#smash 2012 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

crispyadorablepotatochip · 6 hours ago

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doesn’t seem to shine like that screen by myself

Fandom: SMASH (2012)

Ship: Karen Cartwright/Ivy Lynn

Tags: Compulsory Heterosexuality, Angst, Substance Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Word Count: 3,474 words

Summary:

Behind Ivy’s hair brush and eyeshadow pallet, Karen spots something bright orange: a pill bottle, only half-empty. She pulls away from Ivy’s touch and goes over to pick it up. “What is this?” she says. As she moves it, another bottle is revealed behind it. She holds both bottles up so Ivy can see that she’s discovered them. “And this—I mean, seriously?”

—OR—

S1E9: Instead of leaving right away, Karen finds out about Ivy’s pills.

Click below for the full fic on Tumblr!

Impossibly, Karen Cartwright lands in Ivy Lynn’s apartment.

While Ivy fumbles to close the door, Karen takes it upon herself to look around. It’s far smaller than she expects, even for New York. Her bedroom is right there when she turns the corner. The sight startles her: everything in white and saltwater-taffy colors, a kitsch lamp on the nightstand, little trinkets scattered on the dresser. Evidently, Ivy’s budget went to designer clothing instead of home decorating. She pictured Ivy’s apartment before as sleek and modern, like Derek’s place… Nothing similar to how it really is, almost like a teenage girl’s. Immature. It disguises the fact of the matter, which is that Ivy has probably had sex with Derek on that very bed however many times. The idea repulses her—that Ivy would spread her legs for the director like that, even with all her natural star power. (Or, perhaps, that the only thing distinguishing them from each other is their willingness to do what it takes. She remembers: Marilyn knew what she brought to the party. And so does Ivy.)

Ivy swings a strong arm around Karen’s shoulder. She smells good—like alcohol and Chanel No. 5, which shouldn’t work together, but somehow does. Effervescent. Is that weird of Karen to think? She never knows what’s appropriate or not with Ivy; one moment, they’re snickering together over something, and then Ivy suddenly turns cold. Smiling with her mouth tight and mean, not beaming like she is now. Ivy has such white teeth. They’re blinding. Her salmon-pink lips stretch over them and Karen smiles herself at the sight, relieved that for once everything is alright between them.

If this is drunk Ivy, Karen thinks, then maybe they need to get drunk together more often. A dark part of her wonders what it would be like to press Ivy back onto her bed and pour more vodka into her willing throat, just to see how happy she gets. But that would be cruel and vindictive. Something Ivy might do to her, if given the chance—but then, perhaps she’s wrong about that.

This new tentative friendship between them makes her feel uncertain. Like she’s overstepping, enabling… Or like, perhaps, Ivy hasn’t actually been that awful this whole time. Maybe Karen’s the one who’s underestimated her.

Then her gaze turns to Ivy’s dresser, where cut-outs of Marilyn Monroe are pasted onto the edge of the mirror. Even in private she must be surrounded with disappointment over losing the role. It suffocates Karen, too, and she’s not as obsessive. Does Ivy try to mimic Marilyn’s features when she applies her makeup? Does she have any other rituals before rehearsal? Does she dance to Fosse like Karen does, alone late at night, trying to muster up the ability to be sexy in front of an audience? Probably not, on that last one. Ivy’s naturally sexual. Everything about her screams it: her lips, her waist, her hair, her hips, her round breasts. Especially her breasts.

Dev once told her that everyone was obsessed with Marilyn’s breasts. Knowing Ivy, Karen understands why. It’s hard to keep her eyes off them sometimes. Gosh, when she wears those form-fitting dresses of hers… The point is, Ivy hasn’t had to try at it like she has. Even when dolled up, Karen gets the sense that everyone sees through her—sees her as she sees herself most of the time, awkward and uncomfortable.

Ivy shoots her an unexpressed glare. “Shut up,” she says. “It’s just, um, progesterone. And some other stuff. I don’t know, ask my pharmacist.”

