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Life Isn't Always Easy

by Shalla Wilson

Disclaimer: Remember WENN and all its characters are owned by Rupert Holmes and Howard Meltzer Productions, AMC. Jimmy Stewart and Boris Karloff are owned by themselves respectivly. I only own the simple piece of work.

Italics Denotes Thoughts

This takes place directly after we see Scott

Sherwood's face at the end of Same Time, Same Station.


He took another look at her face. Maybe what he saw wasn't happiness. Maybe it that was happiness, undeniably. He slowly turned and walked out the door. Behind him he could hear her voice, that sweet happy voice. As he moved down the hallway his feet felt like they were encased in cement. Every muscle in his body ached, not from long physical work but from emotional exhaustion. Suddenly he heard a break in the conversation, maybe she has noticed he had left, maybe she was going to come down the hall and get him. He waited, waited for the sound of her footsteps, her strong slender hand on his shoulder turning him around to her sweet smiling face. Laughter broke him from his impossible daydream, hers and Victor's. He shook his head and continued down the hall. Where was he going? He didn't know, nor did he really care.

He turned and went into the Green room. Everyone else was on the air. Here he could think, get a drink to calm himself, and figure out what to do next. As the doors swung shut behind him he heard a soft moan from the corner. He saw Pruitt, who had slid out of the chair and was now desperately trying to inch his way to the coffee table. As Scott looked down at the table he realized why. One of the guns was laying on the table, the one he left Betty with.

"Great," he muttered to himself. "She probably left it here in her hurry to get to him." He picked it up, much to Pruitt's disgust, tucked it in his waistband, grabbed the flask that sat next to it and turned to leave. He couldn't think in here. As he started out the door a muffled cry came from the floor. Pruitt still lay there, tied up, bleeding and gagged. Scott gave him a look of pity, anger and pure distaste. A look so full of emotion that Pruitt decided he was better off not getting this man's help. It might be the wrong kind of help.

The door swung shut behind him as he stepped back out into the hall. It was lifeless except for those voices that floated towards him. He had to find somewhere quiet to think. His head was beginning to throb. He started down the hall again, in the opposite direction of the voices. Suddenly he heard the sound of footsteps behind him and they definitely belonged to a female. He slowly turned around hoping with every bone in his body it would be her.

"Scotty!" A slightly damp, yet glowing Maple exclaimed, "hasn't this been a crazy night? Almost as exciting as working at the Crimson Follies. And that Victor Comstock! What a good looking man. So tall and debonair. Almost Jimmy Stewert-like, don't you think? Scotty, are you OK?"

He stared at her blindly. What was it about this man? He's too tall and somewhat klutzy. He looks more like Boris Karloff than Stewert, and yet the women love him.

"Yeah, Mapes, I'm here. I'm OK, too. Just a little tired, that's all," he said, forcing a smile on his face. Maple didn't buy it, but she didn't push either.

"OK," she said tentatively. "I've got to go rescue Eugenia. I left her playing the same page over. When I'm done, why don't we go get some coffee?"

"Sure, Mapes, that sounds good," he answered, then turned and headed back down the hall. Maple watched him for a few minutes. Something definitely upset him She had never seen him like this. He looked like he lost his best friend or his only love. "Hum," Maple said quizzically, but before she could ponder the subject she heard Eugenia start the same page again.

He finally reached the end of the hallway and found himself at a door he wasn't really sure he wanted to be at, but something drew him here. He slowly turned the knob and cautiously walked into the room. Quietly he shut the door acting as if he were in a sacred place. Flicking the lights on illuminated the long narrow room. Stacks of papers were everywhere in a state of organization that only one mind could keep track of. On the end of the desk he found the typewriter, her typewriter. He softly touched its metal frame and slowly ran his hand down the front till he caressed the keyboard. He sighed and flopped down in her chair.

"Hey Betty, I love you." kept running through his mind. Why did I say that? Because, you dolt, you had a gun to your head, and above all else in this world, you love her. You said what a potentially dying man had on his mind.

"Then why hasn't she said anything?" he asked the four walls, which answered him with his own question, then fell silent. He grabbed the flask that he had sat down on the desk and unscrewed the cap. As he tipped it towards him, he suddenly realized that this wasn't going to help. In fact, it could cause more damage. He didn't need to give Betty Roberts any more ammo than she already had, which was quite enough. He screwed the cap back on and threw the flask into the garbage can. As he watched it land with a thud a small lopsided grin began to form on his stone face.

Scott Sherwood has never backed down from a fight before. This certainly was going to be a tough one but the most important one he'd ever fight. The smile was from ear to ear as he propped his feet up on the desk and folded his hands behind his head. Yup, this one would be a challenge, but he knew he'd never lost before. He started to drift off to sleep, smiling, dreaming of an uncertain but adventurous future.


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