Spoiler Alert

by Olivia Dade

  Marcus sat back in the too-hard hotel chair and let out a slow breath.

  Among all the fics he’d recommended to her over the years, at least a few included fat secondary or tertiary characters. He suspected the descriptions of those characters would now make him cringe.

  Shit.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. Not by far.

  They do it by urging me to work out, she’d written, or by pushing me toward what they consider more nutritionally sound food choices.

  With his goddamn life at stake, he would swear—swear—that his invitation to the gym, to the buffet, hadn’t been a paternalistic nudge toward more exercise or so-called better nutrition. But with her background, he could see how she might interpret his words that way. He could see why she’d gone chilly, and why she’d pulled away from him, and why she hadn’t wanted to look him in the eye for the rest of that endless cab ride.

  Given her personal history, given the infamous, all-consuming concern for appearances he’d playacted in front of cameras for years, of course she’d believe the worst of him. She didn’t yet know him well enough to do otherwise. Even with Book!AeneasWouldNever—

  He pinched his forehead between his thumb and forefinger, pressing so hard, he half expected to leave fingerprints.

  How had he overlooked it? How had he forgotten? She’d asked even Book!AeneasWouldNever, her longtime, faithful friend, whether her appearance had spurred him to cut off contact with her. Because she’d thought those photos of their dinner together were his first real glimpse of her, and she didn’t know he’d already seen her by that point. Already admired her. Already found her unbearably sexy.

  Not because of her size. Not despite her size. Because she was . . . April. Ulsie. Her.

  And no, she hadn’t seemed especially bothered by the cruel opinions of Twitter randos. But she’d been clear about that distinction in her Twitter DMs, hadn’t she?

  I don’t give a shit what strangers think. Just the people I care about.

  Either he was still a stranger to her as Marcus Caster-Rupp, and she didn’t give a shit about him or his clumsy, ill-considered invitation—or she’d begun to care about him, if only a little, and he’d hurt her. Like Book!AeneasWouldNever had only last night.

  Fuck.

  This time, it was only a little after Alex’s usual bedtime in Spain. And since his friend wasn’t precisely an exemplar of impulse control himself, Marcus figured he’d be forgiven. Eventually. Once Alex got a good night’s sleep.

  “Holy shit, I’ve fucked up so badly,” Marcus said as soon as his friend answered. “I didn’t mean to, but God, did I fuck things up.”

  With admirable patience, Alex forbore calling him an asshole again. “What, specifically, did you fuck up?”

  “Everything.” He scrubbed his free hand over his face. “Everything.”

  “Such a freaking drama queen,” Alex muttered. “Maybe you could be a bit more specific?”

  If Marcus was a drama queen, then Alex was a drama . . . whatever was more powerful and dramatic than a queen. Drama dictator? Drama deity? Still, kettle-pot-blackness issues aside, Alex was listening, and Marcus planned to take advantage.

  The whole story didn’t take as long to relate as he’d expected. After it was done, Alex remained silent for a long, long time.

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” he eventually said.

  The phone should have splintered under the force of Marcus’s glare. “What?”

  Even across a continent and an ocean, Alex’s sigh was audible.

  Marcus stabbed an accusing finger at his best friend’s name on the screen. “Over the course of a single weekend, I’ve lost a dear friend and the only woman I’ve truly wanted in years”—or possibly forever, but that could just be the drama queen in him swanning forth yet again—“and she’s convinced I’m a fat-shaming dick as Marcus and a lying abandoner as Book!AeneasWouldNever. In what universe could that possibly be for the best?”

  “Dude.” His friend smothered a yawn. “Think about what you just said. You answered your own question.”

  Marcus scowled. “I did not.”

  “Moments ago, you just referred to yourself in the third person. Twice. As two different identities.” The patience in Alex’s voice sounded a bit strained. “Doesn’t that seem a bit . . . overly complicated to you?”

  Hmph.

  “I’m a diamond of many facets.” Hadn’t April told him so earlier that day?

