#i need at least 15 weeks to recover and digest that whole scene

[aloe-plant-yippee]

this was literally sherlock like half way thru the ep, it was so funny john being like put your hands up and sherlock was just “no <3”

[spartanguard]

even death won’t part us now (2/?)

Summary: Two covens, both alike in dignity, / In fair New York, where we lay our scene, / From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, / Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes / A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; / Whole misadventured piteous overthrows / Do with their death bury their sires’ strife. (Captain Swan + West Side Story + vampires. But not as sad. Probably.)

rated M | part 1 | AO3 | 3.9k words

A/N: I was going to post this update yesterday but *life*. We really get into the story, though—I hope you enjoy it! Thanks again to @optomisticgirl​ for being an awesome beta; to @thesschesthair​ for her amazing art; and to @kmomof4​ and @cssns​ for putting this event on and pushing me to continue this story!

say what you will about Glee, but Darren Criss’s version of this song is amazing

part two— the air is humming, and something great is coming...

2020

The sun was setting on another day, just like it had for the last 5000-plus. At least, Emma figured the number was up there; she’d stopped counting around day 4,588. Which was really an absurdly long time to count considering her days were no longer numbered, but old habits died hard, even if she never would.

She’d accepted that fact somewhere around day 4,040, which ironically was her 40th birthday. But instead of dealing with gray hairs and wrinkles and aching joints, she was still in her 28-year-old body, fairly spry and with exactly one white hair blended into her blonde. (Not that she could see it in the mirror anymore—or, you know, anything—but she knew it was there and that was all that mattered.)

She knew she’d finally settled into her new life when she was looking forward to drinking the deer blood she had at home and not longing for chocolate cake like she had the past several birthdays. Well, she still wished she could eat it—real food didn’t digest properly anymore—but the blood sounded just as good.

“It probably took me about that long to come to terms with it, too. Longer for your dad,” her mom had told her about the revelation.

That had been another epiphany: that the kindly undead couple she’d somehow ended up on the doorstep of—David and Snow Nolan—were her parents. Her actual birth parents. You know, the ones she’d been looking for her entire mortal life? (Had once dreamed would save her from one shitty foster home after another until she finally gave up hope, and instead turned to counting the days until she moved again?)

As it turned out, they’d been attacked and turned shortly after she’d been born—which apparently had been in a backwoods cottage in Maine that her grandparents had owned—and were taking her to the hospital for checkup after the fact. They didn’t trust themselves to face their new reality while also in charge of an infant (an infant with delicious-smelling blood, no less—creepy, but true) and so finished the journey to the hospital, but left her there alone.

Coming to terms with that had taken 1,187 days. There would have been lots of tears, were any of them able to cry; but instead, there was just a lot of emotion, which Emma had never dealt well with. But she was getting better. Who knew the kind of personal growth one could achieve after death? And it was a good lesson in how to handle (or not handle) things should the son she herself gave up ever manage to track her down.

(She looked—once, before she was turned. All she’d been able to find out was that he ended up in the foster system, too. She just hoped he was having a better time of it than she did. Well, had—he’d be an adult by now, wouldn’t he? Damn.)

So. Anyways. Sunset. Which Emma was watching from the roof of their building, which had become something of a refuge for her over the past 15 years. She had her own bedroom, but after so long on her own, being an adult suddenly under the same roof as her parents (who, despite being physically younger than her, still acted like her parents) was a bit stifling at times.

It wasn’t much, but it was her own space: she’d cobbled together a tent with some reclaimed tarps, filled with gently-used cushions, and on nice nights, would bring out a sleeping bag and let the lights and sounds of the city wash over her. It had been overwhelming at first—she kind of envied that her parents only had to deal with forest smells when they turned, and not the incredible everything of New York—but it had dulled over time, which she probably should have expected; it had only taken her a week or so to get used to the smell the first time, right?

