fic: our remains (for kateinslacks)
mad men. joan (joan/roger). for kateinslacks. 1,352 words. don't tell me you go in for romanticism now. i won't believe you. pg-13.
warnings: major spoilers and speculation for next week's preview clip. i know. this is really really mean of me.
She could die, you know. The city just might be killing her. New York has wrapped arms around her and grabbed her neck and it is squeezing and she could die of it.
Once, she thought the problem was being alone, was not having a husband in this bright steep world where you have to take care of yourself or you fall fast. She was wrong, of course. The problem is the city, it doesn’t matter whether you’re rich or poor or married or unmarried or even black or white: the city will kill you. It may do it gently, easily, with a silk glove or it may do it hard, but it will do it.
She doesn’t get pregnant in January or February and when Greg leaves in March, she’s given up, really.
She goes back to Doctor Emerson, spreads her legs on his table (how ironic, she did the exact same thing in his house on Long Island) and he looks inside her and flashes his light and she gets up on the table for the second time and she feels cold and oddly open.
“Am I just too old?” she asks. She lights a cigarette. Her nails are chipped, she realizes.
“I wouldn’t think so. These things take time, Mrs. Harris.”
“Don’t call me Mrs. Harris.”
“Joan.”
“Thank you.” She sounds almost prim.
“I don’t know if you’re still thinking your operations may have had an effect on your reproductive health but I seriously doubt that’s the case.”
She tips her head to the side.
“Is there a chance it is?”
“I don’t make mistakes, Mrs. Harris. I’m a physician.”
He doesn’t understand why she’s laughing.
“I heard the husband shipped out.”
He’s standing in the doorway of her office. The tie is straight, as ever.
“Now, where did you hear that?”
“I heard some of the girls talking about it outside my office.”
He shrugs, moves in and sits down on her couch.
“Roger Sterling, listening in on secretaries.”
“Joanie, you never did learn proper secretarial deference, did you?”
“I think I must have missed that seminar, Mr. Sterling.”
“You were good enough that we had to keep you on anyway, I guess.”
“I guess so.”
“You going to be lonely while he’s gone?”
He wags his eyebrows.
“Don’t even try.” It’s usually teasing and this time the rejection comes out oddly harsh-the kind of ‘no’, she thinks, that she said when she was on the floor in the old office, with Greg’s hand over her mouth.
He steps back.
“Is there something wrong?”
“No. No. I-I’m sorry. I think I need to be alone for a minute.”
He nods.
“Okay.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
He is moving outside the doorway. He turns.
“Don’t tell me you’re in love with him. I won’t believe you.”
Don was her first choice, actually. When she started here, she thought he’d be the one she’d take. The prize. He wasn’t really interested and she realized a little later that actually, she wasn’t either.
And then, of course, in time, the second choice becomes the first and she realizes there’s a rather ugly trick that’s been played on her.
She is no Marilyn Monroe. She could never be that weak.
She watches footage of dead soldiers on television, dead soldiers and something in her, something small, wishes for the phone call, wants to hear about a bomb or a raid, wants to hear that she’ll never have to look at him again.
But then, that’s idiocy, isn’t it?
She has everything she could want. She isn’t sentimental.
She was always careful with Roger, guarded, made sure only to give him the side of her he’d want and that he couldn’t hurt. She’s not impenetrable, you know (and yes, we know the pun you’re making. Please refrain), just guarded. It’s a talent, you know. She’s fucking good at this.
She only told him anything about herself (anything real, that is) once. It was 1958 and he took her to a film and they were outside and she looked at the giant picture of Kim Novak with her cat eyes and she said-
“I used to want to be an actress.”
“Did you, Joanie?” He’d grinned.
She didn’t tell him, at the time. The first time had been in her early twenties, with some man she didn’t know. The second time, the one Doctor Emerson took care of-that was Roger. She considered it a professional courtesy not to bother him with such things. Besides, she thought, he’d view her differently, even if only in the smallest way-she’s an escape, first and foremost, and she can’t interfere with that.
She’s beginning to think maybe it was the second time that did it.
She could blame herself or Doctor Emerson but she doesn’t, she blames Roger, and she thinks it’s probably least his fault of any of them, it’s just that he’d be-you know, he’d be so pleased to ruin everything for her and that’s almost as bad as if he’d done it on purpose, isn’t it?
“She’s leaving me, you know.”
“I know,” she says. It comes out very quickly and she didn’t know, she didn’t know at all.
