Archive of Our Own

Years later, on a red carpet at an award ceremony somewhere, a perky reporter will ask them for their “love story.” Dirk, the little shit that he is, will tell her that it was love at first sight. Todd won’t correct him, mostly out of embarrassment. 

But, as Todd, Dirk, and Farah Black know, the story of ToddandDirk had a much bumpier start. In fact, it started like this: 

“No,” Todd says as firmly as physically possible, staring Farah dead in the eyes. “I am not going to work with Patrick’s new pop star.” 

“Yes, you are,” Farah responds, just as firmly but far more cheerfully, letting herself the rest of the way into his studio and dropping onto his couch happily. She even bounces once or twice. Farah enjoys being the one to bring him news she knows he’ll hate. 

“But why?” Todd whines, turning his spinny chair away from his desk to continue the conversation. Farah smirks.

“Direct orders from Patrick.” She glances around his studio, which is covered in empty coffee cups and sweatshirts and the scrunched up paper balls of discarded song drafts. “Jesus, Todd, how do you live like this?” 

“Don’t change the topic,” Todd says, mostly because he doesn’t want Farah telling him to clean his room like she’s his mom or something. “Farah, why did Patrick hire me if he just wanted someone to write bullshit pop nonsense?” 

“To be fair, Todd, you write wonderful ‘bullshit pop nonsense’. Your songs have done exceptionally well on the charts.” Todd scowls. It’s one thing to be a total corporate sellout. It’s another thing to have it rubbed in his face just how much better he is at being a corporate sellout than he ever was at being a real punk musician. 

“That's the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Farah rolls her eyes.

“Dirk Gently will be here tomorrow for his first songwriting session,” she says, firmly. “He’s very excited by this, and Patrick’s very excited by him--tomorrow needs to go well. I expect you to be on your best behavior, is that clear?” Todd groans. 

“Yes, Mom.” 

“And, for the love of God, clean this room.”

After Farah leaves, Todd makes a half-assed cleaning attempt and then sits down to look up Dirk Gently on Youtube. 

He’s heard of the guy, but he’s never actually listened to any of the guy’s music, because he’s a pop star and Todd hates pop. Really. The first couple of songs are all saccharine, bubbly and quirky and unbearable. The third song is...not so bad. 

Granted, Todd can’t hear it that well. He’s watching a video some fangirl uploaded of one of Dirk’s concerts. He misses the concert atmosphere, the crowds and the music and the lights. And the screaming, though in this video it is making it kind of hard to hear what sounds like a nice love song. Not great or anything, but nice. 

Dirk Gently, Todd has to admit, has a lovely voice.

Not that that means anything. Todd knows it takes more than a voice to be a pop star. Dirk Gently, with his colorful jackets and cutesy jokes between songs, is bound to be nothing more than a persona. A marketable man. Todd knows better than to expect substance. 

And Todd still has to find a song for him. He pulls up the ever shifting folder on his desktop of lyrics for as-yet-unproduced songs and begins mentally sorting them into two piles: acceptable for Dirk Gently, and not acceptable for Dirk Gently. Anything bubblegum, lovey-dovey, or inane goes in the “yes” mental pile. Everything with even a hint of edge goes in the “no” mental pile. 

Then he pulls up a song called “Bellhop.” It’s a song he’s been working on for four years, since before Mexican Funeral broke up and he went corporate and signed with Spring Records. It’s about loneliness, and knowing who you are without liking who you are, and getting what you deserve. So far, he’s the only person who has seen the song. 

He thinks Dirk Gently could probably pull it off, actually. He also thinks he’d rather spontaneously combust then let him try. 

He shuts his computer off and rolls his eyes at himself in the faint reflection on the dark screen. 

Dirk Gently arrives at his studio the next day in a ridiculous yellow jacket with Lydia Spring hanging off of his arm. Todd smirks, glancing between Dirk Gently’s easy smile and the blush on Lydia’s cheeks. 

“Hi!” Dirk gently sing-songs, waving his hand like a cartoon character. 

“Hey there, Lyds,” he says. “New boyfriend?” Lydia goes pinker and glares at him, which makes Todd cackle internally. He knows it's not very mature of him to have a teenage girl for a nemesis, but Lydia’s had a pretty privileged life and he sees it as his honorary-big-brother duty to try to embarrass her every now and then. 

“This is Dirk Gently,” Lydia replies loftily, clearly deciding to take the high road, a tactic Todd remembers from Amanda’s teenage years. “He’s Daddy’s new artist.”

“Pleased to meet you!” Dirk Gently says, more British than Todd expected, but Todd barely glances over in his direction, intent on continuing to needle Lydia. 

“Birthday present?” Todd asks her. Lydia’s flush reaches her ears. 

“Shut up,” she says. Then, as if trying to change the subject:  “Dirk, this is Todd.”

“Oh, I know!” Dirk replies, enthusiastically. He turns back to Todd. “I have to tell you, I was such a fan of the Mexican Funeral, I was crushed when you guys broke up, honestly, I just locked myself in a room and put on your albums and cried--” 

“Todd doesn’t like to talk about it,” Lydia says, surprisingly tactfully, correctly interpreting Todd’s stony silence. She and Todd might harass each other, but everyone at Spring Records knows better than to talk about the Mexican Funeral to Todd, especially their break-up. 

“Right-o,” Dirk says. “My apologies, Todd, I--” 

“No worries,” Todd says, cutting him off. He shoots a pointed look at Lydia. “We should probably get to work. Did the kid offer you coffee or anything?”

“I’m not really a coffee person,” Dirk says. “Do you have tea?” Lydia shrugs. 

“Not actually my job, but I’ll go find someone who’ll find some,” she says. “Bye Dirk. Good luck.” She disappears, leaving Todd alone with Dirk, who’s still awkwardly hovering in his doorframe. 

“Sit,” Todd instructs, waving his hand at the couch behind him as he turns back to his computer to pull up a couple of files. If everything goes according to plan, it won’t matter if Lydia does actually find someone to make Dirk tea or not. Dirk won’t actually be recording the song today, or, at least, that part of the process is not included in Todd’s job description. 

All Todd has to do is show him the songs, allow him to feel like he’s participating in the creative process by accepting some minor suggestions (changing green eyes to grey eyes, or switching the pronouns, or whatever), and then send him on his way. 

Dirk will go make a million bucks or whatever off the record sales, Patrick will be pleased, Todd will get paid, and they’ll all live happily ever after. Simple. 

When Todd turns back around to Dirk Gently, he discovers two problems very quickly: the first is that Dirk Gently is very, very cute, in a way that wasn’t immediately obvious on video, and also very close to him. The second is that Dirk Gently has about four notebooks worth of paper across his lap. 

“What’s this?” He asks, waving his hand in the general direction of Dirk’s midsection.

“These are my song ideas!” Dirk Gently says. “And I have to tell you, I’m so, so excited to be working on this song with you.” Todd blinks, mentally clearly his schedule for the rest of the day (not that his schedule had anything on it, but that was sort of the point). 

“Right,” he says. “Um, sure. Uh, let’s see what you’ve got?”

The tea doesn’t come for almost two hours. 

Which is fine, because Dirk Gently, who is the most enthusiastic and also most infuriating person Todd has ever met, has enough ideas to fill those two hours with ease. Todd tries to take notes, to organize Dirk’s thoughts, but it’s nearly impossible. It’s like trying to transcribe a hurricane. Then Dirk Gently pauses, his head tilted to the side, and Todd realizes that Dirk wants him to weigh in. 

