Charlie was having a bad day. 

In fact, he honestly felt that he'd never had such a royally fucked and bollocksed-up day, probably ever. Waking up and finding out about the video a few days ago had been pretty awful, and if anyone had asked him then, he would've said that day, without a doubt, was his worst day ever. It had been a nightmare, of hearing about it, then seeing it, then knowing it was being released and being able to do nothing about it. All he could think about was Jane, poor Jane, sitting in class, alone, thinking that the roof had fallen in on her, not even realizing that it was the roof, the house, the whole fucking sky. The look on her face when she thought Charlie had been with someone else had gutted him. But replacing that wounded, demolished, heartbroken look with the other look, when she realized what was really on the tape was even worse. Then she'd had to see her brother attack him, and she'd tried, in her shocked and distressed state, to intercede for him, which made his heart swell with love for her, love that he couldn't even show because he'd had to leave so Bear wouldn't get angry all over again.

How could today be worse than that?

This morning he'd Face Timed with his family for the first time since the news broke. His mother and sister had cried. Until this his image had been squeaky clean, he'd never gotten so much as a parking ticket. Charlie, like Bear, couldn't cope with being the cause of his sister's pain. He thought he was going to die when he saw her face on the screen. The fact that they'd tried to be stoic and supportive had only made it worse. Only seeing Jane's face had hurt more.

And now he was sitting across from SNL's writers, who'd just presented him with the monologue they wanted him to read. It was full of jokes and innuendos about his current situation. And apparently they already had some "great ideas" about a couple of sketches, one of which involved Charlie making out with a skinny guy in a blonde wig in the back of a car.

No.

Hosting SNL was big, like really big. He was a star, maybe even a superstar, but even Charles McAllister couldn't swan in and start throwing his weight around with the writers. He was the 16th youngest person ever to host the show, which didn't give him much authority to start making demands.

But still.

He thought of his Jane (whom he always thought of as "his Jane" when he thought of her, which was often) sitting in her house, probably thinking he didn't love her anymore, or at least thinking he was in the process of withdrawing his love, because she was full of silly notions like that. He'd never known someone who thought so little of herself for no good reason, though he had known plenty of the opposite. 

Just the thought of her, soft, lonely, and in pain, made his heart ache. He felt like he should be with her, dammit, not sitting across from these knobs who wanted to take this devastating catastrophe and turn it into a punchline. 

The writers were looking at him expectantly. If he said what he wanted to say, and said it wrong, it could end his career, nothing less. People would start talking about him, about how he was full of himself and difficult to work with, and thought he knew more than the writers, the professionals who'd been doing this probably longer than he'd been alive.

But there was no way he could go on national television and mock his love, his Jane, who already carried so much pain inside herself, who hid her tears from the world but couldn't hide them from the mirror.

He was fucked.

The rest of the cast was sitting around, along with the writers, still waiting for Charlie to say something. He took a deep breath.

"Look, I'm not saying that what you've written isn't without merit, or funny as hell. But the girl? My girlfriend, Jane?" Charlie realized that was the first time he'd ever used that word in reference to himself in his entire life. "She's not in the business, you know? She's only seventeen years old, and I'm her first boyfriend, her first love, really."

The cast members looked around at each other. Dolly Martinez, one of the show's seasoned veterans, sat up and really began listening for the first time. She'd been in hundreds of rehearsal meetings and read-throughs in her time on SNL, and could follow everything with half an ear by now. She stopped doodling and looked at Charlie.

"My point is that I can make fun of myself all you want, not a problem, but I can't, I simply can't, subject her to that. Not for the sake of good comedy on a TV show, even for this TV show, do you understand?" He swallowed and looked around to see the effect of his words. "She already thinks so little of herself, you see, and seeing something like what you're describing would absolutely destroy her." Maybe that was a little TMI, but it was done. 

"I'm sorry, but I can't," he repeated firmly. "And if that means you have to replace me, then I can live with that." Charlie sat back in his chair.

The room was dead silent for a few seconds, and Charlie thought it was the sound of his career dying. Good thing he was already rich, then.