He’s shown up at her door. He must have looked up her address in the books. He looks like he’s been drinking.
“The guy’s twenty five fucking years old. I must look ridiculous.”
“Think how your wife must have felt.”
He laughs.
“You’re a bitch.”
“Yes.”
“I keep coming back, though, don’t I? Must be a deeply rooted streak of masochism.”
His lips move toward her neck.
“I’m not going to comfort you, Roger.”
“That’s not why I came.”
“Why did you come?”
“I thought about it, Joanie. I thought about it all day. And I thought-what are you doing with that shit?”
“Please.”
She smoothes down her dress.
“I was wasting my time with some goddamn bimbo and you’re off with Doctor Dickless Ken doll and I just thought-why? It doesn’t make sense. We make a team, Red.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re saying what I think you’re saying.”
“We might as well, you know.”
“Very romantic.”
“Don’t tell me you go in for romanticism now. I won’t believe you.”
“Roger, I think you’ve ruined my relationship with my husband enough as it is.”
He snorts.
“When the hell have I ever had the chance to do that?”
“You really are completely blind, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You get left by your wife for a younger man and you come here as though you expect me to be overjoyed to have the chance to be with you. You don’t think about the consequences of your actions, do you? You don’t even realize your actions do have consequences.”
“Joanie.”
“I can’t even have children because of you.”
There is a moment. She hates talking to him when he’s drunk.
“What are you talking about, Red?”
“Greg and I can’t have a child because of a procedure I had five years ago.”
A beat.
“Fuck you.”
“I mean it.”
“No, fuck you. You don’t get to blame me for this kind of thing. You don’t get to hold that against me.”
She picks up his hat.
“I think you’d better go.”
Her husband does die, as it turns out. There’s a bomb. The one she always wanted.
She expects she should be guilty around now.
She is standing over her desk when he comes over.
“Going to blame me for this one, too, Holloway?”
“So quickly back to Holloway.”
“It’s who you are. Always were, I think.”
“Go to hell.”
“Take me up on the offer now that you’re not losing anything?”
She looks up. His face is more lined. He looks old, really.
There is an anti war sign outside. She can see it from the window.
“I wouldn’t take you on.”
“You don’t have to. We can be like we used to be.”
“You do adapt to the times, don’t you, Sterling?”
“So-“
“I’ll think about it,” she says.
“We could have some good times, Red.”
“Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
warnings: major spoilers and speculation for next week's preview clip. i know. this is really really mean of me.
She could die, you know. The city just might be killing her. New York has wrapped arms around her and grabbed her neck and it is squeezing and she could die of it.
Once, she thought the problem was being alone, was not having a husband in this bright steep world where you have to take care of yourself or you fall fast. She was wrong, of course. The problem is the city, it doesn’t matter whether you’re rich or poor or married or unmarried or even black or white: the city will kill you. It may do it gently, easily, with a silk glove or it may do it hard, but it will do it.
She doesn’t get pregnant in January or February and when Greg leaves in March, she’s given up, really.
She goes back to Doctor Emerson, spreads her legs on his table (how ironic, she did the exact same thing in his house on Long Island) and he looks inside her and flashes his light and she gets up on the table for the second time and she feels cold and oddly open.
“Am I just too old?” she asks. She lights a cigarette. Her nails are chipped, she realizes.
“I wouldn’t think so. These things take time, Mrs. Harris.”
“Don’t call me Mrs. Harris.”
“Joan.”
“Thank you.” She sounds almost prim.
“I don’t know if you’re still thinking your operations may have had an effect on your reproductive health but I seriously doubt that’s the case.”
She tips her head to the side.
“Is there a chance it is?”
“I don’t make mistakes, Mrs. Harris. I’m a physician.”
He doesn’t understand why she’s laughing.
“I heard the husband shipped out.”
He’s standing in the doorway of her office. The tie is straight, as ever.
“Now, where did you hear that?”
“I heard some of the girls talking about it outside my office.”
He shrugs, moves in and sits down on her couch.
“Roger Sterling, listening in on secretaries.”
“Joanie, you never did learn proper secretarial deference, did you?”
“I think I must have missed that seminar, Mr. Sterling.”
“You were good enough that we had to keep you on anyway, I guess.”
“I guess so.”
“You going to be lonely while he’s gone?”
He wags his eyebrows.
“Don’t even try.” It’s usually teasing and this time the rejection comes out oddly harsh-the kind of ‘no’, she thinks, that she said when she was on the floor in the old office, with Greg’s hand over her mouth.
He steps back.
