For the purposes of this story, I'm ignoring the final scene with Daisy.

Nothing ever quite makes sense to him.

Shows make sense. Words and lyrics are facts laid down and all they require is reason and order. Careful disorder. Bodies moving in careful choreography. Without the fanfare, without the stage, happening just the once, things never quite fit.

Women. They'd made sense until he'd never understood them at all.

Woman. She was the one who blew hot and cold and if any of them ever did, she knew him and he believed her when she said she like him yet still, he couldn't measure up. And it stung and it stung again and if he wasn't a director there was nothing left, and if that didn't impress her, there wasn't much left. Just him. Whatever was left over, and that wasn't much. Maybe there had been more, when he was younger.

That was fine.

It had to be fine.

Friends, he supposed, even after it all. She knew him and he knew her, a part of her, where her confidence mixed with stupid, fantastic doubt. Ivy was someone who made friends easily, made people root for her by existing, made people believe in her because she was more than good. Hugs and coffee she could get anywhere, but he was the one she brought into her bed. Even if the one thing he had going was what he'd do when he got there.

He'd been everything he had, and he couldn't blame her. It had gone all wrong and it had been all his fault and he couldn't fault her for that. He should be angry, maybe, but all he felt was relief, an empty sort of nothing, bleeding out as he watched her back sparkle down the stairs. There was enough love and acclaim for her there, she hadn't even shrunk from Karen. A little bit perfect. Not quite a star, not yet, but all the makings falling into place. Not his, not even Tom's, she shone on her own.

He couldn't fault her for any of it, it was less than she deserved. He owed her as much as she wanted to take or accept.

He just wanted to know why. What. How.

On the last step she was on JFK's arm. They would have disappeared into the thin crowd but that Ivy glittered, brighter than her mere glitter and fair coiffe. She had Marilyn's lilting swagger, he didn't think she even noticed, curves celebrated by the rays gathered at her core. That she did know.

He wanted to give her what she wanted, what she needed, only she didn't need anything from him and she wanted him to leave. So he did.

Down empty staircase no one was looking at him. He would have stopped to congratulate Eileen but she was laughing and toasting. Hit List dotted the room, but they weren't Hit List tonight. Tomorrow – tomorrow they'd be headed for Broadway themselves. Tomorrow they'd know it. They were more than good enough, as soon as they believed.

By the piano Ivy stood, in profile to him. Her JFK's hand on her back, leaving an empty curve between breasts and pelvis which was, he'd discovered, a perfect pillow for his head.

If he could do it again he would have stayed right there, draped over her lap, and maybe she'd never have made him leave. Alone together in her apartment, in her bed, they always did make sense. To him at least. Maybe all she'd needed from him was entirely behind those doors, her own little Mr. & Mrs. Smith for a night, not a life.

His hand was on the door when he changed his mind. It was entirely what she'd told him to not do but he'd lied and she'd known and the least he could do was admit it and the most he could do was make sure she knew. Probably stupid, but he was Hit List now and this wouldn't be the first stupid thing Hit List had done that night.

The wending path wasn't elegant, but it was metaphoric, and also ensured she couldn't see him until JFK stepped aside and she turned to see why. One second, two, and she didn't want...

He dropped his head to her ear, nose against the smooth sweep of her hair. It ticked when she moved and she wasn't wearing the Chanel and she was trying to look at him and the moment was fading but he hadn't gotten as far as words, he'd never been a writer.

"Don't be mad at me." And he meant it as apology, for everything, for anything, and her uncomfortable laugh wasn't for him. "Tell me how I can make this better." It was repetition, reworked, the medium he breathed in.

"Derek-"

"Please."

Maybe just to get rid of him, but she let him lead her away, before she changed their direction and led him instead.

Outside it was cold. Colder than when they'd arrived. She shivered at him, arms crossed over her chest and he sighed. "Don't be silly" even though she wasn't, and dropped his coat over her shoulders.

She pulled the material tighter, still silent but considering.

"What is this, Derek? What am I to you?"

"What am I to you?" he countered, and that was wrong because he was suppose to be answering not asking, but in the moment, he couldn't.

This was Ivy, she didn't blink.

"You're the guy who showed up on my doorstep when Karen Cartwright finally turned him down."

Karen, always, between them. He couldn't fault her. Couldn't fault either of them.

"That's not why-"

"-Don't lie to me."

He'd never known what the truth was.

"I don't want to do this anymore," as she tugged his coat tighter. "It's always something, someone. And I keep thinking maybe you don't mean it to, but at some point we just have to admit that we don't work." Her eyes cut back to the door. "And I need to move on."

"I never slept with Karen."

"But you would have."

And that was true.

She hardly gave him a second before she turned away, his coat sliding off. He caught at her arm, drawing her back, seconds dripping away through heartbeat after heartbeat, shallow breaths and something heavy in his throat. One deep breath.

She'd always thrown him a lifeline, and he'd burned through them all.

He wanted to ask "what can I say?" Even he knew that was the wrong thing to say.