“I thought you were done with progesterone, like, a week ago. And this is—” Karen squints to read the labels. “Ambien? Why the heck are you on Ambien… Wait, did you take this today?”

That explains Heaven On Earth, then. Karen thought Ivy was sick. Disturbed, at the very least. Her instinct goes straight to judgment: can’t Ivy just push through it without drugging herself? That’s what Karen does. Even when she doesn’t see Dev as often, or she misses every appointment and half her shifts, or she bails on meetings with important people, or she has to sing freaking ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. President’ in front of the whole cast, breathy and not good enough to justify the embarrassment with Derek staring daggers from his position downstage… Well, she does it regardless, because that’s what you do in show business.

Then Ivy stumbles over and takes the bottles forcibly, putting them on her nightstand. The brush of their hands together in the moment feels more intimate, somehow, than any other touch they’ve shared. More intimate than sharing the vodka. Karen’s lips still burn from the heat of sipping over the other woman’s residual lipstick mark. (She isn’t used to pure liquor, and she’s a lightweight anyways. That’s all.)

Ivy drawls, “Shut up, Iowa. I’m fine.” She giggles and falls back onto the bed. Her blonde hair casts over her face, framing it in wisps of cloud. She really is an angel, Karen thinks. “Marilyn did it too, you know. If anything, this should make me more qualified.” And she laughs again, as if she hasn’t just said something horrifying and sad.

Karen moves over to the bed. She sits on the edge, not quite sure if that’s acceptable, and takes Ivy’s hand again. She doesn’t know why. Maybe she just wants to catch Ivy’s attention, because it’s an important enough issue to deserve it. When she does, she already knows that Ivy will be looking up at her through those obnoxiously large eyelashes.

She tries to figure out the best angle for the intervention first. It isn’t like she could say the truth: that even a few months in, she can’t imagine a world where Ivy Lynn isn’t there to compete with her. That she would be worse off if she were just handed her roles—that Ivy pushes her to be better, all the time, even when Karen hates her. (That seeing Ivy fall on stage just about stopped her heart with fright.) All of it is too selfish to matter.

“Marilyn died young,” Karen says eventually. Avoiding the issue, but not really.

Ivy squeezes her hand. She says, “You think I haven’t read about a thousand fucking biographies? God.”

Karen smiles at her and knocks their shoulders together. “I know,” she says. The books piled up on her nightstand, she’s sure, are about Marilyn too. She continues, “I just mean… not all stars die young. The best of them have long careers.”

“Like my mother’s?” Ivy asks, and it startles her, because Karen isn’t even thinking about that. It’s just like Ivy, though. She’s always reading between the lines, even when it’s her actual lines in the workshop. It’s what makes her such a great Marilyn, besides the voice and the body and well, everything else.

Karen murmurs, “No. Like yours.” Maybe it’s the alcohol, because she can’t stop herself from reaching up and tucking a little strand of Ivy’s hair back into place behind her ear.

Ivy’s brilliant blue eyes begin to shine. Her mouth pulls up into an expression like she’s trying not to cry—but it doesn’t work, because a tear slips down her cheek. “You’re a star, too,” she says quickly. “I didn’t want to admit it before, because—God, I’ve been rude, but you should know. Your voice is… pretty. Really. And ignore what I’ve said about your dancing.”

“What did you say about my dancing?” Karen questions, curious despite herself. She’s said some truly heinous things to their mutual friends—and she knows Ivy has, too. They act as a refuge for venting. Always bitchy to the right side when they need to be, friends to all but loyal to none. At least Karen knows never to repeat her most scathing criticisms, lest they be turned on her when she’s out of the room. She figures that’s simply how theatre works; it’s only politics. Or so says Dev.

Ivy tips her head back and lets out another breathy laugh. It reminds Karen of her signature sexy Marilyn voice, which she always assumed was pure affectation for the role. Perhaps, though, she truly does just sound that way. “You dance like a frightened baby deer. We called you Bambi,” she says.

Karen rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“The first day of the workshop, I thought you were going to… break your leg, or something!”