  “Save the self-congratulatory shit for the camera, Marcus.” A scraping noise came down the line. Alex scratching his scraggly beard, most likely. “I’m just saying you could meet a nice woman who only knows you by one name, to whom you haven’t lied, and from whom you aren’t keeping various secrets.”

  “I don’t want a nice woman. I want April. Ulsie.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing. “Not that she isn’t nice. At least, when she doesn’t think I’m a dick who’s trying to steer her toward exercise-induced weight loss and diet food.”

  Before Alex could say more, Marcus added, “I know, I know. I just referred to her as two different identities too. I don’t want to hear it.”

  Yes, that was definitely a gusty sigh. “Then why did you call?” “Because I . . .” He dropped his chin to his chest.

  “Because maybe I need to hear it, even if I don’t want to hear it.” Through a thick throat, he forced himself to say the words. “You think I should let her go, then? Not contact her again as Marcus, and avoid DMs with her on the Lavineas server after I get back from my theoretical, possibly-espionage-related business trip?”

  “I think, based on everything you’ve told me, that she deserves someone who can be open and honest with her under a single name and identity.” His friend’s voice had gone raspy. Tired. “Can you do that? Even knowing what it might cost you?”

  If he’d jeopardize his career for anyone, it would be her.

  He was almost sure she wouldn’t reveal his secrets. Almost.

  Even though he’d only met her face-to-face twice. Dammit.

  Was he willing to bet two decades of work on that near-certainty? The professional reputation he’d painstakingly accumulated over endless hours of repeating his lines and learning his craft and sailing and sword fighting and chopping and square-dancing?

  Which reminded him: If Do-Si-Danger ever ended up on a streaming service, he was going into hiding. Much like his character, an arrogant, high-powered executive and accidental bystander to a gangland murder who assumed a new witness-protection identity and found ill-fated romance among homespun square-dancers.

  That movie was fucking awful. Terrible in nearly every respect.

  Still, he’d done his job. He’d treated his crew and costars and everyone else on the set like the professionals they were, and behaved like a professional himself. In the end, he’d pocketed a little money and burnished another corner of his reputation as a hardworking, easygoing actor.

  But that wasn’t all the movie had done for him.

  He’d arrived on that set at the age of twenty-three, eager and excited and half convinced he was an irredeemable fuckup. By the time filming wrapped, he’d still kind of felt like a fuckup. But a fuckup who could be redeemed. Who would be redeemed, through putting in the hard work and getting better at his job in every way so he could land better parts.

  Acting had brought him professional respect, yes, but also the beginnings of self-respect. It was his source of accomplishment, of community, of pride. His only source, at least until he’d found fanfiction.

  Without his work, without his reputation, he’d be nothing. Have nothing. Again.

  A smart, uber-competent woman like April wouldn’t want him then anyway.

  “Yeah. I hear what you’re saying.” His eyes stung, and he closed them for a moment. “Thanks.”

  “Look . . .” Something rustled down the line. Alex, shifting. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, if you decided, Fuck it, I want her more than my career, and told her everything, I
’d have your back. You know that.”

  Marcus huffed out a breath, unwillingly amused. “It’s the sort of shit you would do.”

  “It’s one hundred percent something I would do. Probably on live television, followed by an impromptu reading of the filthiest, most show-averse story I’d ever written.” Alex’s laugh was short-lived. Tinged with bitterness. “There’s a reason Ron and R.J. gave me a fucking nanny. But you’re not me, and I’m trying to help you make better decisions than I usually do.”

  After his recent arrest at a bar fight, the showrunners had saddled Alex with a paid minder to keep him out of trouble. A woman related to Ron somehow, which didn’t bode well.

  “Speaking of which, how’s it going with”—what was her name?—“Laurel? Laura?”

  With that sigh, Alex could have singlehandedly powered a wind farm. “Lauren. My implacable, humorless, improbably short, annoying-as-fuck albatross.”

  Marcus kept his voice dry as the desert they’d shot in during the third season of Gates. “It’s going well, then.”

  “It’s going. She’s not.” Aggrievement saturated every syllable of every word. “Apparently, she’ll be accompanying me to all public outings until the last season finishes airing. Even though I promised not to drink again. Or end up in another bar brawl, unless absolutely necessary.”