“Um,” he says, trying to gather his thoughts. “Dirk, how can we write a song that is a love song and that isn’t a love song at the same time? Wouldn’t it make more sense just to focus on one?” Dirk’s face lights up.

“Excellent point!” He says. “Wonderful assistant songwriting, Todd.” 

“Assistant?” Todd echoes, but Dirk’s attention is already back on the pile of papers in his lap and Todd decides he’ll allow Dirk’s to remain disconnected from reality. 

“Which do you prefer?” Dirk asks, starting to sort his notes into four or five incredibly messy piles and rake his fingers through his hair all at the same time. 

“Huh?” Todd asks, resisting the urge to smooth Dirk’s hair down. 

“Love song or not love song?” Dirk asks, waving around a pink highlighter. 

“Um,” Todd says. “Um. Love song?” 

“Okay!” Dirk says cheerfully. Then he tosses the bulk of the papers aside and leans into Todd’s space. “Full disclosure, I’m not sure I’ve ever been in love.” Todd furrows his brow. 

“Then let’s not write a love song,” he says, already feeling exhausted. Dirk shakes his head. 

“Too late, Todd!” He says, cheerfully. “We’re already writing one.” 

Somehow, two hours becomes five hours becomes ten hours becomes thirteen. It’s the longest time Todd’s ever spent working on a song without a break. Every few hours Todd thinks he should call it quits, tell Dirk Gently to come back tomorrow and that they’ll finish it then.

“Don’t be stupid,” Dirk says when he suggests it. “We’re so close.” And the thing is they are. Todd feels like a swimmer swept away in a rushing river; it’s pointless to try to swim against the stream, all he can do is hope they’re getting somewhere. The only way out is through. So he doesn’t make a fuss. Instead, he just orders them another pizza, or some more tea and coffee, and they keep working. 

And somehow, as they work, Todd finds himself swept up in Dirk Gently’s whole aura. His persona, if it really is one, never slips, even as he gets frustrated or distracted. And he’s funny , weird and wonderful at one time. At some point, once the whole thing has gone on so long as to be absurd, Todd finds himself on the floor of his own studio, laughing hysterically at something Dirk Gently has said. It’s the hardest he’s laughed in a long fucking time. He feels crazy, high as a kite on nothing but sleep deprivation and Dirk’s British lilt. 

He digs his nails into his palms until he stops laughing, pulls himself together. 

“C’mon, Dirk,” he says, “focus up.”

In the wee hours of the next morning, the fucking song is finally done. 

Todd is also done. He feels almost hungover; his head hurts and the lights are too bright. Dirk Gently is a lot: all bright smiles and tangents and ceaseless compliments whenever Todd does anything remotely helpful which is, of course, his job. Dirk is everything Todd isn’t anymore: hopeful and brimming with inspiration and still successful, full of belief in his own talent and charm. 

So full of belief that he even seems to think that the song they wrote is the best song ever written. 

It’s not. It’s quirky and bubbly like nothing else Todd has ever written before. (Honestly, he’s not sure he can be credited for writing this one. Mostly he just nudged Dirk away from his zaniest ideas and played a little piano.)

Todd promises to send Patrick a file of the rough version of the song he’d secretly recorded Dirk singing (easier than trying to transcribe the notes into sheet music and wait for Patrick to reverse engineer in his own mind), and reassures himself with the belief that Patrick will hate the song and he’ll never have to work with Dirk Gently ever again. 

Patrick loves the song.  

Dirk comes by a few days later to record it and insists that Todd sit in on the recording session, which dredges up all kinds of unpleasant memories. Dirk loves the song. Lydia loves the song. Even Farah loves the song, which Todd deduces from the very subtle tapping of her foot. 

They release the song not long after recording it, a “test balloon,” as Patrick says. It hits Number 1 on the charts in about two hours. 

Dirk tags him in a dozen tweets about it, which is how Todd discovers he still has a twitter.

Amanda calls. (Todd hasn’t spoken to his sister in almost three months. Not that he’s counting.) Todd nearly falls off of the couch when he sees her face pop up on his phone, scrambling to press pause on the Mona Wilder movie he’s been watching and answer the phone before Amanda changes her mind. 

“‘Manda?” Todd answers the phone, excitement and worry and guilt swirling in his stomach the way they do every time Amanda calls. “Is everything okay?”

“You fucking tell me,” Amanda says, but she sounds gleeful, not angry. “‘Everything is connected’? ‘A leaf in the stream of creation’? The fuck is this bullshit?” 

“I didn’t write it,” Todd protests. “Dirk Gently wrote it. I just...supervised.” 

“Oh, yeah, cause that makes it super punk,” Amanda deadpans. “Boys, what do we think of Dirk Gently?” Todd hears Amanda’s bandmates jeering and yelling but he can’t--mercifully--make out any of the words. “Exactly.”

“If you’re too punk to listen to Dirk Gently,” Todd asks, pinching the bridge of his nose as if it’ll ward off his approaching tension headache. “How do you even know about the stupid song?” 

“Because my big brother wrote it,” Amanda says, simply. “I still have notifications set up for your socials.” 

“‘Manda,” Todd says, touched. “I--” 

“Nope,” Amanda retorts. “I didn’t call you to talk about feelings, I just called to make fun of you.” 

“Okay,” Todd relents. “Go ahead.” 

“Don’t have to,” Amanda says, delighted and smug. “The song is bad enough by itself.” 

(Despite this statement, she proceeds to make fun of him for almost 20 minutes straight. It’s the best conversation they’ve had in four years.)

Dirk goes on some late night talk show to perform the song and announce that he’s working on an album. Todd, who’s decided that watching the interview on his studio’s computer is okay as long as he does it during the hours he’s supposed to be working,  rolls his eyes, thinking about the unlucky bastard who’s going to have to write a whole album for this lunatic. 

Of course, that’s when Patrick calls him up to his office. 

“No,” Todd says, hoping that, for once, saying something loudly will mean that he gets his way. “No, Patrick, fuck that, no.” Patrick continues to look on impassively from the giant chair behind his giant desk. (He thinks it's intimidating. He’s not exactly wrong.) It makes Todd feel like a little kid having a temper tantrum, with Patrick playing the role of parental figure just waiting for him to tire himself out. “I don’t write pop music.” 

This, finally, draws a reaction from Patrick, though only in the form of an eyebrow raise. (He must have learned that from Zimmerfield in legal. Infuriating.) 

“Todd,” Patrick says, slowly. “All you do is write pop music. You’ve written pop music for me for four years.” Todd took a second to process the undeniable veracity of that statement. Luckily, he’s been having a similar argument with himself in his head for four years, so he has an answer relatively quickly. 

“Only because I’m waiting,” he says. “For you to sign someone, you know, like me. Who plays my kind of music.” Patrick sighs.

“And you won’t write this album with Dirk while you’re waiting?”

“No,” Todd replies. “I won’t write any more pop crap for that crazy man.” For some reason, writing a pop album is far worse than writing a pop song. It’s the commitment. When you’re writing an album, you have to immerse yourself in the world of that album. And Todd...Todd doesn’t belong in the kind of world Dirk Gently would build into an album. “I won’t fucking do it, Patrick.” 

“Okay,” Patrick says, easily. “No need to swear. You’re dismissed.” He picks up his phone from his desk and speaks in its general direction. “No worries, Dirk, we’ll find you another songwriter.” Todd is stunned into stillness, glancing between the phone and Patrick. Fuck. Dirk could hear all of that. He meets Patrick’s eye and turns on his heel, trying to make his exit more confident.

