Myles Delaney

I have a late-night talk show, and I'm English. That's two things I've got going for me.

[mylesdelaney]

hear me out...

betrayal potential, wicked rehab arc, razor-thin line between living and getting cancelled, drunken fights/confessions trope, no room for bullshit, you could fix me but we both like broken things, unlikely bonding over doing stupid hooligan shit

@norascwyer

[chloedmiller]

MYLES.

“Ayyy…” The sound drags out, mingles with Myles’ hands beginning to clap together in exaggerated swings that wind up bashing into each other versus applauding. Clap! Clap! Clap! “There we have it! Can finally fucking stand on the same side of the tracks on something,” he tells her. And where is his award? The glances that are stacking up towards him as he stands up from his seat at the bar. Standing ovation. “Why don’t ya take a bow!”

The clapping is put to an end with one hooking hand sweeping up the bottle he’s already snatched from behind the counter, undoubtedly put on the tab her card is absorbing. “Making a mess of things for ya again, aren’t I?” This twists and turns to become more accusation, soaks into his eyes that become glued to her. “Don’t need you pissing out my fires.”

the mess is already more than she can clean up alone, so much seems to be built on good will now. that people will accept insults as badly timed jokes, that outbursts are elaborate sketches. but she knows that cannot last, and it relies on his own popularity, not just the name on her credit card. she doesn’t bow, she stands frozen, there is no right move to make in this sort of game. they will all result in a loss. 

“no.” is all that escapes her mouth, as though that much contradiction is enough to potentially start a wildfire. there’s a mess, but she can’t clean it up yet. the bottle tucked under his arm means that instead of a wind down, the night is just getting started. she parses through excuses that she might use to make a swift exit. reasons why they can’t take the same car home, something.

finally, she settles on something simple and calm. she doesn’t emphasize any syllable. she waits to sign her name against any number and a 45% tip. “there’s no fire.”

[mylesdelaney]

"Not any fire, she says!" The locale has changed. The lines of the bar have blurred into the glowing lights of a stage, faces of customers are part of the audience, exit sign now an applause sign. "Thank fuck you're not part of the fire brigade, Mads. Room full of smoke! Nah, it'll clear itself," he waves off in cheap imitation. "Can't be any of that, now! Didn't calculate all that happening! Nothing to see if it doesn't add up, yeah? Living in the bleeding Matrix."

It's closed in again. The spotlight is all the reality he needs, shining on just the two of them, even with the amount of distance there was between them. Under Myles' feet is the crunch of glass from the one he threw down, the sound that comes from late night footsteps stumbling back into a house in the early hours of the day. They've grown steadier over the years, but not from the lack of what made them off-balanced in the first place. Just the opposite. "What's with all the quiet?" he asks as he stands before her, seeing how much she can't wait to get this curse off her back. "Get me cancelled loads faster if you fucking kicked off. What you want, innit?"

[mylesdelaney]

Two Names One Ship Meme

MylesxAde

How did they meet? Ade reaches tiktok stardom when Myles comes into the bakery and hijacks her phone to make a fun appearance. She appreciates the boost in followers, but doesn't make the connection as to why. Myles sees the viral nature of it, and invites her on his show, where she will receive a contract and joins Prometheus, much to the chagrin of Tomas.

For what started out as being a hilarious bit, Myles' habit of falling into a random marriage (this time for the lolz), he finds his match in Ade, who also probably found it to be a joke. Myles' temper doesn't faze Ade at all, and that's probably the secret to their marriage, even if the drinking continues to be problematic. She just passes it off as him being in one of his moods! He'll get over it! And a couple of days later, he's fine again, just like she said. Trust her! She knows him best!

@adevisser

[mylesdelaney]

norascwyer​:

she can’t help the laugh, a quiet but unmistakable sound. as if that would be the case. he couldn’t know one way or another, but it’s a funny image to conjure. as if it would ever be the case. “well—” she supposes it’s a compliment, and she’s never one to begin the debate on the merits of sexual harassment jokes. they will be made whether she’s in the room or not, she’d rather know the stance she’s dealing with. she won’t exactly say thank you, but it’s enough not to say anything at all. “security lets me through to help with your interviewees.” 

and now she lingers, trying to fit together a few wandering pieces of a stray puzzle. how often was myles delaney left alone to converse without censor or audience. his assistant was nowhere to be seen, neither was his daughter. “you don’t think they’ll put on a show for you when the time comes?” sooner or later, but all the same a star was a star. even the washed up drunk has-beens got a callback or two in their final hour. “gunshot to the head is so uncreative nowadays.” although she’s speaking only of the ones that had been aired, a sharp downturn in the tumultuous change of department leads that seemed ongoing. but in the end, death isn’t exactly her style. “locators tend to stay back in the shadows anyways.”

