Dinner And A Show || Jamie

Saturday, September 15, 1923
~ 7 PM

---

There were no small roles.

It felt like something Cassian had been hearing since he'd first joined the troupe of the Rosebridge Little Theatre. Back then, he hadn't known much about acting, remaining in character or fully committing to his role. He used to fumble his lines and miss his marks. He was the boy who they said would make for an excellent tree and little more. Cass didn't suppose he'd minded much back then. Even at 8, he could tell he wasn't as good as many of the other more seasoned actors. He was shy and soft-spoken and likely to shrink if you told him he didn't put into heart into a line.

That was all well and good, but it had little to do with the young man he'd become or the sheer talent he'd displayed over years of productions in the youth troupe. As others phased out into the main troupe, more roles opened up, and Cassian learned to be dazzling.

With his own phasing into the main troupe, he felt as if he'd been demoted right back to the timid little boy who was happy to be on a stage at all, even if it was moping when everything was done. The difference? His temperament had skyrocketed since.

He wasn't content to utter a few lines then head backstage to make someone else a star. Unfortunately, as life had had no qualms in proving recently, his wants and what he received were not necessarily within the same ballpark. He could find himself coveting the role of Thomas Becket while being forced to accept that Seamus had outdone him for the role, having had years on the bigger stage while he'd still been contemplating the likes of Peter Pan.

Less tenable was being put on security duty.

Apparently, someone had snuck in.

Apparently, it was now his job to have them removed, as his role for the evening had ended and the other theatre hands were capable enough without him. An entire directorship now under his belt – never mind how he'd come by it – and he was being given grunt work. Cassian moved along the left aisle, doing his best not to shine the torch in the faces of any of the theatre goers for longer than he needed to. Some grumbled; others merely raised their hand to block the light while continuing on with their show.

Up and up he went until he neared the back of the theatre's auditorium. That was when he saw him...thought he saw him...certainly saw someone.

Cass trained the light on the face of the bloke, who he thought fit the description well enough. "Gonna need to see your ticket, mate." A part of him hoped he wouldn't be able to produce one, if only so he could say he'd found the culprit and could end his guard duty in peace. Should there be a ticket, it only meant more work for the young man who was putting a great deal of his energy into not transforming into an entire pillar of salt.

★★★

It was official. These days, Jamie was feeling more and more like a real life, bonafide Londoner. Of coures, he still got lost more than he'd like to admit (this newfangled Tube business was about as clear as mud, for instance), and he would get hit with a "bloody Yankee wanker" here and there.

But things were really turning around for him-- new job, good place, and he'd gotten to see Kate again...

Tonight, while he still had some pep in his step, Jamie decided to try out something brand-new.

Back home, Jamie was no stranger to theatre, picture shows, vaudeville, and everything that came with the stage. He'd even been goaded into a few amateur plays when he was a kid. Those short-lived days in the limelight hadn't been all that bad, even.

Jamie had once insisted that his performance as Seagull #2 would live on in the hallowed halls of the Ilvermorny performing arts program.

But alas, that was then, and this was now. Jamie was more than content to sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. Showbiz was too dramatic to deal with anyway, if the tabloids were to be believed.

Although life had been good to him as of late, old habits died hard. Money didn't grow on trees, and unless some genius made a breakthrough in the botany world, Jamie would feel no shame about keeping his patronage on the down-low.

And he had thought he'd been quite covert, slipping into the theatre. He had made sure to cover himself with a boisterous crowd of fellow young people. Even tugged his hat low over his head, like he was some villain from a detective novel. But here was some guy with a flashlight, shining the beam into people's eyes. Creeping down the row, one by one...

"My ticket?" Jamie echoed, dumbly. "Right. I have it right here, sir, don't you worry."

He flashed the man a charming smile and slowly reached into his coat pocket, all while trying to keep a straight face. Casual, cool as a cucumber... Lo and behold, his fingers came up empty.