“Like you almost did today?” Karen says thoughtlessly.

The dig is too fresh—it makes her wince at her own stupidity—because Ivy looks to be on the verge of crying again. She whispers, “I was a disaster up there, Karen. I’m going to lose my job. It’s not funny. It’s not.”

“I know it’s not,” Karen reassures her. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just—I want you to be okay without pills, or alcohol, or… It’s a dark path.”

Ivy’s glossy mouth purses. “I shouldn’t say this either, but I’m glad you’re here. Derek would never.”

“Do what?”

“Tell me to ditch the pills! You know, like—” Ivy’s gaze flickers over to the bottles, which practically glow orange. They suck up all the light in the room. “He told me to take them. I didn’t want to at first.”

Karen’s shoulders straighten in shock instantly. She blurts out, “What? He told you that?” For once, she fails to find words to express how much she despises Derek. He’s been having sex with Ivy, all this time, and somehow finds it in himself to destroy her another way too.

“He’s not so bad when we’re alone,” Ivy defends, which only makes the situation worse. It’s sickeningly pathetic, now that Karen notices the way she talks about him. Ivy begs for every meager scrap of affection like she won’t end up keeping any of it.

Karen tells her, “Yes, he is! There’s got to be some men in the world who are decent, and kind, and don’t encourage reckless drug use. I believe that for my own sanity, at least, because Dev is fantastic… But anyways, you deserve so much better.”

Ivy sends a wary glance her way. “Dev?”

Oh, right. They don’t actually know each other very well; the reminder stings. They aren’t friends. In all likelihood, they never will be. “My boyfriend,” Karen clarifies.

“And he’s perfect, you say? Never… looking at other girls’ asses? Grabbing them?” Ivy scoots herself further near the headboard, then lies down flat so her plush limbs sprawl aimlessly. Her eyes point at the ceiling, which Karen realizes is covered in glow-in-the-dark stars.

In return, Karen brings it upon herself to shift fully onto the surface of the bed. The question makes images flash through her mind: Dev and stupid, pretty, female R.J., chatting as if they have so much in common just because they both go rooting through the upper crust’s dirty laundry together. After too long a pause, she says, “No, Dev wouldn’t.”

“But there’s someone else,” Ivy guesses. Her face goes slack and sleepy in the late hour. Karen wonders if that’s how she always looks when she’s tired. (How many times has someone seen Ivy like this, in bed—except naked?)

Back to Dev, though. Her chest hurts considering the idea, but it’s true that they can’t keep doing this, where Dev shunts her off to talk with R.J. and Karen shunts him off to perform with Ivy. Maybe they’re just too ambitious to belong to different careers. She sighs in defeat. “Okay, yeah.”

Ivy sticks a hand up with her index finger straight in the air. “See!” she says. “I’m totally right. All men are shades of awful, except if they’re gay.”

Ugh. It’s moments like this where Ivy seems most annoying—and, somehow, most attractive. Not, like… attractive, attractive. Just attractive. It makes Karen want to kiss her. Platonically. A platonic kiss. That’s normal in the theatre industry, right? She’s seen Tom and Julia kiss each other before.

And maybe it’s the alcohol again, or the dappled freckles across Ivy’s shoulders, or that her room decor is actually really charming, now that Karen thinks of it, and she doesn’t know why she ever believed differently—but regardless of the reason, Karen leans over and presses her mouth to Ivy’s. It’s warmer than she expects. Wetter, though that makes sense from the liquor and lip gloss. Ivy’s skin feels unbearably soft, so unlike all of the men she’s kissed before. Karen wants to lean in and memorize the sensation better, but her instincts tell her that’s a dangerous idea. Instead she holds there as Ivy’s jaw tips upward to kiss her back. The barest edge of teeth nip at Karen’s top lip. Ivy must’ve had lots of practice doing that, because it sends a shiver down Karen’s spine.

When she pulls away, Karen can see that Ivy’s licking her lips. Something pulls low and hot in her stomach at the sight. The feeling is unplaceable, and she can’t detect its origin—only that she hates herself for not giving in and pressing Ivy down into the mattress for longer.