He wanted to say "you were Marilyn tonight." Not his, but he wasn't the director anymore, his creative impulse didn't negate that fact that tonight she was Marilyn. He thought she'd even understood what he meant, but he'd said it before, and it wasn't what he meant.

He wanted to admit "I love you." Say it and stay put and not try to take it back. But even he knew that was still the wrong thing to say, he didn't want to see pity in her eyes, gentle letdown or exasperation.

He wanted. Her. He wanted her. He wanted her to understand. To understand him. Better than he understood himself. Accept him. Still. He wanted her to want him. Granting that a trite song lyric, even inadvertent, wasn't the best approach either.

Under his hand, loosely draped in his coat, she stood placidly. Waiting for him longer than she should have to. Waiting for him to figure it out. And then she would judge if he was good enough, a final reckoning. For... What did he want?

And that was it. Pathetic as it was. He wanted to be enough, good enough. He just didn't know what was, only that it wasn't what he was. If it was something he could ever be. Or something he'd lost along the way.

He wanted to ask her but he'd asked enough, and something told him if he had to ask, he'd never know. Could never be. Either he had nothing she needed. Nothing she wanted. Or he did. She knew.

His hand dropped away, not stroking on the way.

He swallowed again. Dropped his eyes.

"I know you don't want me. I know you never needed me." Maybe that was what she needed. For him to let her go. Just go. He shuddered. Not from the cold. "But I need you. And that's not- It's something I don't know..." he thought he'd been in love once, in his early 20s. She was lithe and beautiful and blew smoke rings in his face before running onto the stage. He couldn't remember how it had ended. He'd moved to New York, he thought. She hadn't. It hadn't mattered. He remembered how it felt. How he'd felt. Free and easy tossing random nonsense and dodging her swats when he snuck up behind her to hold her just to hold her while she put on her makeup. Warm, safe and familiar.

Blood loud in his ears, she might have walked away and he wouldn't have noticed, but this was it and he'd try to explain, even if it was to himself. He saw them all. He'd seen them all, in a dream.

"Henry Higgins surrounded by his own creations, and lovely monuments they are." Karen, he still thought, might be his best yet. "I could never make you anything but what you are."

"… And what am I?" Whispered from the dark, his head shot up. He hadn't believed she was there, not really, a mere memory in his head to fall at her feet. She was as far away as she'd been, barely close enough to touch, cheeks and nose burned pink and remote.

He blinked at her, unfair surprise in his tone. "You're Ivy Lynn." A beat. "A star of your own making." Voice to a whisper, like a secret only the breeze could reveal. "You are beautiful."

He wasn't fair. Like everything in her life, he came around whenever she was finally ready to give up. A tantalizing taste of what could be. Like Bombshell. Marilyn. Her mother's approval, sought for as long as she could remember.

"You hurt me." She couldn't keep out the tinge of defeat.

"I know."

Like her mother. He'd always been like her mother. Hope after hope. Disappointment after disappointment. But that wasn't entirely fair. There'd been good moments, days and even weeks in between. A cycle she knew but a cycle that had slowed, calmed. The pain harsh and abrupt but never quite sharp. Empty pockets ready to be stitched over. Maybe it was the same, but it was different.

It was her turn to catch for his arm when he took a step back. Whatever they were, whatever they'd been, they had a relationship. Life was nothing but relationships. Feelings. And every relationship was a two way street. "I hurt you too." Sometimes by accident, sometimes by design, sometimes hoping, never knowing if she had struck her mark. Sometimes he let her see her see it, sometimes he couldn't hide it.

He didn't deny it, he couldn't hide it. "What now?"

She didn't know why he'd done any of it. But if he kept coming back and she kept saying yes, if she was out here with him and didn't resent missing her own party, her first night on the Broadway stage... She'd wanted to spend this night with him, and nothing material had changed. She was weak for going back, but he was weak for asking.

She took off her coat. "Now I'm going back inside." Her dress was thin, sudden chill stabbed over every inch of skin. "You should go home." Before he could follow. She had wanted to spend the night with him. She had never wanted to spend the evening with him. "And," she continued, because she wasn't actually trying to be confusing, not this time, "we'll talk tomorrow."

He was too tall even for her heels and she had to tug him down to her upturned face, chaste promise and caress. Because she could still feel the weight of his cheek on her abdomen, crown of his head bumping against her breasts. The memory was warm. She'd always wanted him, and she could learn to stop needing him. If she wanted to. But all relationships are messy, and painful, and they'd been here before, and always managed to spiral deeper. He kept seeking her out, she kept letting him in.

They were feelings outside the rehearsal hall.

She went back inside, brushed questions aside, took pictures and let Bobby and Jessica haul her onstage when the crowd thinned to the youngest and silliest. She'd leave before they became the drunkest. Already tomorrow.

Marilyn stared down from on high, and Ivy lifted her glass. A toast of one. "To Marilyn."

- Title from R.I.P. by 3OH!3

- There are a couple of technical issues, specifically where the door is and the fact Derek was holding Ivy's coat, not his own. I noticed these late, and this is more a catharsis story so with indulgence, I'm handwaving them away.