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billiedeanhwrd · 2 years

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running in circles, running from you (iii)

harriet hayes x reader

summary: fake dating trope ft. homophobia and religious trauma but make it studio 60 funny

w/c: 2.3k

notes: WARNINGS for f- and d-slur, homophobic/sexual heckling, and protesters

taglist: @thedeconstructionist @cordeliass @talulahmae @max-the-dog @mistysswampmud @angelxsarahp @cordithatgurl (let me know if you want to be added or taken off!)

chapter one, two

Thursday — 9am

You’re spit on outside the front gate of Studio 60 by a man wearing a cross. You gasp, your eyes fluttering as you hold up your hands in breathless shock.

“Sodomite,” he growls, his friends sneering at you. They’d been loitering outside as you walked up, no doubt waiting for you.

“Go fuck yourself,” you say, slowly descending back into your body as you wipe the saliva from your face. He laughs and glances between you and his buddies.

“Do it for me,” he grins, licking his teeth as he looks you over. Your stomach flips, and your skin crawls, and you’re getting ready to launch yourself at him when two people run up to you, grabbing your arms.

“That’s enough,” Simon groans, pulling you back through the gates. Harry is on your other arm, her grip tight and warm. You shake them off, heart pounding and blood boiling.

“Get off me.” Harry startles back, unsure, but Simon holds his ground, getting in your face.

“Hey! You want another headline? Studio 60 star beats up Christians outside front doors.” He’s yelling to get your attention, and you blink, your throat tightening. He’s right. You just wish the options were better.

“I don’t deserve this shit,” you spit, angrily dusting off your shirt.

“No one does,” Harry chimes in, her arms folded protectively across herself, brow furrowed tightly. You’re not sure what she means by that, but it makes you feel small among a sea of other bad deeds she also judges not, and you turn away from her.

“I should have never said anything in the first place,” you mutter, walking towards the front doors, holding yourself tight. You’d never really intended to come out publicly. It was easier to just keep your private life private, even and especially to your castmates. But the heat of the camera flashes and the persistent yelling of the press overwhelmed you. It was a mistake, a brief lapse of judgment that was now biting you in the ass.

Harry catches up with you on your way to your dressing room, not even saying good morning to anyone, her focus singular and urgent. Breathless, she falls in stride next to you.

“Now those were Crazy Christians,” she laughs, her eyes hopeful and searching, looking to make you laugh. For a moment, you do smile, and the overwhelming relief on Harry’s face makes you melt. You have to remind yourself that she does care. It’s one of the things you love about her. She cares so damn much. In this case, it just isn’t enough.

“Thanks for pulling me back,” you say as she follows you into your dressing room.

“Anytime,” she offers, shrugging, an easy smile on her lips. But you can feel the pressing sincerity behind her casual body language. “That’s what friends are for.”

You chew your lip, looking down and nodding. You aren’t sure what your friendship means anymore, but you don’t say that. There’s a moment of tense silence before Harry takes another breath.

“I’m sorry. About what they said to you. It’s not true.” It’s weakly placating, and you find yourself angry again.

“Of course it is,” you say, and Harry’s eyes widen briefly, in shock.

“What do you—”

“According to your beliefs, it is true. Don’t lie to me to make yourself feel better. It’s insulting.”

“Y/N,” she pleads, stepping forward. You don’t want to hear it. You don’t want to hear any of it. You can still feel the man’s spit on your face, and your skin crawls once more.

“I have to scrub my face. I’ll see you at rehearsals,” you say, ushering Harry out the door and shutting it behind you. Finally alone, you let out a breath you feel like you’ve been holding for ten minutes and slump against the door. It isn’t even noon and you’re already exhausted.

. . .

1pm

“I mean, she’s crucifying me. I don’t know what to do, what to say, I feel so helpless,” Harriet says, stabbing her fork into her salad. Jordan hums, swallowing a bite of her own before shaking her head.