That’s to say—the overwhelmingness did; she learned to tune things out and let them fall to the background. But her senses themselves were the sharpest they’d ever been, consequently making her even better at her job than she’d been pre-death. Having ethereal beauty compared to a mere mortal easily drew in most of her targets; her preternatural sight, hearing, and strength made it pretty simple to track them down and subdue them (she loved it when they ran); and she’d found out they were extra willing to comply with her demands when they were down a bit of blood. (It probably was connected to the whole your-sire-can-control-you thing but it didn’t last once they’d recovered from the blood loss and it kept her from murdering random ne'er-do-wells on the street; the lower a body count a vampire kept, the better.)

On a normal night, she’d be getting ready to catch another skip: either gussying up for a honeytrap, revving up her old Bug for a stakeout, or trying to track them down on Tinder while binging Netflix in the background (they kept up on technology...for the most part; she still wasn’t sure what a TikTok was). One thing a lot of the stories leave out is that it takes a long time to build up the kind of wealth and decadence you see with old vampires; even Emma’s parents still had to work, 40-odd years into this thing (David was an after-hours vet and Snow taught night school) and their townhouse was not rent-controlled. 

Of all the vampire media out there, their existence was far more What We Do In The Shadows than Twilight.

(Emma had always preferred comedy anyways.)

God, she was really getting sidetracked tonight. Anyways. No one was working because it was the anniversary of her being turned—her rebirthday, so to speak—and her mom was very much Leslie Knope when it came to anniversaries, but especially this one, given that it marked them finally coming together as a family.

That, and they were all going to get drunk.

“My class is a bunch of assholes this semester—I need this,” Snow had gushed earlier that week, grading papers behind their blackout curtains. (Vampires didn’t sparkle, thank god—at least, not without the help of glitter—but they were dangerously susceptible to sunburns, so the whole pale thing was accurate.) “And David—you’ve worked every weekend the last month; they can definitely operate without you for one night.”

“I put in for it a month ago, dear,” he tutted as he gathered the laundry, placing a kiss on her cheek as he went. 

They were definitely one of those nauseatingly cute couples, so it was a good thing Emma’s gag reflex was dormant. And, though she’d never admit it, she was a bit jealous that they’d been able to find—and keep—something that had evaded her her entire mortal life, and likely would for her afterlife, too.

Every now and then, a flash of blue eyes blinked into her vision; the same pair she’d seen on the night she transitioned. She still wasn’t sure they were real, and her parents genuinely knew nothing when she’d asked, so she never did again. The fact that she hadn’t ever seen them again, despite knowing just about all the vampires in this part of town (for better or worse), had her pretty convinced it was a mania-induced hallucination. But damn, was it a good one.

“Emma, are you ready?” Snow’s voice pulled Emma from her daydreams (nightdreams?). “It’s time to go,” she shouted—not loud enough to annoy the neighbors, but enough for Emma to hear.

“Coming,” she replied, then took one last glance at the night sky. Maybe there was something different in the stars? She didn’t know; she just had this feeling that something was going to change tonight. 

She brushed her hands down the skirt of her light pink dress; it wasn’t what she’d usually wear, but since this wasn’t her typical honey trap, she’d borrowed a dress from Snow. It was definitely sweeter than her taste, with its pastel color and A-line skirt, but just cut low enough to not be demure. Her high ponytail fell somewhere in between. Her fangs would probably take it in another direction, but it’s not like she was going to pose for photos—she only just showed up in those.

In a moment, she was back in the house, grabbing her purse and joining her parents (who equally straddled the line of sweet and seductive; it was a vampire thing). 

Out of nowhere, a flash of light blinded her. “Seriously?” she cursed, blinking away the temporary blindness, only to see her mother holding a Polaroid camera. That was the one thing that could document them; thank god the hipsters over in Greenwich Village had clung to them.

Snow just grinned and shook the picture while David lectured, “It’s not like we got to see you off to prom or anything.”

“Yeah, but are you going to do this every year?”

“Yes,” Snow stated matter-of-factly, smiling at the photo before setting it aside. “Now come on; there’s a bloody mary calling my name.”

“Where are we going?” 

“That new underground club at 43rd and 10th. Figured we should try it, and it should be trouble-free.”