Hearing laughter is an occupational hazard. It's almost like white noise, now. Goes with barely a notice, certainly not one that pulls him away from the glass in his hand, helping himself to another sip. Somewhere between the cracking sound of ice and the swallow, it filters through what she's actually said. He takes another jabbing look at her while the whiskey mingles with the stomach acid, planning together to redecorate the tattered remains of his liver via demolition. "Not any part of my lot," he narrows down the options, similar tone to eeny-meenie-miney---moe. "Agent, aren't ya?" His head tips up. "Got a nice set of fangs on ya to suck out the blood better?"

His feet prop themselves up on the seat in front of him, part of an otherwise empty audience, while still keeping his crown. This is his coliseum. Emperor, gladiator, lion all wrapped up in one. That leaves her to be the lone spectator, probably one of many to watch the cancellation that'd be outside his purview. He doesn't look forward to that performance, but stage fright has never been his problem.

"Gonna be first in line to nick a piece of me to take home?" It's better this than to wonder how he'd wind up in pieces. He's less morbid than some of the other fuckers around these parts. One in particular you'd think he was trying to get knocked off. "Know a lot about the cheeky bastards to not be one," he told her with a tilted head, outstretched finger attached to a hand wrapped around a half-empty glass. "Wouldn't make for a bad one, now. Got me all to yourself to have a go at."

[mylesdelaney]

chloedmiller​:

doesn’t. the word stings more than a real answer would have, as though there was one brief moment where he might have been able to explain more, speak to some thing that’s missing from the core of her. the reason why she can barely hold onto small talk with someone her age. but there’s nothing else to say, insult hurtled like the glass. she stares until the paper is placed in front of her, reaching in her purse for a card so that she can be free of the whole scene.

“no i wouldn’t.” she self-depreciates, slides her platinum back to the bar tender, becomes increasingly smaller in the moment once she realized the only other option was to input nuclear codes. and she will never be the one to cause her father an issue in public. “for the best this way, right.”

"Ayyy..." The sound drags out, mingles with Myles' hands beginning to clap together in exaggerated swings that wind up bashing into each other versus applauding. Clap! Clap! Clap! "There we have it! Can finally fucking stand on the same side of the tracks on something," he tells her. And where is his award? The glances that are stacking up towards him as he stands up from his seat at the bar. Standing ovation. "Why don't ya take a bow!"

The clapping is put to an end with one hooking hand sweeping up the bottle he's already snatched from behind the counter, undoubtedly put on the tab her card is absorbing. "Making a mess of things for ya again, aren't I?" This twists and turns to become more accusation, soaks into his eyes that become glued to her. "Don't need you pissing out my fires."

[mylesdelaney]

sylviedewitt​:

she is calm, although the immediate showmanship does more than enough to indicate how her client might be feeling about himself. she is professional, more than certain that the footage is not leaving this building. there are too many papers signed and lawyers in the way. “no.” confrontational perhaps, but perhaps she is only trying to figure out the edges of myles delaney. she does not hope to push him to something, especially not with cameras as they are. but there seems to be a quantifiable amount of work to be done. “does it work for you?”

the immediate answer should be yes. she has a hard time picturing why it wouldn’t be. but she hopes for something different. it’s sometimes foolish to give into such whims, especially when all she knows would betray the thought. but still, she asks. still she waits for an answer. “there are some unfavorable topics that must be addressed. if we hope to satisfy company requirements.”

He didn't clear shit with legal. Why would he? It's his fucking show, and it's his fucking shrink meeting. There's surprise that comes when she tells him no, sticks to her guns, enough to make his eyebrows raise and his head to go along with it before his jaw clenches. A forced smile breaks out, one that breaks even further by the way the lips smack apart in irritation. "Want me to bend over then ask me? You'd get about the same bloody answer just a bit higher pitch."

But she's serious, and he's seen what it's like to go up against Prometheus. She might not be the poster child for the company, but she's connected to the same snake body. If there's ever a time to go up against it, it'd be a waste for it to be here. "What's this? Blackmail? Could do a better job of it than this."