“God, Iowa,” Ivy says. Her voice is out-of-breath, how it always sounds after she belts a song. “I didn’t think you had the guts.”

Karen’s sure that Ivy is making fun of her like she always does. She can never quite catch up to the insults because half the time she doesn’t realize she’s being insulted at all. Now, it’s painfully obvious that she’s messed up. A stupid impulse to begin with, and yes, she knows she’s a mediocre kisser as well—but it isn’t even really a proper kiss, given that Ivy’s a woman. As it stands, there’s nothing to apologize for.

But Ivy stares up at her like she’s hung the moon, or something, like the kiss was real; suddenly, Karen’s not sure if she wants it to be. Except that she’s not a lesbian of course, and there’s still Dev too. Instead of considering it any further she breaks eye contact and lies on her back. Tries to ignore the memory of that wonderful pressure on her lips. Karen stammers, “It’s—it’s nothing.”

“No-one told me you’re a fantastic kisser! People should know,” Ivy exclaims.

Karen puts her hands over her face. “I have very reliable sources that tell me I’m not.”

“You so are. Shit, I mean, if you ever kissed Derek I don’t know why he wouldn’t hand you the part right then and there.”

The fact that they end up circling back to Derek again makes her head hurt. Maybe it’s just that he’s repulsive in both appearance and personality. Maybe not. Either way, some nauseating mixture of jealousy and pride rises up in Karen’s throat. She could have gotten the part, couldn’t she? And she might in the future. Only Ivy had the so-called guts to sex him up, therefore winning the workshop.

Though it isn’t really about the workshop at all anymore, Karen thinks. Not when she’s lying on Ivy Lynn’s comforter with the woman herself beside her, who she’s kissed. Who seems so kissable still that Karen’s covering her vision just to keep herself from doing it again.

Gosh. What’s wrong with her? Karen has a perfectly fine boyfriend at home to kiss instead—and, she reminds herself, she should hate Ivy and everything she stands for. The stuck-up theatre-snob nepo babies who never have to try at anything… except, of course, that Ivy always tries. That’s, like, her thing. Beyond Derek’s pressures, Karen suspects it’s what drove her to pills and liquor.

“Oh, come on,” Ivy says, breaking her train of thought. “Don’t get all mopey on me.”

Karen bats away the side of the other woman’s bare arm with an open palm. “You make me sound like a sad cartoon animal—like Bambi again!”

“Mm-hm,” Ivy insists. “So cute and long-limbed… You have huge eyes, you know? And you’re not even wearing fake lashes. Some people are born lucky.”

Karen does know, unfortunately. She spent her entire childhood fending off allegations of being part alien. Too gangly, strange features. (No one would ever want to fuck her, she was told once in middle school.) When she grew, her breasts did too, as well as new inspirations for ridicule: if she ever stood up straight instead of slouching, there’d be awful rumors about who she’d allowed to touch them. No, better to play the good girl. Derek might be trying to train the habits out of her, but they’ve been ingrained into her way of life since then. Never swear. Never make out in public for longer than ten seconds. Never show her stomach. Never show her legs. Never show her breasts. Never…

The rules are hard to keep track of, in the end. Dev doesn’t understand—Karen wishes she lived in a world where it isn’t all necessary. So she indulges in the fantasy a bit. Who can blame her? Derek shouldn’t be a creep. It shouldn’t be an issue if she’s too sexy or not sexy enough for the people around her. But she also knows that gossip circulates regardless of her dreams, and so she tries to keep herself within the reins of acceptable behavior anyways.

(Acceptable, normal girls can flirt with their boyfriends without thinking of it as practice for the stage. Without hovering almost outside themselves, watching from the sidelines to observe: what’s the best way to make him feel things? Taking cues from the movies. Dancing alone in the mirror. Imagining beautiful women berating her. She isn’t good enough.)