‘Trouble’ meaning the Aurum coven. Emma still hadn’t figured out the reason for this centuries-long blood feud, but she did know that she’d been dragged in on the side of Coroza, under a woman named Cora; turns out Walsh had been one of her cronies. And it normally wouldn’t affect her, save for the fact that her parents were turned by someone in Aurum (led by the mysteriously mononymed Gold) and that had dangerous implications, not to mention the rising tensions between the two groups as they began to encroach on each other (and each other’s feeding grounds) on the Upper West Side. 

“You sure? That’s awfully close.” 43rd had become an arbitrary border between the two factions, and there had been more than a few skirmishes while people were on the prowl for a midnight snack. She’d had a couple close calls of her own while tracking down skips in the part of town, but had somehow managed to evade notice.

“It’s on our side of the street,” her mom shrugged in response and grabbed her purse.

(Why one side couldn’t just move to another part of town, Emma didn’t know, but she was definitely aware of how stubborn vampires could be. And she wasn’t going to move; there’s no way they’d be able to get a place like this anywhere else for a reasonable price.)

She’d hardly gotten out the door when a familiar scent caught her nose—and not necessarily a welcome one: Graham.

“Uh, hi, Emma,” he stammered, while giving her a shy yet adorable grin.

“Hey,” she answered back, not meeting his eyes—and instead finding Snow’s, who was intently studying the sky. Snow had been trying to get the two of them together for at least 10 years, and while Graham was a great guy, a good friend, and handsome to boot, Emma had never been attracted to him like that. A fact that seemed to keep falling silent on Snow’s ears despite her enhanced hearing. 

(His blue eyes were pretty, but they weren’t the pair that kept haunting her.)

Given the sudden awkwardness that settled over the group—because that was apparently something you had to deal with whether you were dead or alive—it was up to Emma to break it. Not that she had any skill in that department.

“Alright, uh, let’s go,” she said with little confidence, and set off towards the club, with the others falling in behind her; Graham stayed close and if she wasn’t mistaken, attempted to put an arm around her, but she walked a bit faster to avoid his reach. The bar was only a few blocks away, which they could normally cover in less than a minute, but they had decided to blend in with the crowd tonight; it was nice to be normal every now and then.

But still—every now and then, the hairs on the back of Emma’s neck rose, and it had nothing to do with Graham’s proximity. Something was coming; she just didn’t know what. 

That wasn’t for her to worry about tonight, though. Tonight was for fun and drinks and dancing. And once they got to the darkly-lit club, that’s what she focused on for the next hour or so—

—Until her gaze locked with the blue eyes from her dreams.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Killian took a deep breath as soon as he exited the jetway—and immediately regretted it. He didn’t know why he expected LaGuardia to have changed at all in the past 15 years. Despite all the reconstruction, it still smelled the same: of old coffee, questionable sushi, and stale humans. (The latter was a double-edged sword: despite eating shortly before he got to Heathrow, there had been a few delays before takeoff and he was feeling rather peckish now, although nothing here seemed appetizing. Which was probably something he had in common with mortals at the moment.)

He didn’t know why he’d assumed that he might have been routed through JFK this time—why would he think Gold would care enough to properly welcome home his best operative from abroad after 15 years?—but he tried to push that ire to the back of his mind as he summoned an Uber.

At least the delays meant he landed just as the sun was setting; his previous plan had been to hang around the terminal until dusk, so at least this prevented any awkward encounters with some overtalkative Midwesterner on their way back to Cleveland. Signs pointed him to the ride share lot, and a gentleman named Marco was waiting to take him home.

On the ride into the city, he marveled at how New York always seemed like a living, breathing thing, constantly evolving and changing. He could still sharply remember the dusty bustle of the town more than 200 years ago, the sound of carriages running over dirt and cobbled streets. He’d watched as the city grew, sprawling both across and beyond the Manhattan island and up into the sky, the smell of horses and people and sweat replaced by the acrid stench of exhaust (although, even his extra-sensitive nose had gotten used to it in short order). 