“Is there something wrong?”
“No. No. I-I’m sorry. I think I need to be alone for a minute.”
He nods.
“Okay.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
He is moving outside the doorway. He turns.
“Don’t tell me you’re in love with him. I won’t believe you.”
Don was her first choice, actually. When she started here, she thought he’d be the one she’d take. The prize. He wasn’t really interested and she realized a little later that actually, she wasn’t either.
And then, of course, in time, the second choice becomes the first and she realizes there’s a rather ugly trick that’s been played on her.
She is no Marilyn Monroe. She could never be that weak.
She watches footage of dead soldiers on television, dead soldiers and something in her, something small, wishes for the phone call, wants to hear about a bomb or a raid, wants to hear that she’ll never have to look at him again.
But then, that’s idiocy, isn’t it?
She has everything she could want. She isn’t sentimental.
She was always careful with Roger, guarded, made sure only to give him the side of her he’d want and that he couldn’t hurt. She’s not impenetrable, you know (and yes, we know the pun you’re making. Please refrain), just guarded. It’s a talent, you know. She’s fucking good at this.
She only told him anything about herself (anything real, that is) once. It was 1958 and he took her to a film and they were outside and she looked at the giant picture of Kim Novak with her cat eyes and she said-
“I used to want to be an actress.”
“Did you, Joanie?” He’d grinned.
She didn’t tell him, at the time. The first time had been in her early twenties, with some man she didn’t know. The second time, the one Doctor Emerson took care of-that was Roger. She considered it a professional courtesy not to bother him with such things. Besides, she thought, he’d view her differently, even if only in the smallest way-she’s an escape, first and foremost, and she can’t interfere with that.
She’s beginning to think maybe it was the second time that did it.
She could blame herself or Doctor Emerson but she doesn’t, she blames Roger, and she thinks it’s probably least his fault of any of them, it’s just that he’d be-you know, he’d be so pleased to ruin everything for her and that’s almost as bad as if he’d done it on purpose, isn’t it?
“She’s leaving me, you know.”
“I know,” she says. It comes out very quickly and she didn’t know, she didn’t know at all.
He’s shown up at her door. He must have looked up her address in the books. He looks like he’s been drinking.
“The guy’s twenty five fucking years old. I must look ridiculous.”
“Think how your wife must have felt.”
He laughs.
“You’re a bitch.”
“Yes.”
“I keep coming back, though, don’t I? Must be a deeply rooted streak of masochism.”
His lips move toward her neck.
“I’m not going to comfort you, Roger.”
“That’s not why I came.”
“Why did you come?”
“I thought about it, Joanie. I thought about it all day. And I thought-what are you doing with that shit?”
“Please.”
She smoothes down her dress.
“I was wasting my time with some goddamn bimbo and you’re off with Doctor Dickless Ken doll and I just thought-why? It doesn’t make sense. We make a team, Red.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re saying what I think you’re saying.”
“We might as well, you know.”
“Very romantic.”
“Don’t tell me you go in for romanticism now. I won’t believe you.”
“Roger, I think you’ve ruined my relationship with my husband enough as it is.”
He snorts.
“When the hell have I ever had the chance to do that?”
“You really are completely blind, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You get left by your wife for a younger man and you come here as though you expect me to be overjoyed to have the chance to be with you. You don’t think about the consequences of your actions, do you? You don’t even realize your actions do have consequences.”
“Joanie.”
“I can’t even have children because of you.”
There is a moment. She hates talking to him when he’s drunk.
“What are you talking about, Red?”
“Greg and I can’t have a child because of a procedure I had five years ago.”
A beat.
“Fuck you.”
“I mean it.”
“No, fuck you. You don’t get to blame me for this kind of thing. You don’t get to hold that against me.”
She picks up his hat.
“I think you’d better go.”
Her husband does die, as it turns out. There’s a bomb. The one she always wanted.
She expects she should be guilty around now.
She is standing over her desk when he comes over.
“Going to blame me for this one, too, Holloway?”
“So quickly back to Holloway.”
“It’s who you are. Always were, I think.”
“Go to hell.”
“Take me up on the offer now that you’re not losing anything?”
She looks up. His face is more lined. He looks old, really.
There is an anti war sign outside. She can see it from the window.
“I wouldn’t take you on.”
“You don’t have to. We can be like we used to be.”
“You do adapt to the times, don’t you, Sterling?”
“So-“
“I’ll think about it,” she says.
“We could have some good times, Red.”
“Isn’t it pretty to think so?”