On his way back to his studio, Todd replays the conversation in his head. He doesn’t think he said anything so bad, but he definitely wasn’t nice. Okay, so Dirk will now join the ever growing list of people who think Todd’s an asshole. Whatever. 

At least he doesn’t have to write for Dirk anymore. 

(If this all makes him feel a little bit sad and a whole lot guilty, he tells himself he’s too numb by now to notice.) 

Two days later, Todd arrives 15 minutes late to work with a Venti black coffee from the Starbucks in the lobby (he’s got sweetener and milk hidden in his studio, he just doesn’t like to show weakness in front of the judgy baristas) to find Dirk Gently sitting in his chair, in his studio, drinking tea from one of Todd’s mugs. 

“Um--”

“Hello, Todd!” Dirk sounds delighted to see him there.

“D-Dirk,” Todd says, mentally cursing himself for his stutter. “What are you--”

“Patrick says I have ex actly 24 hours to convince you to write this album with me or he’ll assign me to some stranger ,” Dirk says, glancing at his phone. “Um, 23 and 3/4ths hours, now, I’m afraid. You were late getting in today.” 

“Right,” Todd says. He can’t muster up the indignant conviction he felt in Patrick’s offices a few days ago with Dirk sitting right here, which is honestly sort of embarrassing. (This is what Farah means when she accuses him of going soft.) Still, he can’t write this album. “Look, Dirk--” 

“I need you,” Dirk says. It’s so sure, so simple, that for a single second Todd is struck speechless. Dirk seems to take this as permission to keep going. “I’ve been trying to write ‘Everything Is Connected’ for half a decade with no success. And one day with you, and voila! And the thing is, I knew you’d be able to help me write it--that’s why I signed with Patrick--and I know you’ll be able to help me write the rest of the album like I hear it in my head. I don’t know if you’re the only one, but you’re the one I want. I want your help.  So, please, write this album with me.” 

Todd’s received confessions of love less sincere and heartwarming as that. But, still, it has to be said: 

“I don’t write pop music.” Dirk Gently stands up and takes him by his shoulders, which, if Todd thinks about it, might be the most physical touch he’s received in...who knows how long. 

“This isn’t about pop music,” Dirk says, seriously, greeny-blue eyes staring directly into Todd’s soul. “This is about this music. This album. Our album. Todd, please. You’ve been just going through the motions with music these days, that much is obvious. Break the pattern. Write this album with me. Fall in love with music again. Take control of your life, Todd.” Todd considers hitting this strange, British man who has broken into his office and proceeded to opine on Todd’s life in a way he most assuredly didn’t ask for.  

“Okay,” Todd finds himself saying instead, nodding at Dirk. “Let’s make an album.” 

“Hurrah!” Dirk actually shouts, throwing his arms up in the air and fully shedding any semblance of the calm, determined man he was just moments ago. Todd suppresses a smile as Dirk celebrates like he’s just scored a winning goal in soccer, or whatever sport British people are into. 

“It’s not going to be like when we wrote ‘Everything Is Connected,’” Todd warns. “That’s not a sustainable long term thing, okay, I’m not spending thirteen goddamn hours in a row  on every song. If we’re gonna do this, we need to follow my process.” 

“Okay,” Dirk agrees easily. 

“And I want my chair back.” 

Working with Dirk is...well, it’s terrible. It’s just terrible. 

For one, working with Dirk significantly cuts into Todd’s wasting-time-on-the-company’s-dime routine, which is basically the punkest thing he does these days, as well as the bulk of his schedule. For another thing, Lydia is suddenly around all the time, bringing Dirk tea and laughing obnoxiously at his stupid jokes. (Farah’s around a lot more too, babysitting both him and Lydia on Patrick’s orders, but Todd doesn’t actually mind that.)

More importantly, working with Dirk means that Todd has to work with Dirk , which is a new exquisite kind of torture every time they meet. (They don’t meet every day, because Todd doesn’t actually know if he can handle that much Dirk-time, and because he needs some time in between brainstorming sessions to write some actual lyrics.)

Dirk is still a lot. He’s all bright colors and boundless enthusiasm, ceaseless mirth and deflection of anything even remotely serious. He doesn’t seem overly concerned with the writing part of songwriting, seeming to think that the song will magically right itself in between rounds of would-you-rather and overly personal questions about the Mexican Funeral that Todd refuses to answer. 

Still, Todd can’t claim to dislike Dirk. Dirk is...unique. He’s refreshing. (He’s like no one Todd has ever met.) Dirk himself is not the real problem.  

The real problem is that they can never seem to be excited about any given idea at the same time. They keep going through the same cycle: Dirk will arrive with a notebook (or a bunch of napkins, or his own forearm) covered in ink: concepts and lyrics and sometimes even little doodles. Todd will pick apart and deride each idea as Dirk introduces them, remembering why it is, exactly, that he hates pop so much. 

Then, slowly, he’ll be won over by a mix of Dirk’s charm and enthusiasm and nuggets of good ideas. By mid-day, Todd will have tried to take over the process, to add some structure (like verses, for example, or a chorus) or an actual melody. He’ll spend the next couple of days locked in his studio, working on the song with a single-minded determination he hasn’t felt since his days with the Mexican Funeral (and even then, not so much, by the later days). 

And then, the next time they meet, Dirk will hate the idea and move onto something else with the same enthusiasm, and Todd will try not to hit his head against the wall. 

And the cycle starts again. 

“I’m going to murder Dirk Gently, Farah,” Todd says, lying on Farah’s living room couch. A glass of wine is sitting on the table next to him, but he’s neglecting it in favor of making vague threats on Dirk Gently’s life. 

“So we’ve heard,” Farah deadpans. She’s only half paying attention at this point, distracted with the way Tina, her girlfriend, is pressing kisses to the back of her neck as they cuddle on the loveseat.

“I like Dirk Gently,” Tina says, kissing Farah’s ear. “But don’t worry Toddrick, you’re still my idol.” Todd throws his arm over his face so Tina can’t see the way he’s flushing red out of a mix of embarrassment and shame, the way he always does when Tina reminds him that she used to be a fan of the band he broke up. 

“Maybe I’ll strangle him,” Todd mumbles into his arms. “Or I’ll poison his tea.” 

“Todd,” Farah says, pulling away from Tina for a second to poke Todd in the calf. It hurts more than any poke has the right to hurt. “Todd if you don’t stop talking about Dirk Gently this second I am going to kick you out of my apartment forever.” Todd shuts his mouth. 

He and Farah have been work friends for a while now, but their outside-of-work friendship is newer and infinitely more precious to Todd. He hasn’t had outside-of-work friends for a really, really long time. And now he has Farah, and Tina.  

He values this friendship more than almost anything else in his stupid little life, and he’s not going to spoil it by talking about Dirk Gently. 

Even if Dirk Gently is pretty much the only thing on his mind.  

Two full weeks into the process, with not a single song finished, Patrick emails Todd, calling him up to his office. 

“Let me go with you,” Dirk says, eyes dark and serious. “We’ll ask Patrick for a little more time and--”

“No!” Todd erupts. “No, Dirk--just no! I don’t see why we should grovel at Patrick’s feet for more time when it’s clear this just isn’t working.”

“I think it’s working,” Dirk protests. 

“Well, it’s not,” Todd retorts. “And you know how I can tell it's not? Because we don’t have any goddamn songs!” Dirk curls into himself, protecting himself from Todd’s anger.

