Technobabble and legalese: This is non-profit fanfiction; I don't own
any of the characters. Remember WENN belongs to AMC and the great
genius Rupert Holmes.
*Author's note: This was written (and takes place) after "The New
Actor." All comments would be greatly appreciated at
"amhalper@hotmail.com." Please ask me before distributing this story!
******
After Hours
by Maria Aspan
The corridors were quiet in the after-hours, deserted by all but one
man. His shoes shuffled against the floor in the easy, laid-back gait
he'd cultivated as part of his affable, honest-Joe appearance. As he
approached the glass-faced room he made a conscious effort to slow and
soften his steps, as his practiced eye found its target. He stood at
the edge between the wall and the window for a moment, hesitant to put
himself in her line of sight if she turned.
After a moment's quick observation through the wooden stripes of the
blinds, he realized his caution was unnecessary; the solitary figure
eerily lit by the soft green glow of the walls had attention for one
thing only. She was stooped a little, leaning on the chest high
instrument of their trade. Her hair and dress were uncharacteristically
rumpled, but in her absorption she seemed unbothered by the
imperfections. As he watched, she lowered her head so that it rested on
top of the radio. The utter sadness of her figure gave his feet, and
eventually his hands as well, motion once again.
Halfway through the door, and she still hadn't turned, so his impetuous
mind belatedly suggested stealth. The station had closed an hour ago;
fortunately the outside hallway aided him by keeping silent. No one
else was around to interrupt stealthy, secret endeavors. Perhaps she
knew that as well as he did.
Puzzlement lined his smooth face as he began interpreting the sounds she
had secretively shut herself up in this room to hear. Fodder for her
afternoon villains aside, what could induce her to listen so attentively
to this riling propaganda? The loud, purposefully offensive voice
transmitting lies in an accent more phony than his FBI commission was
not one to generate sad or reflective moods.
"Betty?" he finally said, the tentative query bringing her head
violently around in the middle of Jonathan Arnold's strident "Yaa-hoo!"
"Scott!" She jumped rather than turned to face him, and her face showed
all the guilt of a Nazi caught in the Oval Office. That thought brought
about a fleeting doubt as her face settled into something approaching
nervous composure.
"Whatcha up to?" The question was phrased as innocently as possible,
but there was no avoiding its unmistakable directness. She looked down
uncertainly and began hurriedly smoothing her dress, as if just noticing
its disarray.
"Oh, um, nothing." A quick snap of her wrist silenced Arnold and made
the following quiet all the louder.
"Benedict Arnold? Since when do you subscribe to the Nazi cause?" This
was an interesting reversal -- for once he had her cornered with
evidence of *her* suspicious dealings.
She forced a laugh -- Scott could imagine that a barking cow would sound
more convincing. "Oh, no, Scott, it's not what you think," she said
quickly, walking over to the table to avoid his gaze. "I was just, um,
doing research," she explained, holding up a pile of scripts and
notepads as proof.
"And?" he prompted. She flushed.
"And, um, thinking about some things."
"Like what?" he parried, taking a few steps closer to the table. Her
cheeks became brighter as she immediately stepped back.
"Uh, like ... what motivates a man like that? What makes him give up
everything for his country? I mean -- give *up* his country -- for his
cause," she amended quickly. "No matter how wrong we think the Nazis
are, Jonathan Arnold obviously believes fervently in them -- fervently
enough to be branded a traitor forever."
"More likely he just believes fervently in the paycheck he's getting to
spew that stuff," Scott observed cynically, hitching one hip onto the
table and folding his arms as he watched Betty pace. "Men like Arnold
don't believe in anyone or anything but themselves and the next easy fix
to make millions. They go anywhere and do anything for a halfway decent
job and a few free drinks at the company bar ... maybe even a little
prestige.... They don't act on or against principle because they don't
have any, or they've forgotten they do. Even if Arnold isn't American,
if he's just a German who's seen one too many Westerns, it doesn't
matter -- he's doing it for the money, the fame, or maybe just the
thrill, but he sure as heck ain't doing it for any great devotion to the
Fatherland."
Odd -- he could never figure this woman out. As she turned her head
slightly, he saw that it bore the most peculiar expression -- he had no
idea what it meant, but it bothered him somehow. "How would you know?"
she asked in a quiet, almost deadened voice. "How would you know the
motivations of a man halfway around the world?"
"Simple," he responded quietly, not allowing himself the comfort of
looking away. "I used to be just like him."
A pause. "What do you mean?" Her pacing resumed.
"That could be me, Betty," he began. "Fate ... or whatever you want to
call it, opportunism, dishonesty -- sent me here instead ... but if
Victor hadn't died, if he had come back and kicked me out faster than
you could say 'Victor Comstock Memorial Fund' ... who knows? I could
have wound up as the Nazi scumbag on the short-wave everyone loves to
hate, the one whose voice you hear late at night and wonder 'Why? What
are his reasons?' ... and you know what? Mine would have been exactly
the same as his." He jerked a thumb towards the silent brown monolith
-- a rather pointless gesture since her back was turned to him. "It's
funny -- maybe you're thinking that if Victor hadn't died, maybe I
*would* be the one broadcasting out of Berlin. I know you're thinking
that Victor would never find himself in that position, that he always
had his principles screwed on straight."
He paused, hoping for some sort of response. She didn't turn around,
and her back was less than eloquent. He took a deep breath -- he was
about to make himself vulnerable, and it wasn't a practice he was used
to, not to mention comfortable with. "I'm not like Victor ... obviously
... sometimes I wish I was, Betty. It was his death that made me change
-- or maybe it was just being around you folks here. You showed me how
*wrong* I was...."
She had turned, finally, and there was something in her eyes that he
couldn't quite place. "So we did all that for you ... Victor dies and
we turn you right around?"
Now he understood, sadly -- the expression clouding up Betty's corneas
was pity. Pity for him. "Scott, I'm sorry," she said, looking away.
"There's something ... I mean, I'm not -- it's not -- a good time..."she
trailed off awkwardly, begging him silently to understand without making
her stumble over uncomfortable definitions.
He did understand. "That's an awfully strong candle you've got burning,
Betty Roberts," he sighed, straightening himself up and avoiding her
eyes, not wanting to show his hurt. Despite the little indisputable
fact that Victor Comstock was dead, he'd been beating Scott ridiculously
in the recent competition for Betty's good graces. "D'you want an
escort home? I'd offer you a ride, but I had to sell the Ford to meet
Pruitt's pay cut," he joked.
She smiled apologetically. "Thanks, but ... I've still got a few
scripts to polish for tomorrow."
He shrugged and moved for the door. "Sure, I understand. Oh, will you
look at the time -- see you in a few hours." His standard sign-off
sounded rather bald this time around. He shook his head at himself
mentally, amazed at Betty's prowess. She had acquired an unpleasant
power to manipulate him like that -- go in to question her about *her*
suspicious behavior and end up revealing depressing facets of his
already-spotted character.
"Scott?" The abrupt address revived him from his gloom halfway out the
door. After he turned round with a hopeful expression, she hesitated a
moment. "For ... what it's worth, I don't think you would have ended up
like Jonathan Arnold."
The unexpected comment brought forth a hidden grin. "Goodnight, Betty."
"Goodnight, Scott," she replied to the door. She returned to the quiet
radio and placed a weary hand on its top. "Goodnight, Victor."
Finis
BACK