So it was both surprising and not to see how much the city had changed even in the last 15 years, most noticeably in the skyline: the Twin Towers were still fresh in everyone’s memory when he’d left, so to see the new One World Trade Center in their place was a bit jarring. But the sun still glinted golden off the skyscrapers the same way; pedestrians still hardly waited for the crossing signals to give the okay to go; and though he wasn’t in a yellow cab, a language barrier still lay between him and his driver. 

Cash tips were understandable to all, though, which Killian handed over once they’d arrived at his apartment building on 34th—the Chelsea side. He’d owned his flat since the building was constructed, which was fairly impressive, but did require him to occasionally change the name on the paperwork lest anyone notice anything suspicious. 

(Someone had figured out at some point that it was helpful to have an ally in both the Social Security office and the DMV; Archie and Jefferson traded off every 20 years or so in order to help create revolving identities for the members of the vampire community. The name on his ID at the moment was Kyle Johnson, and during the past 100 or so years since he’d been required to have one, he’d also been Killian James, Ian Joseph, and—though he had to admit, he’d picked this one just to see if he could get away with it—James Hook.)

And thankfully, he’d had a reliable roommate for the past 80 years. “Honey, I’m home,” he called out after braving the still-shaky lift to the top floor.

“About bloody time,” Robin called back from the couch. “You know I had dinner ready for you before you left?”

“Ha,” Killian answered. “I’d hate to see what that looks like after all this time.”

“Oh, I let him go. And good thing, too—he ended up writing Hamilton.”

Killian had barely poked his head into his musty bedroom before he returned to the living room. “You didn’t actually have Lin-Manuel Miranda in here, did you?” To most people’s surprise, Killian was a bit of a theater nerd; the West End was great, but he was looking forward to catching up on Broadway again. 

“No. But maybe that’s a good strategy if we want to get tickets.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

His stomach grumbled in agreement.

Robin chuckled. “There’s a bottle in the fridge you can have; figured you’d be hungry when you got back.”

Killian tossed his luggage in his room and emerged again. “Have I ever mentioned that I love you?”

“Maybe a few times over the past several decades.”

He downed the bottle quickly; the black blood market never gave the best stuff—considering the type of mortals who would be willing to sell their blood for money and didn’t qualify to sell plasma—but it hit the spot in a pinch, and every now and then had something good. This definitely wasn’t, but it sated his thirst long enough to take a shower and wash the airplane off of him.

As he stared at the fogged mirror with nothing looking back at him, rubbing his palm over his permanently well-trimmed scruff, he realized he hadn’t yet checked in with Gold. Even if he’d spent the last decade-plus doing the man’s bidding from abroad, it was still easy to forget about him.

Well, mostly—until he glanced back down at his blunted left wrist. Then it just brought ancient memories to the surface, as fresh as the day they’d happened, no matter how many centuries had intervened.

Which reminded him: he was still missing something. He shot off a quick missive to Gold as he pulled some clothes out of his depressingly dated closet (having left anything more modern in a consignment shop in London), managing to put together something vaguely timeless. But before he dressed, he turned his attention on the nightstand drawer.

He slowly pulled it open, though he knew what would be inside: his hook, as sturdy and sharp as ever, with its well-worn leather brace. Sure, he had a fairly modern prosthetic hand—one that TSA didn’t mind so much—but the hook had come first, and was definitely his preferred artificial appendage. He hadn’t meant to go so long without it, but then again, he hadn’t expected his London assignment to take so long. 

(Although, 15 years to him was roughly the same as 2 or 3 to the average mortal.)

Slipping on the soft leather was like greeting an old friend (well, another one, albeit he’d known this one longer than Robin). And snapping in the hook settled a part of him that he hadn’t realized had been adrift all these years. It didn’t fully still the odd sense of anticipation he’d had ever since he landed, but he definitely felt more at ease.

With that settled, he finished dressing and then headed back to the living room and flopped on the sofa next to Robin. “When did we get a new couch?” he asked indignantly, inspecting the unfamiliar upholstery.