"Aw gee, it's not this one," Jamie said sheepishly. "Hang on. Maybe it's... over here somewhere."

He made a show of going for the other side, then his breast pocket, then the other, even inside his hat. Nothing, zilch.

"Damn, I must've lost it," Jamie laughed again, and shrugged. "Would forget my own head if it weren't screwed onto my shoulders!" A familiar prickly feeling started to creep up the back of his neck. An old friend-- being caught in the act, like a mouse under a cat's paw.

Honestly! Jamie wasn't no mouse.

"You can let it slide this one time, can't you, pal?" Jamie asked, still twinkling up at the guy. "We don't gotta ruin this lovely evenin' over a tiny thing like this. I mean, I was just so jazzed to see this show. Happens to the best of us, eh?"

★★★

Oh god, one of them.

As if he hadn't been made to suffer enough for the night. It had to be a cheeky one. He'd had a feeling somewhere inside his gut – the very moment he'd seen the cast list and the satisfied grin on Seamus's face – that he should've bowed out with all the grace of a sore loser and made some excuse that something had come up. The youth troupe, while not currently working on any real production, could surely have used their director's finding...something for them to do. Exercises? Activities? Things that didn't require him to watch a liar try to charm him.

Cassian had a wife, a pretty one. Gorgeous even. One who got to stay behind the curtains with the stage hands while he flashed a too-bright torch in the face of one of those Americans. He could've been spending the evening working alongside if not making a name for himself.

Freddie would've loved him, if not for another reason than the sheer audacity of it all. This would've been the point in the evening where his red-headed menace of a friend nudged him in the ribs and suggested they had better things to do than ruin the show for someone sitting in an otherwise empty seat. Unfortunately for him, Freddie was currently on stage being a silent butler, and the theatre's owner was up in the rafters waiting for him to get the job done.

Cassian waved the torch mildly, indicating he didn't need to continue the facade. "Knew you were full of shit after 'sir'." They looked to be about the same age. How many blokes like them went around calling each other sir? No, he could peddle his propriety elsewhere.

Circe.

Maybe he was in a bad mood.

Cassian rocked back on his heels for a moment, wondering if he needed to breathe. His lungs weren't burning, just his pride. That didn't make the guy less of a stowaway; it simply made Cassian Thomas...surly.

Pal?

The liberties only seemed to increase.

"We don't gotta ruin this lovely evenin' over a tiny thing like this. I mean, I was just so jazzed to see this show. Happens to the best of us, eh?"

Dark eyes travelled through the darkness, up to the very rafters he liked to remain on above the audience during his own productions. It was hard to make out the owner's expression, but he was prepared to bet his last galleon that the man was impatiently waiting for Cassian to do the only thing the director thought him capable of doing. For him, the night was already ruined, and they all knew what they said about misery.

"Alright, the show's still got at least another half hour. I'll bite. Where was the last place you had it, sir? We'll have to retrace all your steps, starting back out in the lobby. Not gonna make me haul you up, are you?"

Out of the auditorium would have to be a good enough start.

★★★

The little jab from Jamie's accuser only got a snort out of him. Couldn't help it. He cleared his throat, and took deep breath in an attempt to stay serious. Key word-- tried. This was reminding him an awful lot of his schoolboy days. The other fellow even had the sour lemon face down pat.

Ah, memories...

"I can stick to 'pal' if that'd suit you better," Jamie said, shrugging. Then, because he couldn't resist, "Whatever'd turn that frown upside down."

Quite surly, indeed. Crabby would also be an apt description. The corners of Jamie's mouth twitched upwards, despite himself. A real killjoy. A spoilsport, a wet blanket, a--

Well. Real pushy too, seemed like. Jamie sighed and nodded. He was backed into a corner here, literally, and the escape routes were slim. A downright shame, since he had been genuinely enjoying the show. Almost. A few particular actors could stand to put a lot more gusto in their line delivery. You got what you paid for-- or rather, didn't, in this case.