“I’m sorry,” Dirk says in a near whisper. “I’ve been trying, I swear, it’s just--”

“Oh God, Dirk,” Todd protests, heart doing all kinds of uncomfortable things in his chest. “Jesus, don’t be like that, it’s not your fault, okay? And no one would ever think it was. They all know I’m not...not a team player.” Dirk cocks his head to one side, waiting for Todd to continue. Todd laughs uncomfortably. “You know, because of what happened with the Mexican Funeral--” He can’t bring himself to say it. “Well, you know.”

“No,” Dirk says, “I don’t know.” It’s Todd’s turn to hunch his shoulders, try to make himself small.  

“I’m the reason the Mexican Funeral broke up,” he says in a hollow voice. “Everyone knows that.” 

“Who’s everyone?” Dirk asks. “Internet people? Because I don’t care what the internet people have to say.” Todd huffs out a laugh despite himself. 

“What century are you from?” He holds up a finger. “Don’t answer that. You really didn’t, like, Google me? Like, ever? It’s not, like, reddit conspiracy theory shit, Dirk. It’s the first thing that comes up when you put in my name.” Dirk shrugs. 

“I make a rule never to Google people I plan on meeting in real life,” he says. “Or, really, anybody ever.” Todd can’t stop himself from smiling, just a little. 

“I didn’t Google you either,” Todd says. “Just listened to some of your music.” Dirk looks shocked, then beamed. 

“Really? Good. Well, let’s agree never to Google each other in the future and disregard all the nasty little rumors out there in the Internet world.” The smile drops off of Todd’s face. 

“It’s not a nasty little rumor, though,” he says. “It’s a fact. I broke up the Mexican Funeral.” Dirk just keeps looking at him, and Todd’s mouth just keeps running. “We broke up because I’m an asshole. Because I’m not a team player. I’m the reason we don’t have any goddamn songs. I’m gonna go tell Patrick that, and we’ll figure out someone else you can work with--” 

“No.” Dirk says firmly. 

“What?” 

“I’m not letting you say any of those stupid things to Patrick, because I think they’re either almost entirely or entirely untrue, and because I want to keep working with you. I meant it when I said I want your help, and I mean it now. And--and I have to take credit for...well, for our utter lack of song-having. I know I haven’t been as...as consistent as one might like...I’ve been told I’m easily distracted.” Todd cracks a smile. 

“I have noticed that,” he teases gently. Then he buries his face in his hands. “Fuck, Dirk, what are we going to do?” 

“While we’ve been talking,” Dirk announces, “I’ve come up with a plan.” Todd looks over at him, expectant. “Oh yes, right, okay. Here is my plan: we go up to Patrick’s office, apologize for the lack of songs, and promise him that we’ll...well, that we’ll think of a plan.” Todd waits for more, but this appears to be the extent of Dirk’s proposal. 

He returns his head to his hands. 

Patrick frowns at Dirk and Todd as they sit on the opposite side of his desk. It reminds Todd of being in high school, of being called to the principal’s office for smoking or vandalizing school property or being a boy and wearing nail polish (which Todd, to this day, is still furious led to multiple detentions). Just like when he was a kid, he finds it reassuring to have a partner-in-crime there with him. 

(Not that Dirk is his partner, exactly. But he is his...something.)

“You have until Monday,” Patrick says. “And I don’t just want a plan. I want a song. No, three songs. Three songs by Monday morning or else--” Todd doesn’t actually know what “or else” Patrick is implying, but he knows it’s nothing good.  

“We can do that,” Dirk says, voice filled with idealistic determination. Patrick smiles. He’s also weak in the face of Dirk’s charm. 

“Three songs!” Patrick reminds them. “Now get out of my office.” 

Dirk insists that the best position for brainstorming is lying on their backs on the floor of Todd’s office. Somehow, Todd finds himself going along with it.

“You know what we need?” Dirk asks. “Sustenance. Pizza. Pizza like the kind we had when we wrote ‘Everything Is Connected’.” Todd sits up. 

“Now that is an excellent idea,” he proclaims, grabbing his phone and searching. “Fuck, can you remember the name of the place?” He’s so distracted by his search that he doesn’t notice Dirk’s flailing until Dirk has a hand on his arm, fingers digging into Todd’s flesh. “Ouch, Dirk. What?”

“What else did we do?” Dirk demands. “When we wrote ‘Everything Is Connected,’ what else did we do? Why did that work and nothing else has?” Todd tries to think. 

“Uh...fuck, I dunno. It was, like, 13 straight hours of work, it was weird, it--Dirk!” 

“What?” Dirk demands, dropping Todd’s arm like it suddenly burned him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Todd says, unable to stop himself from gesticulating wildly, a grin stretching across his face. “Dirk, you’ve fucking solved it!”

“I-I have? How?”

“‘Everything Is Connected’,” Todd says, rushing to explain when Dirk still clearly doesn’t get it. “Dirk, that worked because we were in it together the whole time--there was no time for either of us to get distracted or try to go off on our own and add stuff. That’s what we need to do. We need to decide that once we’ve started working on a song we won’t stop until it’s done and we both--well, not love it, maybe, but like it well enough.” Dirk’s frown hasn’t turned into a smile yet. “What?” 

“You said we can’t write like we did for ‘Everything Is Connected’,” Dirk reminds him. “You said that was unsustainable.” 

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Todd remembers. “Well, not getting anything done is equally unsustainable, so we’re doing it--unless you have a better idea.” Dirk makes a face. “What?” 

“Todd, you’re a wonderful assistant songwriter, you know I think that. But this feels like far too much to ask of you.” 

“Let’s get two things straight,” Todd says, as nicely as possible (which isn’t particularly nice, but he’s trying his best). “First of all, I’m not your assistant. Second of all, you’re not asking anything of me. It’s my idea.” 

“Oh,” Dirk says. “Right. Yes. Okay.” He sits up, patting Todd awkwardly on the shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Todd.” Todd goes scarlet and shakes his head. 

“No, I’m not.” And then, before Dirk can try to argue with him on this absolutely true fact, he changes the subject. “What do you want on your pizza?”

They eat the pizza and come up with a plan: tomorrow, they will lock themselves in Todd’s office and not come out until a new song happens. 

“No you will not,” Farah informs them when she comes downstairs to steal their food. “Tomorrow is the start of our Thanksgiving holiday.” 

“So what?” Todd demands. 

“What’s Thanksgiving?” Dirk asks. Farah rolls her eyes at both of them. 

“It’s an American holiday, Dirk, Todd will tell you all about it. And the ‘so what’ is that Patrick gets very serious about family holidays. The whole building will be closed.” Todd rolls his eyes. Farah grabs a garlic knot, takes a bite, then seems to think of something and winces. “Todd, do you have, uh, plans for Thanksgiving?” 

She looks at him. Dirk looks at him. Todd wants to stop existing. He does not, in fact, have Thanksgiving plans. He hasn’t had Thanksgiving plans in four years, since Amanda stopped speaking to him and found a new family. With their parents long gone, Todd was planning on spending this Thanksgiving the way he’s spent the last four Thanksgivings: high as a kite, eating a whole pumpkin pie by himself. 

“Sort of,” he replies, evasively. Farah blinks at him. 

“Well, Tina and I are hosting a little Friends-giving on Sunday,” she says, voice gentle and pitying in a way that makes Todd want to cry. “We’re telling everyone to bring leftovers and come vent about how annoying our families are. You should come. You too, Dirk.” 

“Thank you!” Dirk says. “Um, if it’s not too much of a bother, could I bring my sister?” 

“The more the merrier,” Farah says. “I didn’t know you had a sister, though?”

“Oh, yes--” Dirk says. Todd glares at him. 