“As soon as you left.”

“And what was so wrong with the previous one?”

“It was from the 70s! It was hideous and uncomfortable and you know it.”

Killian could only sigh; Robin was completely right. 

“Anyways,” Robin continued. “We’ve plenty of time to argue about furniture but very little to decide what we’re doing tonight.”

“Why? What’s tonight?”

“You arrive back in North America for the first time in a decade and a half and you think that’s not a reason to celebrate?”

“Well, I was in Toronto a few years ago.”

“Still the Commonwealth. Doesn’t count. What do you want to do? There are quite a few people anxious to see you.” 

Well that’s good for them, he thought, but he wasn’t so sure of the same. The time away in the UK had definitely made him reconsider some of his connections back here in the States; getting away from the drama with Coroza had made him realize how petty he found it all. Though he’d never be completely extricated given that Gold was his sire, he’d definitely be alright with staying distant from the other frivolous disputes.

(And after spending a bit too much time in Brighton—particularly with some headstones bearing the name Jones and some rather divy taverns that were still somehow open all these centuries later—he wished more than ever to be free of Gold’s influence. Alas.)

He supposed he could placate them for one night, though; it’s not like he was going to sleep anyway. “Are there any new clubs to check out?”

“For you—plenty. For all of us...aye, there’s one that’s just opened up about...10 blocks away? Ish?”

“In which direction?”

“Up, but kind of midtown so it should be in the clear.” Meaning no one from Coroza would be there.

“Sounds fine, then,” he replied; after so many years, every club started to feel the same, but he was willing to give it a shot.  

It wasn’t long before he found himself dressed in a waistcoat and slacks that were trendy a decade ago, hoping his hair was styled appropriately (he stopped caring about 130 years ago), and waiting outside the apartment building of Robin’s girlfriend Regina.

“Jones, it’s the 21st century; why do you still have a fish hook on the end of that arm?” she greeted when she emerged from the tower, with a young vampire behind her. 

“It’s nice to see you too, Regina,” he tossed back. They’d known each other for well over a couple hundred years and this was just how they communicated. Nodding at the young man, he continued, “Who’s this?”

“This is Henry; he’s new.” The statement was matter-of-fact enough that Killian knew she wouldn’t say anything else. But he seemed friendly, albeit nervous, and Gold never complained about new vampires on their side—just Coroza.

It didn't take much for him to immediately think of Emma. His thoughts had drifted to her more than he cared to admit over the past years, wondering if she’d acclimated or if she’d burned out. It was definitely odd that such a brief encounter had left such a lasting impression, but at the same time, it had taken him well over 250 years to get over his first love; he was a romantic at heart, even if that heart no longer beat. 

He of course said nothing about it as they continued on; if no one had discovered what he’d done that night by now, he was content to leave it that way. There were other ways of him finding out if she was still around, such as—

—Such as the green eyes staring at him from the other side of the club, barely a minute after he’d entered it, freezing him in place.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading, friends! let me know if you want/don’t want a tag! @kat2609​ @xpumpkindumplingx​ @shipsxahoy​ @amortentia-on-the-rocks​ @mryddinwilt​ @cocohook38​ @annytecture​ @shireness-says​ @ohmightydevviepuu​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @wingedlioness​ @word-bug​ @distant-rose​ @wellhellotragic​ @welllpthisishappening​ @let-it-raines​ @pirateherokillian​ @bleebug​ @its-imperator-furiosa​ @fergus80​ @killianmesmalls​ @sherlockianwhovian​ @ineffablecolors​ @laschatzi​ @ive-always-been-a-pirate​ @nfbagelperson​ @stubblesandwich​​ @lenfaz​ @phiralovesloki​ @athenascarlet​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @snowbellewells​ @idristardis​ @scientificapricot​ @searchingwardrobes​ @donteattheappleshook​ @lfh1226-linda​

[2muchfor2long]

Feeling like a vampire, I threw on some shades and on four hours of sleep, I went to retrieve my car at the scene of the crime. I can tell you that tequila and herbal X are not your friends the morning after an epic night of partying. Frankly, I was amazed that my car was still there and it wasn’t jacked up.