Dolly started clapping and laughing as she rose from her chair, and eventually most of the people around the table followed suit.

"Yeah! Go, you little English sprout!" she said. As the clapping died down, she continued, "About fucking time there was a real gentleman on these premises."

So everyone sat down, and the writers pulled their pencils out of their hair. "Okay," one of them said casually. "Give us about thirty while we re-work the monologue, then. Susan, you have some stuff, right?"

So Susan presented what she'd written, and the meeting rolled right along. 

Maybe today wasn't the worst day of his life. Charlie breathed a mental sigh of relief. 

The read-through lasted until late that night, and Charlie rolled into his hotel room exhausted, but sleep still eluded him. He pulled out the bottle of whiskey he'd had Tony pick up and poured himself a stiff shot, tossing it off without really tasting it. 

He noticed with amusement that Tony had upgraded the brand he'd requested, and probably paid for it himself. Tony had been beside himself with guilt since the whole sex tape thing had broken. As near as they could figure, someone had broken in to the car while it was valet-parked at the restaurant to plant the recording device, and again while it was parked at the hotel to retrieve it. Both times Tony was technically in charge of the car, though no one would've expected him to stay with the car after a valet drove it away and parked it; if anything, the valet services for the restaurant and the hotel, and by extension the restaurant and hotel themselves were responsible. Tony had noticed that the car was unlocked a couple times, so he'd had the locks checked, but other than that he hadn't noticed anything amiss, and he blamed himself for what had happened, Charlie knew, even though Charlie himself had told him, over and over, that he didn't' blame Tony for what happened.

Charlie was fairly certain Donald Eversley was responsible. That photographer worked for him, and she'd been hanging around a lot right around the time it happened. And he was vermin, who'd go to any lengths for a story, making up whatever suited him to fill in the gaps. 

The irony was that Eversley was probably disappointed when he found what he had on the tape, because there was no way for him to use it legitimately for a story; even if he tried to say someone gave it to him anonymously, he would've come under scrutiny, and the tape would've been traced back to him. So all he could do was make it public through anonymous channels, and write about it as a "disinterested" third party, along with the rest of the world.

Boo-fucking-hoo, as Jane would say.

Eversley was the first person Charlie told the investigators to check out, and if he found a connection, Charlie was going to run him into the ground. The paparazzi and reporters like Eversley had always been an annoyance, and Charlie hated them, but what had been done to him, to Jane, was unforgivable.

Charlie took another drink, this time not even bothering with the glass. He lay back on his bed, holding the bottle, wearing only his underwear. He felt like a degenerate, like a low-life snake. Poor Jane, thinking she'd met her idol, someone she could share herself with, give herself to. 

Take me, Charlie, she'd whispered in the darkness that night. Make me yours.

And he really had, hadn't he? Charlie took another drink. He'd taken what she'd offered, what she'd gift-wrapped with all the love in her pure heart, and he'd let some slime ball turn it into a flagon of filth. What seemed in the act like a solemn, beautiful, sincere exchange became in retrospect something lewd and unimportant, something worthy of ridicule.

He hoped she hadn't watched it, but he suspected she had. She wouldn't be able to help herself. He'd seen the things people were saying about her online, and he supposed if he turned on the TV he'd hear the same things. And Jane, the most gentle and loving of creatures, didn't have the weapons necessary to defend herself against that kind of attack. It was a travesty that she should have to.

Charlie hated himself for putting her in that position.

He took another drink from the bottle and considered jerking off, but decided it would ultimately make him feel more desolate and alone when he was finished, so he just clicked on the TV to find a movie. Guardians of the Galaxy was on, and Charlie watched it as he got more and more drunk, laughing at the same parts where he'd laughed with her, remembering how lovely it had been to have her so close.

He eventually set the bottle aside and pulled the pillow Jane had used close to himself, keeping her pink shirt in the middle of it. He inhaled deeply, pretending as hard as he could that she was here, that she was getting ready to run her fingers through his hair and sigh into his ear.

He needed Jane, but she needed him like she needed a hole in the head, Charlie believed. 

He cried himself to sleep that night.