“We can go around the room and compare family trees later,” he snaps, earning him two disproving glares. He ignores them both. “Dirk, we can’t go to this Friendsgiving unless we already have three songs, and we can’t write three songs if the offices are closed, and its already Tuesday, and if we don’t write the three songs we’re fucked!” Both Dirk and Farah give Todd unimpressed looks. 

“Why don’t you just come over?” Dirk proposes. “We don’t need to be in this studio to write, do we?” Todd yearns for the days when he could have a sad pre-Thanksgiving vacation all alone. 

“No,” he says. “I guess we don’t.” 

For a moment, standing on the steps of Dirk Gently’s stupidly huge house with his guitar slung over his shoulder, Todd considers a career change. He could get back in his car, pack everything he owns, and head to the East Coast. He could be a bartender or a waiter or something for the rest of his life. At least then he wouldn’t have to see Dirk Gently, in his natural habitat, likely in a pajama set or something equally cutesy, at 8 in the morning. 

Because Todd’s not an idiot. He knows that Dirk Gently makes him feel...feelings (that bastard). And he’s not sure what to do about them. 

Because he knows Dirk doesn’t really know him. Dirk still sees him as Todd Brotzman, of the Mexican Funeral, his friend and co-conspirator on his  first major record. And Todd’s been letting Dirk see him like that, has been enjoying the feeling of someone actually having faith in him again. But while he can keep up the act in a professional context, he can’t let feelings get involved. If he lets Dirk any closer, Dirk will see what he actually is: an asshole, and a poser, and a liar. And then he’ll hate him for real, and Todd doesn’t know if he could handle that. 

Todd takes a deep breath and forces himself to stop spiraling. He’s just here to write a song. 

He knocks on the door. Then he rings the doorbell. He waits for a moment, and rings it again. He rechecks the address Dirk sent to him and sees that he is, in fact, in the right place. Eventually, he has to call Dirk. 

“Wassit?” Dirk groans on the other end of the line. 

“Dirk? I’m downstairs.” 

“Oh, fuck,” Dirk says. There’s a thudding noise on the end of the line, and then Dirk says “give me five minutes” and then he hangs up. Todd is left to stare, bemusedly, down at his phone. Dirk’s always so hyper when he walks into Todd’s office that Todd assumed just rolled out of bed like that every day. The realization that Dirk Gently is not a morning person is strangely reassuring. 

Then Dirk Gently throws open the door, hair an absolute disaster, blinking at the sudden sunlight, wearing bunny slippers, plaid pajama pants, and a Mexican Funeral shirt. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Todd mumbles. 

Dirk Gently’s house is as ridiculous as his personality. It’s absolutely exploding with color, each room painted a different too-bright hue. There are knick-knacks everywhere, and a black cat jumps onto Todd’s lap when he sits down on the couch, awkwardly waiting for Dirk. 

Dirk returns with two cups of tea and a plate of cookies, balanced on his arm like a waiter. 

“Oh good! You’ve met Hammerhead!” He nods to the cat in Todd’s lap and somehow manages to set everything down on his coffee table without spilling anything. 

“What are these?” Todd asks, gesturing to the cookies. 

“Breakfast!” Dirk says, cheerfully. “Okay, so I have this new idea--” 

And just like that, they’re off to the races. 

By evening, it seems to Todd like he and Dirk are really getting somewhere. They’ve moved to Dirk’s living room floor, surrounded by paper. Dirk is picking at the guitar on his lap, while Todd scribbles notes down on a yellow legal pad. The half-empty takeout containers of Chinese food they’ve been picking at since noon fill the room with a very pleasant aroma, round 2 waiting for them for dinner. 

When Todd hears the sound of the door opening and the security system being reset, he glances over at Dirk. 

“My sister,” Dirk explains, clearly preoccupied with finding the right chord. “You’ll like her.” Todd nods and returns to scribbling down an idea, an idea that flies out of his mind and is lost forever when, out of nowhere, a figure appears in the doorway, wearing a giant, fluffy, pink coat, and starts sobbing. Dirk sets the guitar aside and makes a little “tut” noise, opening his arms just in time for the small, dark haired woman to fall dramatically into them. 

“It’s Hugo,” the woman sobs. “He’s dead!” Dirk pats her head. All Todd can do is stare. 

“There there, dear,” Dirk says. The woman wails, a loud, heart piercing sound, but Dirk remains only slightly flustered. Todd wonders at his nonchalance. If Amanda ever threw herself into his arms, crying like this, over some dead guy--not that she ever would, but hypothetically--he’d be frantic with worry. Dirk just looks embarrassed. “Mona, dearest, we have a guest.” 

Instantly, like a faucet, the crying stops. The woman rocks back onto her heels to examine Todd, face tear-streaked but otherwise completely neutral, and Todd realizes with some alarm that she is Mona Wilder. Mona fucking Wilder, the movie star. Hollywood’s darling. Todd--like everyone else on the planet--is a fan. 

“Hm,” Mona Wilder says, in the high, dreamy voice she’s famous for. She’s looking at him, but Todd can’t tell from her face what she’s seeing. “Okay.” She stands up, and, without a word, walks out of the room. Dirk picks up his guitar again. Todd makes a strangled sound, which adequately catches Dirk’s attention. 

“Dirk,” Todd says, once he’s regained the power of speech. “Explain.”

“Oh,” Dirk says, “yes. Where to begin. Um, that’s my sister, Mona. She’s...well, I imagine from the look on your face you know who she is. She tends to get very into character, it often takes a while for her to shed the persona when she gets home. I’m 99% certain that Hugo isn’t a real man.” He makes a face. “Or perhaps Hugo is a real man, but it’s his character that’s dead? She often gets that confused, which makes me confused…” 

“You keep saying she’s your sister,” Todd says, still slightly flummoxed. “But…” Dirk shifts. 

“We grew up together,” he explains, looking somewhere over Todd’s left shoulder. “I don’t--” 

“You don’t have to explain,” Todd cuts in. “I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry.” Dirk smiles brightly and meets Todd’s eyes again. 

“No worries!” He says. “She ought to be down again soon, and I’ll introduce you properly.” Then he looks back down at his guitar. Following his example, Todd picks up the notebook again. 

When Mona Wilder comes back into the room a few minutes later, she’s wearing sweatpants. Her hair is pulled away from her face, and all traces of makeup are gone. She’s still the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in real life and Todd can’t make eye contact as she picks up his abandoned container of mushu pork and sits down next to Dirk on the living room floor. 

“Hello!” She says to Todd, as if she’s never seen him before. “I’m Mona.” 

“This is Todd,” Dirk says, mercifully excusing Todd from having to talk while Mona Wilder eats using the chopsticks he was eating with under an hour before. 

“Right,” Mona says, smiling at him. “Todd. Mexican Funeral guy. The music man.” She leans in, slightly, to impart this very precious secret: “Dirk used to listen to you guys all. The. Time. I’ve heard all your songs. Not really my thing, but--” She shrugs. “Dirk loves you.” Dirk blushes pink, and Todd wills his head not to explode at all of this incredible information. 

“Mona, shh!” Dirk says. “Todd and I are doing very serious work here.” The severity of his words are softened by how undeniably fond of her he is, putting his arm around her shoulder without so much as a second thought. “How was shooting?” Mona smiles. 

“Wonderful. It’s nice we’re shooting pretty much in order, it hurts my head when the timeline gets all messy.” She takes another bite. “Do you guys mind if I just sit here while you work? I’m still kinda stuck being a World War II nurse and I wanna be Mona again.” Dirk presses a kiss to the top of her hair. 