Recovery was on my agenda for the weekend. I wanted to make sure I was in fine form for Monday. Plus, I had several things I had to do for various classes so the plan was to hang out at the beach and then work on some scripts.

After a day of playing in the sun and surf, I was ready to go home. The minute I walked in the door though, my roommate Stacey had other ideas. “Hey, remember that real cute guy I met in directing, Adam?” I nodded. “Well, he is throwing a party tonight at his place and he wanted us to come.”

Rolling my eyes, I told her, “Look, I have to do some writing and I have to be sharp for Monday.”

“Well, this is Saturday. You will have a day to recover.”

I realized that resistance was futile and that she would just bug the crap out of me until I relented. “Okay. When is this soiree?”

“10 p.m.”

“At least that gives me a little time to get things done and besides you will need the bathroom for several hours. You know 45 minute lips and stuff.”

Looking rather annoyed, she disappeared. Once again, derailment of my best laid plans. I spent majority of the night punching up scenes for my screenwriting classes.  Stacey was busy doing her primping thing and unfortunately, since I don’t necessarily heed my own advice, a bottle of vodka was calling my name in the fridge.

While I waited for drama queen, I decided to toss back a few Cape Cods. Finally, she emerged from her lair looking like Norma Desmond waiting for her close up. We headed into the night toward Loyola Marymount and whatever potentially bad decisions were awaiting us. 

My lips are drop dead sexy!

Once we got to the neighborhood, parking was a bitch. We ended up having to walk a block. LMU is located in a lovely suburb of Los Angeles called Westminster. At the time I attended the university, the area was rather posh but not like Beverly Hills outrageous. Adam’s parents lived in a really beautiful house which could have been featured on the pages of “Architectural Digest.”

I knew some of the people milling about so as I stopped and chatted with everyone, Stacey was whisked away to hold court somewhere. Lucky for me, I found the bar right away. I figured that sticking with vodka was probably a safe bet.

After several more drinks, I was feeling quite relaxed. Stacey had disappeared and I managed to find some people from my classes and spent majority of my time with them. I had to use the bathroom so after I was pointed in the right direction, I headed off.

The staircase to the upper level was magnificent. By the time, I reached the top, I couldn’t remember if I needed to make a left or right turn. I decided on the left. Wrong call, on my part.

Remember that scene in The Shining where a guy in a costume was in a rather suggestive position? Well, I came flying through the door and stumbled in to the 50 Shades of Grey dimension. For a moment, I had to pause and focus because I wasn’t quite sure what I was seeing. After I figured it out and became monumentally frightened, I hightailed it out of there before something insane went down. 

Care to join us?

Getting my bearings, I decided to try door number 2 which was on the right. Stealing myself before heading in, I turned the handle and walked in to several people focused on cutting lines of coke on the bathroom mirror. They must have been ingenious because somehow, they managed to take the ornate item off of the wall. Not wanting to disturb the potential Scarface scene, I extricated myself rather quickly.

My heart is beating so fast, man!

 Giving up, I decided to leave before this became a police event. By now, it was midnight and the music was thumping pretty loudly. I fought my way through the teeming hordes of sweaty, dancing drunk folk and found Queen Stacey surrounded by her minions poolside.

Several people were already frolicking sans clothing in the pool. After leaving behind the Studio 54 house, I managed to somehow enter a portal into the 60s. Stacey and company were passing around joints and just walking into their circle left me in a “Purple Haze.”

 I told her I was going to motor and I was rather relieved that she and Adam had hit it off so I wouldn’t have to wait around for her. Not one to pass up recreational “activities” I took a couple of hits and left. 

Groovy

Thankfully, the drive home passed without incident. PCH was beautiful and the moon was out. I guess you could say it was the type of thing you picture when you dream of living in LA. The moment I was inside my house, I went into my bedroom and immediately crashed.