[mylesdelaney]

norascwyer​:

“vodka.” she traces over the word, associations springing to mind with the drink. there would be more of an implication to infer if the glass in question had any kind of mixer to it. either she seems to be the kind of girl who drinks vodka neat, or he’s simply the kind of man who doesn’t actually care. the answer is obvious enough. 

the glass is taken, though she doesn’t sit down on the couch that’s so often made available for guests. this isn’t an interview, nor should he feel compelled to try and make it one. “i try to avoid meeting men in bars.” she had moved past the tedious fumblings of the half-drunk, the slurred pick up lines that populated los angeles after dark. her existence might have been more isolated for it, but her work suffered far less. “besides this has worked out fine for me.” she tips her glass in mock cheers before taking a sip. 

“you don’t make it out to afterparties any more?” 

"Afraid to put your knickers on backwards by the end of it?" Best guess. It's also a guess he has put zero thought towards. This is his stage; this is his liquor; and all he wants at the moment is for both of them to be left to him alone. If he has to share, she's going to find out it's more her loss than his. She just hasn't done anything to warrant him to take action that doesn't simply come naturally, and truly he's had much worse company. He's been married to them enough to know.

"Proper stalker, eh? Nice to be thought of," he answers her back with a vague look behind his shoulder while he heads out towards the seats the audience is usually taking up. Glass in hand, he takes the steps up through the aisle, ice clinking like a cowbell. "Could see why security let you through. Pat and Frisk love what they do," he goes on as he's claimed his spot, foot pushing down to unfold the seat before dropping into it. He just doesn't know why she's here at all. "Couldn't be a locator. Would've had my brains splattered about already."

[mylesdelaney]

norascwyer​:

she didn’t strictly have to be on set when her clients were being interviewed by contracts. it was hard to believe that anyone would risk trying to infuriate the people with the points and jobs, but then again not every host was myles delaney. still, the show had gone well and her obligation was over. which left the rest of the night for personal. such things could often be so dull, but there’s sounds from the now dead set. 

“sounds like a mess.” not that she wasn’t already looking at a pr nightmare. but he wasn’t her responsibility. so few were. “i usually just try and make it in the glass.”

"Class act, aren't you?" The facetiousness is hard to shake from being on stage, in his natural habitat, a trait that's sunk too fair into his skin to scratch out, but he is also host, one that is not yet drunk enough to forget. He turns his back to her with another glass plucked from the stack of them, hand back to the bottle he had just put down. "Vodka, all right? Look like a bird that gets her fill from it." She looks like someone. A familiar face, but one that he's let assistants be introduced to, take care of, allow them to be in the background while he's in charge of the rest, the ones the camera sees. If sobriety ever takes hold, she's the kind of face that might ring sharper bells, or at least ones that would make her treatment be on the softer side. She gets this instead, an outstretched glass of clear liquid that matches his and a curious look.

"Shows over," he points out, gesture of the head to a non-existent audience. "Easier ways to get free drinks. 'less the bars are full of men for a reason tonight."

[mylesdelaney]

It wasn't his idea to have a chaser of mouth spray. An assistant's choice, tugged down, mouth opened, clinging for dear life in a vodka-stained throat. For the rest of the show he could swear he had a mojito instead of something out of a paper cup, posing as water. Water with a special kick, enough to last through the hour until the lights could dim, the guests to get on with their lives, to let him begin to walk off stage with a hand already working at the tie around his neck. He wasn't going far. Just far enough to get to the mini bar, a staple of the show itself, more used by host than those on his couch.

"Too late for last call." There's a sound from behind him, making him turn with bottle still in hand, nozzle open and streaming into a tumbler. "Do you wager I could make your mouth from here like at the funfair? Piss poor of a prize in that, isn’t there?"

[mylesdelaney]

chloedmiller​:

she should have flinched, but he raised his arm and she pulled back, the glass shard explosion all the more purposeful for the preparation. she knows better at this point, but still stares down at the floor as though that will magically make the pieces all reassemble, take the spotlight off of them and into the hush of small talk again. she looks at the laces on her shoes, how one is uneven, pulled slightly to the left. nothing is magic. but she’s certainly not going to say that in public. 

“can we get a broom?” her voice sounds more steady that she feels, but not by much. the looming what ifs plays in her mind. she sometimes feels more market probability tracker than girl. “and the bill?” it doesn’t matter who’s paying as long as she signs something that says she is free to leave. 

but he needles, finds his way under her skin. as though once she’s thought about it once she simply can’t let the statement go until there is resolution. “i have friends okay. why’s it matter?”