“Of course, dear,” Dirk says. “As long as Todd doesn’t mind?” Both Dirk and Mona look over at him, and Todd suddenly knows the answer to a question he’s never even thought to ask: what if your real life crush, who is a celebrity, and your celebrity crush, who is sitting in front of you in real life, were looking at you at the same time, wanting your permission for something?

“Sure,” he says, faking casual. “That’s fine.” 

Somehow, even with Mona Wilder sitting in the same room and Dirk Gently wearing a tee-shirt with the name of his old band and Patrick’s threat weighing on his shoulders, Todd finds himself putting a finishing touch on their first song a few minutes after midnight. 

“Dirk I’ve got it,” he says. “This is it, Dirk!” He turns over his shoulder to see Dirk asleep with his head in Mona’s lap while Mona watches him with dark, piercing eyes. “Um.”

“Don’t wake him up,” Mona Wilder tells him. “Come with me to the kitchen.” She moves carefully and slowly, replacing her leg with a pillow under Dirk’s head and picking up a bunch of takeout containers. Todd follows her, trying to mimic her catlike grace and failing miserably. He does manage to get the rest of the containers though, so he considers that a win. Mona takes the boxes from him in the kitchen, adding them to the stack she’s made by the sink. 

“Um--”

“Dirk likes you,” Mona says, simply. 

“Yeah, well, I like him too,” Todd says awkwardly. “We work well together. Well, not well, we don’t actually have any songs, but it’s good,  he’s--”

“I know what he’s like,” Mona cuts him off, scarily intense. He’s never seen this look on her face in any of the movies he’s seen her in. “Don’t you hurt my brother, music man. I know an actual murderer. I’m not kidding.” Todd blanches. 

“Pardon me?”

“Have you ever Googled us, Mexican Funeral guy? Me or Dirk?” Todd blinks at the non-sequitur. 

“No!” Todd nearly shouts before remembering that Dirk’s asleep in the next room. “I mean, I’ve looked at your IMDB before, I like your movies, and I’ve listened to Dirk’s music, but I’ve never just Googled either of you.” 

“Good. Don’t.” Mona says, quietly and calmly in a way that also manages to be absolutely terrifying. “And don’t hurt him. And then we’ll get along just fine.” She bares her teeth at him in the semi-darkness in a way that is either supposed to be friendly or scary. Then she turns around and slips off. 

Dirk is blinking awake sleepily when Todd walks back into the living room. 

“Mona?” He blinks again, rubbing at his eyes like a child. It’s stupidly adorable. “Oh, Todd, good, you’re still here! Fuck, the song-”

“I finished it,” Todd says, trying to banish all thoughts but ones about what is happening here and now. “I’ll play it for you in the morning, but it’s done. We did it.” He smiles lightly and shrugs, and is totally unprepared for the way Dirk flings himself at Todd. They stumble backwards until Todd regains his footing enough to hug Dirk back. 

“We did it,” Dirk agrees happily. “We did it.” 

Dirk loves the song when Todd plays it for him in the morning, and the next two are written with similar arguable efficiency on Dirk and Mona’s living room floor over the next few days. And then it’s Saturday, and their work is technically done, and Todd, theoretically, can go home, and get high. And yet here he is, still sprawled on the couch in Dirk and Mona’s living room. 

“Are you going to go to Farah’s thing tomorrow?” Dirk asks. 

“I—I might,” Todd admits, then yawns. “But I don’t have any leftovers to bring or anything. Maybe I’ll just go home and sleep until Monday.”

“Nonsense,” Dirk retorts. “You can sleep here. And then when you wake up you and I can bake something.” Todd should leave. Todd doesn’t deserve Dirk’s kindness, or his company, not outside of a work related endeavor. Todd deserves the undecorated walls of his apartment and a weekend of loneliness. “Please, Todd?” Dirk wheedles. 

“Okay,” he finds himself saying, yet again.

Patrick enthusiastically okays the three songs they wrote over Thanksgiving break. 

“Now give me at least six more,” he says. “You have two weeks.”

Todd worries that they’ll have depleted whatever songwriting magic they discovered on Dirk’s living room floor, but, if anything, the opposite comes true. It’s like they’ve unlocked something, tuned into some radio station that only the two of them can hear, one that only plays when they’re together. 

Suddenly, Todd finds that he and Dirk are inseparable. They write in Todd’s studio for hours and hours, and then, when they start to get tired, they go back to Dirk’s together, nap, and get back to work. Even during brief periods when Todd actually goes back to his own apartment, they keep in constant contact. Dirk sends Todd voice memos in the middle of the night and Todd sets them to music. Todd sends Dirk old tracks he has saved on his laptop, and Dirk writes lyrics to them in mere hours. 

Todd’s never felt like this before in his entire life. He feels high on music and inspiration and Dirk . 

The rest of the writing process happens in a blur. 

Before they’ve even finished writing, Dirk decides to name the album Wendimoor, which is the name of Dirk’s childhood fantasy kingdom and also the song they wrote together about it. The album is somewhat of a pop opera, a sprawling opus containing songs that are stories, that are confessions, about childhood dreams, about adult fears, about timeless fantasies. By the end of the process they’ve written over thirty songs, and still, Todd thinks, it’s missing something. 

He screws up the courage and finally shows Dirk “Bellhop.” 

“Todd,” Dirk says softly, holding the print out of the lyrics like they’re something precious. “Todd, I can’t possibly put this on my album.” Todd’s been punched in the face before. It hurt less than this. 

“Oh,” he says, quietly. “That’s—that’s fine, Dirk, we’ll do something else—”

“You misunderstand me,” Dirk rushes to say. “I can’t put this on my album because it needs to go on yours . I can’t do this justice, not like you could.”

“I can’t—I don’t do that,” Todd whispers, not trusting himself to speak. “Not anymore.” 

“Not yet, maybe,” Dirk muses. “But one day, Todd Brotzman, you’re going to get back on that mic, and I’m going to be in the audience, screaming your name the loudest.” Todd swallows, and appreciates that Dirk is willing to let him pretend that he doesn’t have tears in his eyes. 

“You can be quite loud,” he agrees.

Patrick okays the rest of their demo tracks and the next week they start the official recording process, turning the demo tracks into professionally produced ones. Sherlock is the company’s best actual producer, but Todd lets himself sit in on the sessions, offering little notes and suggestions. He tells himself it’s because he’s invested in the work, in the world of the album; tells himself that now that he’s made it this far he has to stick it out. But even he can’t lie to himself well enough to hide the truth: he doesn’t want his time with Dirk Gently to come to an end. 

Luckily for him, Dirk seems to feel the same way. He demands Todd’s presence, his feedback, his praise, which Todd can’t help but to lavish upon him. And, once the day is done, he forms the habit of throwing his arm around Todd’s shoulder and asking: what’re we doing now?

They go back to Dirk’s and watch movies, or to Todd’s to smoke pot, and once Dirk convinces Todd to talk him bowling and they get so competitive about it that they go three times in the same week. 

Todd should know better, really. He should put a stop to this, push Dirk away and keep him there. Dirk is shiny and happy and perfect, and Todd should steer clear of him to avoid tainting him with whatever terrible thing is lurking inside him. But that’s the nature of the terrible thing, he supposes: he’s selfish enough that he can’t bear to do it. 

They finish the album on a Thursday afternoon, and Todd nearly cries. He keeps it together, though Dirk doesn’t. Dirk sheds tears even as he dedicates himself to the project of hugging and personally thanking each and every person in the building whose work contributed to the project, including the mean Starbucks baristas from the lobby. He saves Todd and Farah for last, though, and then he says:

“You should come out with Mona and I tonight, to celebrate.” He turns to Farah: “Bring Tina, if she wants to come!”