Sunday passed without incident and before I knew it, Monday rolled around. I was due to report for duty at 9:30, so that meant getting up at an ungodly hour to get ready. Extremely nervous, but dressed for success, I headed into the early morning full of excitement and butterflies in my stomach.

I arrived on time which was terrific. Making my way inside the building, I stopped at the security desk to pick up my pass. It was official! I now had access to CBS- Television City. I rode the elevator up to the production offices. The closer I got to the door, the more nervous I became. Counting to ten, I walked in to what was going to be a pretty intensive three-month gig.

Everything was pretty quiet. First order of business was to go see Billy in his office. Before I could knock, he opened the door and seemed rather surprised to see me.

“Oh, hey! I see you remembered where we were.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s pretty busy so let me take you around to meet some of the people.”

This was like a whirlwind of information. I met both segment producers, the producers, the research department and then I was ushered in to meet perhaps the scariest person of all, Peter Lassally.  This man was a legend in talk show host production. He was the executive producer of The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson for years. He also executive produced Letterman’s show.

Legendary Producer

Normally, I am pretty cool but this was enough to make me want to pass out! As it turns out, he was extremely nice even asking me about what I was doing at LMU.

After narrowly escaping a freak out episode, Billy took me to meet Tom’s assistant, Kelly. Kelly was a nice chap from the UK. He had been with Tom for years. He was in charge of basically running Snyder’s life on the show.

Another interesting bit was actually going to the studio and seeing where the “magic” happened. I really enjoyed this because I was wanting to get experience in television production as well. I was introduced to the “booth” personnel which consisted of the director and his group.

Introductions made, Billy and I walked up to the offices where my day officially began. I did your standard routines like help with administrative functions, mail, and even assisting Kelly with Tom’s fan mail. Then of course, there was picking up lunches and coffee runs.

Since my desk was the very first one in front of the door, I routinely got a glimpse of all incoming traffic. As it just so happens, I was involved with a task from the research department when I got the surprise of my life. I was in the midst of working on sorting the mail when Tom Snyder walked in. 

The late, great, Tom Snyder

This was straight up bananas. I grew up watching the Tomorrow show and now this man was actually standing in front of me. I thought he would ignore me and just carry on but that didn’t happen.

“So, you must be the new intern?”

“Yes.”

“Nice to meet you….”

“My name is Susan.”

“Nice to meet you, Susan.”

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Snyder.”

“Call me Tom.”

Well, that threw me for a loop. Then he sauntered away to begin his day leaving me to quietly stroke out. Thankfully enough, the rest of the afternoon passed without further incident.

My internship only required me to be there three days out of the week. However, this quickly turned into five days. I was very eager to take advantage of this opportunity and to be honest with you, it was way better getting hands on experience then discussing theories in a classroom.

The show filmed on Friday nights and for the first part of it, I would man the telephones in case we got a call from our other executive producer, Robert “Morty” Morton. For all of you fans of the early Letterman years on NBC and CBS, he was a familiar face and also the executive producer of The Late Show with David Letterman. 

Hi Morty! Welcome to transfer hell.

Of course, the very first night I helmed the phone, around 10:15, it rang.

“Hello. Late Late Show.”

“Hey, hi!”

“Hi?”

“Yeah, this is Morty.”

Okay, at this point, I damned near dropped the phone. Be cool, don’t lose your shit, Susan.

“How are you, Morty?”

“I’m great. Who is this?”

I just looked at the receiver. It sounded like he was in his car or something and this whole conversation was unbelievable.

“I’m Susan.”

“Susan, can I speak with Tammy?”

Tammy happened to be one of the producers.

“Sure. One moment, please.”

Now, this phone was pretty standard and straight forward. The transfer button was not a big mystery. However, suddenly, I felt like NASA needed to talk me through the mechanics of this phone transfer from Mission Control.

After fumbling with several buttons, I managed to find the right combination. I rang Tammy’s office and announced the call.  Of course, when I hit transfer, how was I to know that I was actually going to send our executive producer into oblivion? 

NASA? Can you help me transfer a call from Mission Control?

