shows without his lead anchor behind that chair?” Vickers inquires, arms extended in the direction of the man he argues against, “if we have to keep reminding you of how important to the plan it was to feature the woman with the large breasts as often as possible, we’ll all end up on some registry.”

“With Carly or without, if he was good at the job- he would’ve gotten results by now” Reece retorts, placing his uncapped pen beside the pieces of paper that sit atop the table in front of him, “it’d be one thing if he were trying to make a push for the key demo, but he’s doing so at the expense of the demo we already have. If he keeps it up, the ratings will tank in months and never recover.”

“What statistics do you have to back that theory up?” Vickers inquires, turning his focus fully toward the man advocating for Aiden’s removal from the E.P position at eight o’clock. “He’s just spent twenty minutes telling you his statistics, Sam” Robin interjects, not pleased with having to argue against her own employees, though forced in her position to assume the role of a moderate, “he’s gradually losing viewers that aren’t coming back and he’s plateauing in the key demo.”

“And the loss of those viewers is making the host of the program look less worth the millions she’s being paid while we’re at it” Reece interrupts, “having a pretty face and curves can only get you so far.” Shaking his head, Vickers wipes at his brow with the shrug of his shoulders, eyes firmly placed upon Robin.

“He hasn’t shown the improvement he implied would be here, but we also haven’t given him the fairest chance we could have” Vickers remarks, “there was a reason you were forced to lift Grant’s suspension, Robin- this was part of it.” Placing the side of his hand against the cylindrical table, Reece voices the same opposition he’d taken throughout the meeting’s duration.

“He hasn’t gotten the fairest chance, but that doesn’t excuse the poor performance” Reece explains, seeing the argument made for its valid points whilst speaking to those of his own retorts, “at some point, Robin, you’re going to have to decide whether or not this experiment is something you’re willing to bleed money over.”

Wearing a frown, Robin’s eyes fall to the coupled hands she places atop the table, stricken much deeper by that remark than the man responsible for uttering it realises.

|

\ Friday, August 10th, 2007 /
\ 5:03 pm est. - 2:03 pm pst. /

Tapping his knuckle against the glass door three consecutive times, Aiden lets himself into the office of a woman who refuses to reply and places a stack of papers upon her desk. “The written script is all there, it’s loaded onto the prompter and fixed for time” the executive producer remarks, watching the broadcast’s host bob back and forth in her seat with eyes glued to the full-screen display of her new smartphone.

“Yup” Carly replies, even the tone of her voice carried with the manner of someone too preoccupied to pay the man his decencies. Nodding to himself, Aiden turns his eyes toward the door he’d entered through only seconds prior, the office’s visitor ponders over whether or not to depart before his instincts get the better of him, capturing him and assuming control.

“The staff feels like you’ve been too distant for their liking. It’s making people uncomfortable and I told them I’d let you know” Aiden remarks, passing the word like he’d vowed Colin he would do, the gesture earning almost no reply from the engrossed anchor. “And now you have” Carly replies, face still buried in the LED’s of her touchscreen phone, not a glance taken in the direction of her executive producer, “you can leave now.”

Looking to the heavens with a disgruntled stare, Aiden chooses his hill to die on and turns around to make for the office’s exit, his relationship with the woman on as rocky ground as it had been the night they broke up. Pushing his arm out, the showrunner opens the office door and steps back into the bureau, looking into the newsroom to find all of his employees working on their own projects, keeping to themselves aside from one man, whose face looks at him from a distance.

With his head leant to the side, Doug stands over one of his subordinates with an arm pressing against the base of their desk, his ear listening to the words they use to speak to him whilst his judgemental stare is held upon his superior, almost daring him to finish the job he’d enter the office looking to complete. Not needing to be delivered this message verbatim, Aiden reads his right hand man’s posture and eyes, taking from it all he needs to understand what’s being demanded of him.

Turning back, Aiden lets the door to his ex-girlfriend’s office slowly shut as he steps back in, standing before the woman’s desk with his hands tucked into his pockets, waiting for the door to shut before speaking. “Being mad at me doesn’t give you the right to neglect the others” the executive producer remarks, watching the woman’s eyes claw their way free from the screen of her phone, taking to the man whose presence leaves a sour taste in her mouth.

“Be mad at me, be pissed off, consider me an asshole- whatever. I’ve got you from eight to nine, and if I really wanted to, I could make you look like a talentless hack good for nothing more than shoving her chest out” Aiden continues, getting more insulting the longer he speaks, “I don’t, because I’m not letting what happened between us get in the way of my work. If you can’t grow the fuck up and treat the others with enough respect to show up, then quit and get the fuck out of my newsroom.”

Spinning back the way he’d entered, Aiden reaches his hand out for the door before the voice to his back calls for his return, an obvious offence taken from his comments. “Whose newsroom?” Carly wonders back, watching her ex-boyfriend return his sights upon her, not an ounce of hesitation held in his posture, “the last time I checked, the show was called On-Air with Carly Carpenter. Does that fact evade you?”

“Y’know, in times where I have to be the one to explain to the staff that you’ve got personal issues to sort out, yeah. As a matter of fact, it does-” Aiden replies, inching closer to the woman with slow steps, “-because, in those moments, it’s my newsroom.” With a smirk and a nod, Carly sinks back in her seat and kicks a foot atop the nearest foot stool, looking back to her phone and scrolling in favour of paying any further attention to the conversation unfolding.

Believing his point to have been made, Aiden turns back and reaches for the door once more, preparing to depart before his ex’s voice prompts him to halt that effort in an instant.

“I’m fucking Brant, by the way” Carly remarks, eyes still glued to her phone as she subdues a smirk, aware that her producer has now stopped his halt halfway through her door, frozen stiff as Doug watches on. “I just thought you’d like to know what’s going on with the people working in your newsroom” the anchor continues, unable to see the stoic expression of anger that Aiden wears across his face.

Simmering where he stands, Aiden’s right hand clenches into a fist for a few seconds before releasing, each finger stretching as far apart from each other as they can manage. Pulling her gaze away from the device she holds in her palm, Carly looks up to watch her ex-boyfriend’s figure remain fixated on the newsroom, incapable of seeing the smile that soon creeps over his face.

“Is there a problem?” Carly wonders aloud, continuing to make her attempt at egging the man on before watching him depart from the office without a word.

“Head’s up” Doug whispers, passing Joey a warning as their superior draws near, the least-convincing smile stretching from ear to ear. Keeping his head aimed low, Aiden journeys across the newsroom and draws near to the same man he’d been convinced by the visage of.

“You need something, man?” the senior producer inquires, watching the pleased shake of refusal Aiden returns to him before staying put. “Nah, I’m gonna take care of this one on my own, thanks” the E.P replies, stepping past the assortment of desks and venturing toward his office, Blackberry already in hand with a number dialled.

“It’s Aiden. I need a favour” the man greets, wasting little time in getting to the brass tax of the conversation, raising a question just as the door to his office shuts, sealing the executive producer and his discussion within.

== Tonight at 9 ==