“First of all, never say that again. Ever.” Confused, Harry opens her mouth. Jordan hushes her with a sharp finger at her mouth. “Never ever.” Harry deflates but closes her mouth, and Jordan lets the reality of Harry’s words sink in for a moment, watching as Harry realizes how insensitive and horrible it is to say that she’s being crucified by your anger. Satisfied that Harry is sufficiently reprimanded, Jordan speaks again. “Second of all, give me one good reason why she should stay friends with you.”

“I’m not homophobic,” Harry insists firmly, leaning forward.

“Harry, I love you, but if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck…”

“I would never do anything as vile as those men outside,” Harry snaps back. “They are the homophobes.”

“You do realize that you don’t have to actually hate crime Y/N for her to feel uncomfortable around you,” Jordan says slowly, watching for Harry’s reaction. “All those men who didn’t want me promoted—didn’t believe I could run a network—wouldn’t call themselves misogynists, but they all had their beliefs about women.”

This stops Harry cold, something she can relate to, something she can better understand. And then suddenly she begins to understand something about Matt too.

. . .

3pm

“Can I talk to you?” Harriet asks, picking nervously at her nails as she walks up to Matt’s desk. He’s typing furiously, mouth hanging open, brow furrowed tightly as she fondly remembers him doing when he’s too focused to hear anything but his own thoughts.

She waits a moment, nothing but tapping keys to fill the silence, before sighing and taking a step closer.

“It’s important Matthew.” He types for another second before licking his lips—tired, focused eyes switching to her.

“What’s up?” Harry takes a breath and swallows, her face contorted. She’s afraid to ask, but she needs to know.

“Did me thinking you were going to hell affect our relationship?” Matt raises his brow, surprised as he ponders the implications of her question. Then he takes a breath and leans forward.

“Is this about what happened with Y/N this morning?”

“How do you know about that?” she asks, confused.

“Everyone knows about it, Harry,” he drawls, looking up at her from under his brow, arms across his desk. She presses her lips together and huffs.

“Can you just answer the question, please?” He sighs and looks away briefly, swallowing.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew you loved me. And if you could love me more than you hated me, that was good enough for me.” He shrugs, and Harry lets that sink in for a moment.

They’ve had this fight for so many years now, it’s just exhausting. But Matt didn’t break up with Harry because he felt attacked by her beliefs, and Harry didn’t break up with Matt because she worried for his eternal soul, and they both knew this. Their fights were never really about religion.

“But it’s different for Y/N,” Matt ventures, and Harry’s eyes shoot to him. “No one gets killed for being an outspoken atheist or an outspoken Christian. The way we fought…It was like being in a philosophy lecture,” Matt scoffs, but he’s smiling, and she smiles back, just a flicker. “For her, the things people like you say are the first step down a long road to people like that guy outside and worse.”

Harry chews her lip, her throat tight. Defensively, she wants to put a harder emphasis on the judge not part of the bible, but she knows it wouldn’t go over well. For the first time in regards to the bible, Matt’s right. It really doesn’t matter. The idea will always be there underneath every judge not. Seeing her guilt, Matt sighs, glancing at his computer.

“I’m working on a sketch for Y/N.”

“For her?” He shrugs, a small smile on his lips.

“She’s had a rough week. There’s a part for you if you want it.” His eyes are sparkling, and Harry looks him over curiously.

“Read it out.”

. . .

9pm

Everyone was in high spirits after the first run through of the new sketch, especially you who thought it was hilarious and enjoyed just how much it would piss people off. Matt had winked at you at the end of the night, and you mouthed him a grateful thank you as everyone left the stage.

Your high lasted all the way until you started hearing the big three bickering outside your door. Throwing on a clean shirt, you frown, listening as they…fight over you?

“I can hear you, you know,” you call, and the chatting stops. Slowly, your door swings open to reveal a sheepish looking Simon, Harry, and Tom. You aren’t part of the big three, not in terms of screen time or popularity, but you are friends with them.

“So, here’s the thing,” Tom offers, rubbing the back of his neck. You instantly frown. There’s an awkward pause where Tom struggles to speak, and then Simon claps him on the back.