  At that addendum, Marcus massaged his temples. “As I pointed out to Ron, she couldn’t actually stop me from brawling unless she was standing on a stepstool of some sort,” Alex said. “Although she’s stronger than you’d think. Maybe she’d just tackle me at the knees and sit on me until I sobered up.”

  There was a certain grim relish in Alex’s phrasing, which raised the question: Under what precise circumstances had he discovered Lauren’s strength?

  “She’s going to hate all the premieres and awards shows,” his friend crowed. “Haaaaate. I can’t wait.”

  With all the evil glee in his tone, Alex might as well have been stroking a hairless Chihuahua and plotting the eruption of a henchman-created supervolcano from his secret lair.

  Marcus winced. Better not to think about that ill-fated role in Magma!: The Musical. He could only hope April never learned of its existence, because the science behind the entire—

  No. It didn’t matter what April thought anymore, because they wouldn’t be communicating, either in person or online. After this one last time, tonight.

  He knew what he needed to do now.

  “I’m glad you’re getting some pleasure, however perverse, out of the arrangement. Be nice to Lauren, though. It’s not her fault she got assigned to keep you sober and peaceable.” A quick glance at his laptop revealed a screenful of responses to April’s posts, with more appearing every few seconds. “I’d better go now, but thank you for listening. Again.”

  “No problem.” A rustling noise. “Hold on just a second. Let me check my schedule.”

  While he was waiting, Marcus skimmed the first several comments. Most were supportive, but AeneasFan83—not a close friend on the server, but a longtime member nevertheless—was edging toward defensive, don’t-be-so-sensitive territory in a way that made Marcus’s hackles rise.

  Within a minute, Alex was back. “I’ll be in LA on Sunday. Want to binge-watch that British baking show late next week? I haven’t heard someone say the word ‘claggy’ in far too long.” His voice turned speculative. Almost dreamy. “I’ll bet if I used the phrase ‘claggy sponge’ around Lauren, she’d think it meant something dirty. I’ll have to try it.”

  Marcus didn’t envy Lauren her job. Not at all.

  After this disastrous week, however, Marcus figured he could use as much time as possible with his best friend. “Binge-watching claggy sponges sounds great. We’ll work out the details once you’re back. Take care of yourself in the meantime, and safe travels. And be nice.”

  More evil laughter, and Alex was gone.

  Then it was time to think. Hard.

  Marcus’s response to April’s thread took him embarrassingly long to compose. Finally, though, he came up with the right words. Or at least the best words he could, under the circumstances. They would have to be enough.

  Book!AeneasWouldNever: Because of job requirements about internet usage, I won’t be able to post here much for the foreseeable future. I shouldn’t even be doing so now, but I wanted to say two things.

  Book!AeneasWouldNever: First, thank you for being such a welcoming, supportive group. Over the past few years, becoming involved with this particular fandom has taught me so much about storytelling and community and—sappy as it sounds—myself.

  Book!AeneasWouldNever: Second, if we ARE a community that prides itself on being welcoming and supportive, we shouldn’t look away when one of our members tells us, at the cost of her own personal discomfort, that she sometimes feels alienated and hurt by things we’ve written. Especially since, as ULS rightly points out, the fundamental message of the Aeneas/Lavinia relationship is simple: Character over appearance, and kindness and honor above all.

  Book!AeneasWouldNever: So I want to extend a heartfelt, sincere apology to ULS, for not previously considering the important issue she just raised, and for not noticing fat-shaming in fics I’ve recommended to her and to all of you in the past. I’ll do better in the future, because of what you’ve written today. Thank you for that.

  Book!AeneasWouldNever: Also, ULS, I’m so sorry the people in your personal life—the men you’ve dated—have made you feel judged or shamed. More sorry than I can say.

  Book!AeneasWouldNever: Take care. I’ll be back . . . sometime. I’ll miss you.

  After that, Marcus set his status to invisible again. He logged out.

  And then, as he’d done so often before, he wrote until his chest no longer ached with each breath he took.