Which is how Todd finds himself in one of the most exclusive clubs in Seattle, eating tiny hamburger sliders with his boss, her girlfriend,  an Oscar winner, and the man he’s gone ahead and fallen in love with (like a total idiot). And then Tina Tevetino pulls out a handful of something from her pocket and presents them with an array of multicolored pills. 

“Tina!” Farah scolds, already angling her body to block the illicit items from view by anyone outside of their little group. 

“What?” Tina says. “We’re celebrating!”

“I call the pink one!” Dirk shouts, then grabs one from Tina’s hand and pops it in his mouth without a second thought. 

“Dirk,” Farah hisses. 

“Dirk,” Mona pouts. “I wanted the pink one.” 

“Sorry, darling,” Dirk says cheerfully. “Here, have an orange. Todd?” 

Todd should definitely not take a random unmarked pill on a Thursday evening. But Todd’s a well-established idiot, so he does. The room starts to go pleasantly blurry after another ten minutes, and Todd allows Dirk to pull him onto the crowded dance floor. He feels stiff and uncomfortable for a while, unused to this level of frivolity, but then the beat drops in whatever song is playing and Todd’s senses are flooded with warm, pink waves. He dances and dances, feelings looser and happier than he has in…well, in a really long time. Farah, Tina, and Mona join them on the dance floor, and Todd closes his eyes and lets himself just feel the music. 

When he opens his eyes again he can’t find Dirk, which feels like an absolute emergency. He cranes his head, looking around, and suddenly Dirk is there next to him! He’s not looking at Todd, though, he’s looking around in wonderment, like he’s never seen people before. 

“Dirk!” Todd shouts, knowing with all certainty that if he doesn’t get Dirk’s attention in the next two seconds he will die. “Dirk!” Dirk whirls around, face lighting up when he sees Todd. His shoulders are all there and grabbable, so Todd grabs them, staring into Dirk’s (beautiful, trusting) eyes. 

“Todd,” Dirk sighs happily, grabbing Todd’s shoulders back. His whole body tingles. 

“Dirk,” Todd repeats. “You need to know something—you’ve changed my life. You’ve shown me everything I was doing wrong. I was just going through the fuckin’ motions, but you’ve—you’ve helped me fall in love with music again. I believe in this album, Dirk. I believe in our songs. And I’m just so, so happy I get to be a part of this.”

“Todd,” Dirk says, “You saying this to me is the single most important thing that has ever happened in my entire life. This album could not have been made without you! You are the only person who has ever really gotten me, as an artist—”

“I didn’t, at first,” Todd says, remembering with sadness his early dismissiveness, how rude he was to Patrick about having to work with Dirk again. 

“I know—”

“But I get it now,” Todd says. “I get you.” 

“Yes, yes,” Dirk says. “You do!” Dirk looks around furtively. “Todd,” Dirk says, “I know I’ve already told you this, but I think—I think you’re amazing.” 

“I think you’re wrong,” Todd replies, but it feels funny, for a change. He falls forward, laughing, into Dirk’s arms. “You are, though,” he says into Dirk’s shoulder. “Amazing.” Dirk pats him clumsily on the head, giggling a little himself.

“Todd, look at me,” Dirk says, and Todd tilts his head up, and then suddenly he and Dirk are kissing in the middle of the dance floor. And kissing and kissing and kissing. 

The beat drops again and everything else falls away. 

When Todd wakes up, there’s a pounding in his head and a naked body lying next to him. It’s not the first time this has happened, of course, but it’s been…well, it’s been a long, long time. It’s the first time, however, that the body belongs to  someone that Todd is utterly, idiotically in love with, which makes things all the more complicated. 

And, to top it all off, they had decided to go to Todd’s apartment last night, which means that he can’t even just put on his jeans and run away. (Well. Technically he could. Todd momentarily considers a fantasy of leaving now and hitchhiking his way to—well, to somewhere else, preferably. Then he scraps the idea, because as loud as his brain is right now it would surely be louder if he was also homeless.) 

Todd puts on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, which are both, embarrassingly, piled up on the floor along with half of his wardrobe and the crumpled pile of his and Dirk’s clothing at the bottom of the bed. Todd cringes, considering the state of the whole apartment. He can’t believe he brought Dirk to this shithole. 

He gets Dirk a glass of water and places some ibuprofen next to it on the bedside table, then retreats to the living room to try to figure out what to do next. In his head, he rehearses everything he wants to say: Dirk, I’m sorry I slept with you while we were on drugs. I promise we don’t ever have to talk about this again. But please, please, do not stop being my friend. His leg bounces wildly, and of its own accord. 

“Todd?” Dirk’s voice is morning-slow, but sweet. Todd turns back around to find Dirk standing in the doorway to his bedroom, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and nothing on underneath. He’s even doing grabby-hands. 

“Hi,” Todd says, feeling utterly incapable of speech. 

“Come back to bed,” Dirk whines. “It’s cold.” For a second, Todd entertains the fantasy. Just as quickly, he shoves the fantasy deep down into the black hole at the center of his heart.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Dirk,” Todd says, as delicately as possible. Dirk frowns and stands up straighter, which makes it harder for Todd to ignore the fact that he’s still completely and utterly naked. Todd stares down at his carpet. 

“I don’t understand.” And the worst part is, Dirk sounds like he really means it. “Are we—are we late for something?”

“What? No, Dirk, no, I—I’m sorry, okay, but we—I fucked up, okay, and I’m sorry.”

“Okay, now I really don’t understand.” Todd glances back up and Dirk’s bodily language has changed entirely; he’s pulled the blanket tighter, and he’s gone still and tense in a way that’s just wrong. “I thought—I thought you liked me.” Dirk’s voice is small and sad, and Todd wants to throw himself out of his own window. 

“Of course I like you,” he replies. “I just—we can’t do this.”

“Why?” Dirk demands. Luckily, Todd has an answer to that. 

“Because I’m an asshole,” he says, steadily. “And you deserve better than me.” He’s not sure what he’s expecting Dirk to respond, but what he gets is, unbelievably, an eye-roll so dramatic Dirk must have learned it from Lydia. 

“Well that’s just idiotic, Todd,” Dirk says. Then he glances down at himself and seemingly comes to some sort of decision. “Listen, I’m going to go put some pants on, and you’re going to make us some tea, and then we’re going to have this out properly, do you hear me?” 

“There’s nothing to have out,” Todd protests. 

“Less talking, more tea-ing,” Dirk commands. He sweeps into Todd’s bedroom with the gravitas of a king. 

So Todd goes and makes the tea. Dirk is taking a long time, which gives Todd the chance to dole out the milk and sugar how Dirk likes it and to rehearse everything he needs to say in his head. It gives him just enough time to work himself up into a fervor, so when Dirk comes in he’s already at an 8.5, maybe a 9. 

“Righto,” Dirk says. He takes his cup of tea and sits down at Todd’s table. Todd sits down across from him. “Explain to me again why we can’t be together, a thing we both seem to want?” 

“I’m just not good enough for you,” Todd says. “In fact, I’m a terrible person. I broke up The Mexican Funeral because I was so obsessed with my own ego that I thought I had to go solo—and I didn’t even tell them! Not even my sister! I made my manager do it, because I’m a fucking coward.”

“Are you saying we can’t be together because of your band ?” 