Smiling and feeling pretty confident, I immediately got a call from Tammy. She was pretty livid. I felt like I was being yelled at by Charlie Brown’s teacher. Fortunately, Morty did call back and this time, he reached his proper destination. Good times.

Weeks went by and every day was a new experience. One morning, I remember walking in to the kitchen area only to be shocked to see the comedian, Steven Wright getting a Coke from the refrigerator. Trying to be nonchalant, I gave him a nod and a “What’s up?” So smooth, I know.

Another fun experience was Friday night cocktails on the set after the show. It was sort of like a wrap party with a full bar. Tom was partial to vodka martinis. He actually made me a drink and we talked about going to Catholic school. Who would’ve thought that one day I would’ve been kicking it, knocking back drinks with a talk show legend? Priceless.

I also got to take a couple of turns in the production booth as well. One of the highlights is they actually let me do the teleprompter! No, I didn’t do anything crazy like Anchorman (F&*# you, San Diego!). The energy of doing a live show was exciting and just being in that atmosphere was better than any college class.

One memorable incident occurred in the elevator. I was bringing something to one of the producers. On the 

way down, someone got on with an entourage. Now, my pleasant ride was jam packed. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed this guy with a smug look on his face almost saying, “Yeah, you know who I am.” Years later, this wonderful individual would be the star of a show, we will call “40 Pebble,” on NBC. What I can tell you is at the time he was wearing these gigantic hideous green glasses. I remember that I wanted to punch that arrogance right off his face.

You know you want me.

My internship was almost finished. However, it was going to go out with a bang. We were all called to a meeting in the conference room by Peter Lassally. David Letterman was coming to our offices to prepare for the Oscars. I could feel my heart skip a couple of beats.

Don't you look at me!

The very next thing I know, me and the other intern, Mike were shuffled into a closed-door meeting with Billy where we were given explicit instructions on how to handle Letterman’s impending visit. 

We could not engage Dave in any way. The kicker was we weren’t allowed to look at him! This news sucked really hard. Here I was getting the chance of a lifetime to be around someone that I had a crush on since I was sixteen and it was just going to be extremely awkward.

Activity was amped up in the office. One of the tasks that we were challenged with was creating a “playbook” for Dave to study of all the Oscar nominees and the films. This sounds easy, but it wasn’t. The research was painstaking and the actual construction was a bitch trying to get the binders together.

I won’t lie, it was also exciting. I spent several nights helping out until 2 a.m. Things were crazy, we were punchy but it was totally worth it. Finally, the books were assembled and waiting for Dave and his writers.

The day after one of the marathon playbook sessions, I entered the office only to be greeted by the exceptionally animated receptionist, Kathy. “Susan, don’t be too excited but Dave is here. So, make sure if you see him, don’t make eye contact and don’t talk to him.”

“Okay, Kathy. Sure.” Inwardly I thought if I accidentally glance at him will I turn into stone? Will I cease to exist? Shrugging it off, I grabbed some coffee and headed into the conference room to begin the task of sorting mail. This was a mind-numbing activity but it would help to take my mind off being nervous.

About half way through the sorting, the door to the conference room opened. I looked up to find myself face to face with David Letterman. Holy crap! Damn it! I just looked at him. We stood there for a moment. Immediately, I averted my eyes and pretended to care about the mail.

He left the room. Breathing a sigh of relief, the door opened up again, Letterman looked at me with this quizzical look on his face. Of course, me being so poised, I stood there with what I am certain was a look of abject terror on my visage. Thankfully, he left the room.

Yep. I am so smooth. 

After the Oscar ceremony, my internship drew to a close. Everyone was so gracious. The entire staff threw me a going away party. Even Tom and Peter Lassally attended and they sang, “Happy Trails.” That was something to see and a great memory that makes me smile to this day. Another parting gift from the crew, they put my name in the credits. I still have that VHS tape. You never know when it might come in handy.

Hey everyone! I was on tv!

My learning experience ended. I didn’t know quite where the road would lead me. Then again, I was certain it would be exciting.

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