There's glass on the floor, a broom being requested to push it aside. Myles is responsible for one of those actions, and by the way his leg stretches out to kick at the shards off to the side, his claim on the former is more damning than any witness. "Fuck all," he burns out of his mouth. "She has all the sodding answers. Always has! Can tally up the check on her own, can't she? Calculator for brains." His head has turned from bartender to daughter, a title that is ill-fated.

It matters if she has friends. Somehow it does. There's a thought swirling, some inchoate inclination that it matters. Friends good. No friends lonely. Lonely makes drunk. Drunk makes mad. Too bad the connecting string is too knotted up to detangle, winding up as a ball that's batted from one side of the skull to the other in the moment. "Doesn't," he answers her instead. "Wouldn't know what else to do but make an abacus out of them, any road."

[mylesdelaney]

sylviedewitt​:

“no, that’s an m.d., i’m far more cerebral than that.” and indeed, there was plenty to explore with patients who gave her a warm welcome despite the visit being forced upon them. it was far more predictable for people to be angry at her appearance, to try and cover whatever there might have been exposed after an incident. but those who were lax about it either thought they might outsmart her, or genuinely had no idea the extent of their issues. that might have been far more work to be done there. 

“oh i’m so sorry.” she tried to angle herself away from the camera once it’s become apparent that it’s going to be filming. “this session can’t be film, i thought you were aware. it’s in my nda,” although she hadn’t brought the paperwork with her. she supposed there was a first time for every experience, unpleasant as some of them might have been. “we’ve found identity protection is best for clients and myself.”

"You're a right barrel of laughs, aren't ya?" He walks past her without a second thought before dropping into the cushions of the couch. Arms stretch themselves out over it, one ankle crossing over the other knee, making himself at home in a place he doesn't fucking feel very much at home in at all. He's not exactly here by choice, is he? In the end, that's a problem for her to sort out. He's got his own job to do, cameraman in toe, watching as the member of his staff settles in to the corner of the office.

His eyes roll slightly more than his head, bubbling energy brewing inside that has to be corked up thanks to the closing of the eyes and a quick clench of the jaw. "Piss off with that shit." She's in his line of vision again, smoke sprouting from a volcano that's always on the edge of Pompeii. "How’s this? Can take a razor to his head and make it into a bleeding wig for you to feel better in ‘less you want it on the curly side. That work?"

[mylesdelaney]

chloedmiller​:

“i answered the question.” she repeated herself, as though she hadn’t been heard the first time and all that was needed was the clarity. why she felt the need to protect people years older than herself, well perhaps the next drink being ordered could answer that for her. “it’s not about being right.” her voice lowered as his continued to draw attention, as though the only way to stop the potential outburst was to turn it into whispers. but there was still her own anger built up on the inside, that she had to keep on defending herself regardless of the situation. “it’s true.”

She's not doing it because she wants to be right. She's doing it because it happens to be true. It's like building your own molotov cocktail, lighting the match and tossing it. Myles' version happens just to be an emptied out shot glass tonight, thrown down on the floor beside him, smashing it down until there are just fragments left behind. It reminds him of their relationship. It probably is a mutual feeling that one day might dawn on him in sober hours. "There ya have it! Course it is! How's that always work out like that? Fucking magic, huh?"

[emmcduvcl]

[mylesdelaney]

chloedmiller​:

she would drain her own drink at the comment he made if she didn’t think that it would initiate a challenge that she already knew the result of. she could not outdrink her dad, and she was supposed to be the one responsible enough to know better anyways. someone had to stay sober enough to sign the tab. and to refuse to mention anything about a contract’s skirt. 

“what’s wrong with them.” she’s never been graceful about dodging the actual question that’s being presented to her. if he wants to comment that she doesn’t know anyone her own age, then he’s right. “you didn’t specify.” she’ll never really know if it’s the nickname or the constant undermining of her work, but he always finds just the moment to pinch at her again. “and i gave you an answer.”

"Not them that's got something wrong with them," he tells her after another downing of the rest of his drink, already giving the nod for a replacement. "Gave me bleeding shit. Could piss out a better string of an answer than that rubbish. Can't say you're wrong for anything, can't ya? Must be done in from always being right." 