Karen shrugs off the compliment uncomfortably. She says, “It’s hard to think you’re serious, when you look like…” She waves a hand in the air, trying to express it all: how Ivy’s smile softens her eyes, and her stupid costume compliments her figure, and her skin looks so tan against the white of the feathers and the molten gold of her hair. The point is, she’s gorgeous and she’s got to know it already, which means she knows what beauty looks like in general. Karen doesn’t need Ivy to lie to her. She can be sexy or pretty or whatever if she tries; she’s done it before. But it’s less about her as a person and more about performance. About power. That’s all sex is, she’s beginning to learn.

Ivy replies, “I do look nice, don’t I?”

It’s something so blatantly egotistical that Karen registers it as a joke. They both burst out into another round of giggles. It’s easy to laugh around Ivy, she thinks. Why did she ever bother being scared of her before?

Then something in her pocket buzzes. She pulls out her phone. Dev’s texted: whr r u??? it’s 11 and ur not home :(

The struggles of having an outdated Blackberry. It’s the press industry standard, but it forces him to message like a teenager just to get the words out quickly. Karen frowns and turns to Ivy. “Sorry,” she says. And she really, actually is. If she had any excuse for being there longer, she’d take it, just to revel in successfully bonding with Ivy Lynn of all people. “It’s Dev. He’s getting worried, and it’s late… I’d better—yeah, I should leave.”

Now that she brings herself to move off the bed, Karen realizes again how drunk she is. The room spins a bit whenever she moves her head. As she collects her purse she looks behind her at Ivy, who remains expressionless and silent.

Finally Karen asks, because she has to say something now, “Can we be friends?” It sounds stupid and childish, but nothing else expresses what she means. She wants to take the subway hand-in-hand together when rehearsal gets late, or find out what Ivy’s favorite drink is when she’s not having it straight from the bottle. She still wants to kiss Ivy again—an ill-advised and meaningless desire, but one that exists nevertheless.

Ivy’s voice sounds hollow as she replies. “We’re not friends, Bambi.”

Karen supposes that’s it: one day and one night of tolerance spent so quickly she hardly knew it ever existed. Nothing to mourn. But as she makes her way out and down the stairwell, her throat begins to close up with emotion. By the time she reaches the bottom, she’s sobbing—and later, when Dev tries to comfort her, she can’t help but wish Ivy were holding her too.

Author’s notes:

So, I got a free trial for Broadway HD, then promptly binge-watched all of season one of SMASH in two days. Oops. It was all for Megan Hilty (loml) and I don’t regret it at all—reminds me of old times watching Glee.

Ivy and Karen are so so in love imo. Kudos to my sister for supporting me about this ship.

My thing about Karen is that her repression is just as much about public image as it is about sex. She wants to be seen as a good, pure person, which I think comes down to her childhood and maybe also Dev’s occupation in the press. I remember one of her lines in particular: “My parents didn’t raise me that way.” Oof. Also, imo being sexually attractive towards men just doesn’t seem to come naturally to her. She has to practice at it over and over to “get it right,” and even then it’s less about being pleased and more about pleasing others. She also has a hard time making friends and knowing what’s appropriate socially. (Autism.)

But anyways, when you look at her actions Karen is judgmental and attention-seeking and ambitious, just like Ivy. They are so so similar, and I think Ivy’s sense of agency and sexuality attracts her. But she can’t admit that to herself because of all her preconceived beliefs and assumptions.

Meanwhile, Ivy is more open about being publicly bitchy and sexual, but it comes at the cost of being vulnerable. She can’t open up easily, because she’s positioned herself as a sex object. Very Marilyn. I think she would have already accepted herself as being attracted to women. (She can’t have done all that reading without having encountered the “lesbian Marilyn Monroe” rumors.) But trying to make it big as an open sapphic in 2012? Not easy. Much more advantageous to stay closeted.

Tagging @applewithteeth bc they asked for more SMASH fan content!

#smash #smash 2012 #ivy lynn #karen cartwright #smash tv show #my work #fanfiction #megan hilty #smash nbc

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