"All right, all right, I'm up." Jamie hoisted himself up out of the chair. Stuffing his hat onto his head as he stood up, Jamie noticed that he had just a couple of inches on the other man. That cheeky little smile returned to his face, before he covered it with a cough.

"Lead the way, pal. Think I saw it under one of those couches in the foyer."

The lobby lights were a stark, blinding contrast to the comfortable dark of the theatre house. Jamie blinked a couple of times. The chattter from back onstage lingered behind him, a reminder of what he was missing right this very moment.

"They didn't feel like having you in the show?" Jamie asked, turning to his companion. "I'd reckon they need all hands on deck. And you look nice and capable." He was stalling for time, partly, but as his eyes adjusted to the lamplight, Jamie's slight compliment turned out to be true.

The fellow was quite a looker; bouncy curls falling over his forehead, dark, wry eyes, and a lithe frame. Something flickered to life inside Jamie's chest as he gazed on over. A small flutter, if you will. Then he flushed lightly and snuffed the feeling out before it could take wing.

Never mind all that.

"Surely, you got better things to do than hunt down a random Yank," Jamie tried, and finally set his grin loose. "I know I would..."

★★★

Pal.

Cassian turned the word over in his mind a few extra times. It wasn't that he was particularly unfamiliar with the American vernacular. Quite the contrary. Freddie had returned from the States with a few odd sayings that didn't quite sound the same in the mouth of a Brit. 'Pal' wasn't among his friend's many souvenirs. 'Pal' seemed like something they'd say ironically and in a moment of jest. Was that what this was? The comment on his smile looking a little too much like a frown could've been a dead giveaway. It could, however, also be that the guy was genuinely as full of shit as he'd deduced.

It wasn't a bad trait, not on its own. Cassian had several friends who he'd consider to be rather...unserious. They'd been friends for years, taking over the youth troupe even while some of them tried to break out into the main troupe.

For a young man as dramatic as himself, 'pal' could easily have been the hill he convinced himself to die on, but, "Cassian will do. Just Cass, it's all the same to me. Much as Rosie would like to think I'm making friends, I reckon you'll be too busy living the life of a theatre hopper. You'll be raising quiet hell in someone else's theatre before I've even got done learning yours."

Forgive his presumption, but the other bloke seemed a little too comfortable being called out to be a first offender. The way he'd sat in the seat, the cavalier insistence he possessed a ticket that he didn't? There wasn't a lick of shame.

"Lead the way, pal. Think I saw it under one of those couches in the foyer."

"The couches," Cass tsked, leading them swiftly from the auditorium and back into the blaring light of the foyer. "You never had a chance, did you?" Surely, it would've been near impossible to spot a ticket when it was so obscured by large furniture. He was doing his best, bless; it was the theatre that needed to cooperate.

"They didn't feel like having you in the show? I'd reckon they need all hands on deck. And you look nice and capable."

He wouldn't call it Kryptonite, but Cassian had always enjoyed praise. His name in lights, an adoring crowd, applause that echoed into eternity. His present company offered none of those, but, on a smaller level, he offered him the validation that everyone else had been too polite to offer.

"That's what I've been saying!" His exasperation had found an exit and clung to it fiercely. "I thought I'd done fabulously – could I have been tighter on the monologue ending? Sure. But they're acting like Seamus didn't flub too many notes in the chorus. He's got soul, yeah? But we've all got soul, don't we? You're bloody lying about owning a ticket and going on a wild goose chase like you were born for it." Not everyone would be so committed to the lie.

Cassian shook his head.

"It doesn't matter." he concluded, the flush going right by him. "We're looking for your ghost ticket. Get down and start searching. Convince me you really think it's there. Grunting's pretty good for that. Make it look good for the boy's over at the door, or I'll get an earful later."

The show had to go on after all, and his big part was coming up. The part where he put effort into his con.

"Surely, you got better things to do than hunt down a random Yank. I know I would..."

"Evidently not."