  DO-SI-DANGER

  INT. THE FARNSWORTH BARN – EVENING

  The barn is lofty and hay-strewn, the lighting soft from lanterns in glass canning jars. Other couples are still square-dancing, but CHRISTOPHER and MILLIE have found a quiet corner. She brushes a bit of straw off his expensive suit, and they both laugh.

  MILLIE

  Only a month ago, I couldn’t have imagined this.

  CHRISTOPHER

  Imagined what?

  He takes her hand, holding it gently. Tenderly.

  MILLIE

  You, allemande-ing left, easy as the breeze. Us, together.

  CHRISTOPHER

  Never to be parted again, Millie. Never.

  She moves in front of him for a kiss. Suddenly, a gunshot, then screaming. Millie collapses in slow motion, face blank, blood blooming on her chest, as he desperately tries to catch her, to revive her, but it’s too late. By the time he looks up, all traces of the shooter are gone.

  CHRISTOPHER

  Millie! Millie, don’t leave me!

  But she’s past answering. Face to the rafters, he howls his grief and despair and rage to the universe, knowing that he now has new motivation, new goals: to become a better man in her memory, and to avenge her. Her death will be the key to his character arc now—exactly as she would have wanted.

  13

  THE FIRST DAY ON APRIL’S NEW JOB, HER COWORKERS treated her to takeout sushi for lunch, with a side of light interrogation.

  According to Heidi, it could have been worse. Much, much worse.

  “They have this rendition of ‘Blowin’ in the Wind,’” she’d whispered near the printer that morning. “Mel changed the lyrics to ‘Contaminants, my friend, are blowin’ in the wind.’”

  “Wow,” April had managed. “That’s . . . wow.”

  Her colleague nodded emphatically. “There’s a verse about air-monitoring stations too. Pablo and Kei contributed that bit.”

  “And they considered performing that song for me at lunch? In a sort of welcoming ceremony?”

  Honestly, despite Heidi’s bugged-out eyes, it sounded amazing. After a week like this last one, April embraced any and all distractions from her tangled thoughts.
A horrible folk concert promised much greater distraction and entertainment value than munching a sandwich at her desk alone, as she had done during her first lunch at her old office.

  Creativity in any form, she appreciated. Especially when said creativity would have to cease at the end of the lunch hour, should it prove particularly ear-piercing. However, she also appreciated the kindness of not imposing that creativity upon her without an invitation.

  “After some discussion, they decided it would violate the boundaries of good colleague behavior.” Heidi’s cerulean-blue nail polish matched her hair beautifully, and April mentally widened the scope of her wardrobe and makeup options for work. “They didn’t want to force you to listen if you weren’t interested. Even though they’re very proud of their version of ‘This Land Is Your Land.’”

  Oh, the endless lyrical possibilities.

  In the end, though, lunch didn’t involve singing. Just a few friendly questions.

  “I’m a Gates fan too,” Mel said before selecting a piece of the spicy tuna roll with her chopsticks and transferring it to her plate. “I saw your Lavinia costume on Twitter, and it was amazing. How long have you been interested in cosplay?”

  Of all the juicy topics Mel could have asked about, she’d chosen . . . cosplay. Not Marcus. Not the dates. Not even the publicity surrounding Marcus and those dates, or the public-yet-intimate photos splashed all over the internet and featured on several low-rated cable entertainment shows.

  Despite a morning spent completing first-day paperwork and watching HR-mandated videos, April already loved her new job.

  “Only this past year.” Any sushi roll containing both tempura shrimp and avocado was clearly meant to be hers, so she snagged a piece. “That picture turned out well, and I’m proud of my design, but there are problematic bits. If I’d been posed any other way, you’d have seen evidence of staples and double-sided tape.”

  She’d intended to share her interest in cosplay and accompanying Twitter identity on the Lavineas server last week, since a few people in their community might be able to offer much-needed costume construction tips. That would have meant acknowledging she was Marcus’s mysterious date, though, and after all the hubbub surrounding her fat-shaming post, she was lying low for a few days instead.