“You don’t get it,” Todd insists, starting to feel unhinged. “I ruined my whole life and my relationship with my sister, and I didn’t even manage to go solo, because no one liked my solo shit. People think—people think they want me, okay, but they never actually do, because I’m an asshole who ruins things and—” 

“Would you shut up?” Dirk demands, and it’s so unexpected and sharp that Todd actually falls silent. Dirk sighs, and his features go sad. 

“Look, Todd, I get that you have this whole, like, complex about being a bad person, or whatever, but it sounds like maybe you’re just a human person who happens to have made mistakes,” Dirk says, patiently, voice getting louder the longer he speaks. “But it sounds like you’ve been punishing yourself for long enough. And, frankly, I don’t—I don’t think you get to decide whether or not you’re good enough for me because I’m the only one who gets to make that decision and I think that you are .” Dirk’s basically shouting by the end, and Todd finds himself unable to speak, stunned into silence. “I like you,” Dirk adds, quieter. “And I very much want to be with you.” 

“I like you too,” Todd admits, so quietly he almost can’t hear himself. He clears his throat, tries again. “I really like you, Dirk.” 

“I believe we’ve already established that,” Dirk says, smiling widely. “Can we kiss now, then?” 

“Yes, please,” Todd replies, and then neither of them need words for quite a while.

Hours later, Dirk and Todd have curled back up in Todd’s bed. They retreated back here to have breakfast in bed, and have been there ever since, getting used to the feeling of being in each other’s arms, trading secrets. Todd tells Dirk more about the end of the Mexican Funeral, about his relationship with Amanda. 

“She sounds lovely,” Dirk says gently. “I’d love to meet her one day.” Todd snorts, then kisses Dirk’s temple, just because he can. 

“I don’t know if I’d call her ‘lovely,’” he says. “But she’s—she’s great. I think you two would really get along, actually. She’s touring, right now, with her new band. They’re, like, heavy metal.” 

“She sounds like she’d be too cool for me,” Dirk says, clearly fishing for a compliment.
“Nah,” he says. “She’d see you’re punk rock as fuck.” Dirk giggles, and Todd thinks he could probably subsist on that sound alone for a million years. “Besides, she wasn’t always so hard core. When we were kids she had this intense Taylor Swift phase and would, like, write all up her arm and sing songs from Fearless on repeat.” 

“She sounds like she has excellent taste,” Dirk agrees. “We should send her an advanced cut of the album.” Todd laughs a little, thinking of the way she and the Rowdy 3 had responded to “Everything Is Connected.” She’ll appreciate the sentiment, he thinks. And she really would like Dirk, even if they don’t have the same taste in music. “Yeah, we should.” He gets distracted by a passing thought. “What kind of music did you like as a kid?” 

Unexpectedly, Dirk goes a bit stiff in his arms. 

“What’s wrong?” Todd pulls back to get a better look at Dirk’s face. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Dirk says. “I just realized I should probably tell you something about when I was a kid. I just…I don’t want you to think of me differently.” 

“Okay?” Todd replies. “What, were you, like a Beleiber or something?” 

“I honestly don’t know who or what that is,” Dirk says. “But no.”

“You can tell me anything,” Todd says. He interlaces his fingers with Dirk’s and squeezes reassuringly. Dirk takes a deep breath. 

 “The music I grew up listening to was very different from anything you’re probably used to,” Dirk says, delicately. “Because Mona and I, we grew up in a…well, a cult.” 

“A cult ?” Todd takes a moment to incorporate this fact into his perception of Dirk and finds that it’s not that hard at all. “Fuckin’ wild,” he says, though, because he’s pretty sure you shouldn’t tell people that they seem like they grew up in a cult. “Is this why you didn’t want me to Google you?” 

“Well, yes,” Dirk says. “But now we’re doing this—” He squeezes Todd’s hand back and smiles. “And I trust that you won’t be weird or ask me a million questions or anything.” 

“I’m just glad you got out,” Todd says. He’s not sure if it’s exactly what it’s supposed to say to a cult survivor, but it’s honest.

“Me too,” Dirk says. They stare at each other for a moment. “You can ask one question,” Dirk permits. 

“Which cult was it?” Todd asks instantly. 

“It was, um, it was called Blackwing,” Dirk says. “But you might know it by a different name.” 

“Holy shit, the Marzanna cult?” Todd gasps. He’s not good at keeping up with the news,  but even he knows about the creepy cult started by this ex-CIA guy that’s most well known for one of its former members becoming the country’s most prolific, uncaught serial killer. Todd’s brain rattles. “Oh my god, so you know Bart Curlish? Wait, is Bart fucking Curlish the person Mona was talking about when she said she knew an ‘actual killer’?”

“Breathe, Todd,” Dirk instructs, sounding panicked. Todd breathes. “We don’t even keep in particularly close contact with Bart anymore.”  Todd can’t even identify the most outlandish word in that sentence, so he settles for taking a deep breath. 

“Holy shit,” he says. “You know, all things considered, you came out relatively normal.” Dirk blinks, and then he beams, and tackles Todd back into the pillows. 

“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me.” Todd tips his head back and laughs, and Dirk laughs too, not removing his arms from Todd’s shoulders. “I can’t believe Mona threatened you with Bart.”

“I can,” Todd says quietly. “Amanda would have done the same. Back when we were still close.” 

“I’m sorry, Todd,” Dirk says. 

“It’s okay,” Todd sighs. “We’re—we’re working on it. And it makes me happy, you know, to see you and Mona and how close you are. I’m glad you have that. For both of you.” 

“You have us too,” Dirk says quietly, and Todd feels the sting of tears threatening to form. 

“Thank you, Dirk,” he says. Dirk smiles at him. 

“I mean it, darling.” 

And for the first time in a long, long time, Todd Brotzman feels perfectly, incandescently happy. 

Epilogue:  

It turns out, there’s a lot more that goes into an album than a setlist of solid tracks. The next few months are filled with photoshoots and music video filming, with mapping out Dirk’s whole aesthetic and rehearsing his red carpet soundbites. Todd just sits back and watches, and feels satisfied in the knowledge that he never could have survived this if he was in Dirk’s shoes. 

Dirk is already perfect for the job, though, and everyone can tell he’s going to be huge . Presales for the album have been off the charts, and Todd’s already piecing together some of their discarded early stuff to try to shape up into bonus tracks for the Deluxe edition he’s sure Patrick will be demanding of him any day now. And, soon, Dirk will be off on his first tour. 

“I’ll probably be jealous when you’re off on the road,” Todd says in bed one night. Dirk is tucked against his chest, curled up in his arms. “All those cute people throwing themselves all over you.” 

“Do you think they’ll really throw bras and things, or is that just in the movies?” Dirk muses. Todd cackles. 

“You’re supposed to say ‘no, darling, don’t worry, I only have eyes for you,’” he says in a terrible imitation of Dirk’s accent. 

“I do only have eyes for you,” Dirk replies promptly. Todd blushes and buries his face into the crook of Dirk’s neck. 

“Shut up.” 

“You know,” Dirk says. “I’ve been thinking. I don’t see why you can’t come along on tour with me. We could use another guitarist, and then we’ll have time to  write more songs for your EP between shows.” Todd is struck by a vision of him and Dirk back to back on stage, in a sea of lights. Of him and Dirk tucked uncomfortably into the same tour bus bed, or sat around a little table trading lyric ideas. 

The Todd he was a year ago, he realizes, wouldn’t recognize himself. He wouldn’t be able to imagine himself performing again, let alone with a pop star. And he certainly wouldn’t have believed himself capable of the kind of love he’s found with Dirk Gently. A year ago, Todd would have scoffed at the very idea. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says instead. “Let’s do it.”