“Tell her, man.”

“Tell me what?”

“The assholes from this morning are back, and they brought friends. They’re waiting outside for you,” Harry says, stepping forward.

“We’re gonna walk you to your car,” Simon adds, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Your stomach drops, overwhelmed with fear and gratitude to the point of numbness.

“Are you sure you wanna be seen with me out there?” you ask Harry, your gaze singular and piercing. Simon and Tom awkwardly pretend they suddenly can’t hear, and Harry never breaks eye contact.

“I’m sure.” It’s an olive branch, you think. Not her walking with you because that’s just what friends do. Her not caring. That’s what matters. You take a breath and nod, feeling brave with their support.

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

. . .

9:15pm

They’re holding signs like this is a political protest, raving like mad dogs. You’ve never seen anything on this scale for one person before. Maybe it’s the price for being in the public eye. You become the only face of a whole group. With a pounding heart, Tom walks in front while Harry and Simon stay on either side of you. Harry’s hand is on your back, light and guarding, and maybe that’s also why your heart is pounding.

They don’t part for you as you walk, but you do glide through them as they yell, close and in your face. The man who spit on you this morning is holding a sign that says God Hates Fags, and he yells as you approach.

“Burn in hell, bitch!”

“I’ll see you there, asshole!” you yell back, inflamed. Simon grips your arm, deathly serious.

“Do not engage with them,” he hisses in your ear. Your nostrils flare, but you know he’s right.

“How’d she convert you, Harry?” Someone yells, and you stop dead in your tracks, turning to the sound of the voice.

“What the fuck did you just say?” you ask, so angry you feel like you’re vibrating. Harry tightens her grip around your arm, trying to drag you forward. You shrug her off, watching as the man who said it grins. He knows he has you now.

“You heard me,” he shouts, licking his lips. “How’d you manage to turn the only Christian in Studio 60 to a dyke?” You can feel his disgust from two people away, and Simon must have sensed your body tensing because he steps in front of you.

“Keep walking,” he tells you, firm and unyielding. You clench your jaw, your blood boiling. You feel like a rubber band, ready to snap. You can’t see, can’t breathe, and your fists are already balling. You think you can take it when it’s about you, but you draw the line at involving Harry.

“Harriet, blink twice if Y/N’s holding you hostage!” the guy yells, cupping his hands over his mouth. That’s it. You slip past Simon and throw yourself at him. As soon as your fist connects with his jaw, he stumbles back, and that smug smile dissipates. He holds his face, and two guys catch him before he can fall. The band between you and them snaps, and there’s a mighty uproar, and the three of you quickly realize that you’re surrounded on all sides.

“Fuck,” Tom hisses, holding his arms out to shield you and Harriet. Your chest heaves, and your pupils are blown, and then someone is grabbing at you. Simon throws a punch at him, and then you’re all pushing and shoving and running.

You run and run up Sunset until you can’t breathe, your feet falling fast and hard on the sidewalk. Harriet is the first to slow, and you all stop with her, heaving and panting. You laugh once, trying to catch your breath. Then you’re shaking and laughing, looking between the three of them. Slowly, they start to laugh with you, unspeakably relieved and feeling so insane and roaring with adrenaline. You don’t know what to do with your hands. You can feel that your fist is warm and swelling, but it doesn’t hurt, not yet. Except when your knees start to feel like jelly, the tears come so unexpectedly it shocks everyone around you. They stream down your cheeks, and you’re still laughing breathlessly, but it hurts now, and you want to curl into a tiny ball. Before your knees can give out, you see Harry striding toward you. She’s not laughing. And she doesn’t say a thing when she pulls you into her arms and hugs you tight.

“You’re okay,” she whispers, holding the back of your head as you tremble in her arms. “Shh, it’s okay.” You feel her even breathing against you, and it’s soothing—her warmth, her tenderness. Then Tom and Simon have their arms around you too, and you sob into Harry’s shoulder as they all hold you steady, hold you close.

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