[mylesdelaney]

sylviedewitt​:

@mylesdelaney​

“i hope you understand, this is just a formality.” she sits in her usual armchair, legs crossed at the ankles, attempting an unassuming form of casual repose. she’s found that it works best, at least until given another signal, to act as though every conversation that takes place in this office will be calm and simple. a direct route from point a to point b unless the other person would like to take a detour. “i think of it as a yearly check up.” of course, this is rarely the case, the file on myles delaney has a few specific questions that she must ask before they can end their sessions. this is what signing a contract means, this is what having your daughter in the department does, but most importantly this is what happens when there’s an obvious problem that needs to be addressed. but it’s difficult, when no one wants to treat it as a problem just yet. “how are you, mr. delaney?”

"Long as you don't have me bending over and having a cough, I won't give a toss to the rest," he tells her, hand stretching out along his jaw, feeling the rough areas of where a morning's shave should have happened. For now, he seems easy to please. He's not bothered by being called into the office, at least in this moment. There's a foggy memory of when he saw the notification on his phone's screen, which is missing as much as the razor blade's work. The image of his bathtub comes to mind, the running tap over it. Cock.

He's about to answer her, but the knock on the door has him standing up instead, gesturing all the same for her to remain seated. After all, he's been expecting this, and when he opens the door it shouldn't take much of a leap to understand why. "Couldn't pay the writers this week," he sets up while a hand clasping on the visitor's shoulder, his other balancing the camera he's brought with. "Al's going to be sitting in, then. Won't even notice him. He's used to that by now from the ladies lockers.--Any road, can take it from the jump, doctor. Makes for a clean opening."

[mylesdelaney]

chloedmiller​:

she doesn’t want to take the insult that’s handed down as a sentence for her passive agreement to finally just drink a martini with her father. but they stand at the edge of a cliff, they some how haven’t fallen off yet. she doesn’t want to be the own who sends them over. 

“people my age?” what’s left in hostility changes over to disdain. when she thinks of twenty, she supposes it should conjure images of frat parties on college campuses and large groups of friends. it means immaturity, stupidity, and most of all it’s useless to her. she was too young to do any of it when there was the option in her undergraduate career. sitting in those classes at fourteen years old, tapping a pencil against a desk that was too big for her and too small for everyone else in the room. now that the age was finally upon her, she had no interest in it. “i know people my age.”

not exactly. but her father wasn’t splitting hairs with her— he said around, and she seized the distinction. she was if nothing else, a person of specificity. “there’s leo thorne, he a musician. and katie wright.” surely he knew the wright name, and that among other trivia, they had a young daughter. “they’re not your generation.”

"Jesus fucking Christ," he mumbles under his breath, not even attempting to conceal it, the liquor preventing that as he goes on with a roll of his eyes. "I know Jade Bellamy, but doesn't right mean her skirt's waiting to be picked up in the morning, does it?"

The new drinks are set down, and Myles takes his up before it can even make a mark on the fresh napkin, a sip inhaled. Leo Thorn and Katie Wright. He knows one more than the other, but that's not nearly the point that sticks out to him. "You're not your bleeding generation," he snaps back. "Closest you can come up with is a ten years difference? Where's the numbers, Mads? Do the maths."

[mylesdelaney]

chloedmiller​:

sometimes, less and less, the staff is on her side. when she was younger there was always a thoughtful waitress or a concerned manager that erred on the side of caution when it came to spectacle. but these days, with her age and his status, people care less. they decide to let things play out. and so she is the only one standing at the edge of a devastating point drop. “kettle one.”

even her nickname gets past the comment. because for some reason, she still doesn’t want to be the one responsible for her father finally having to come to terms with leaving the rank that he’s made a home on. she’s not supposed to get involved, and that means to prevent the scenarios that she’s made possible. and sometimes that turns out to be a safe retreat back towards vodka. 

and it’s as if the last five minutes haven’t happened. they’re going to move on from the small entertainment that a few people have had. and there’s no panic, she’s fine. they will drink matching martinis, isn’t that a nice moment if a little off kilter. doesn’t it fit delaney just fine. “since when do you care that much about brand.”

She drops it. No gin. Accepts her vodka martini like the daughter he raised would. He's half disappointed that he won't be climbing on top of the bar and kicking the bottles off the shelves, a show of fireworks to bring up in the next night's monologue. On the other hand, Chloe won't smell like some white collar trash.

"Must've hit me the same time you wanted to start drinking that piss," he answers as his arms fold, resting at the edge of the counter. In the background, their drinks are being stirred while the empty glass of his will eventually be retired, replaced by the new. One day, there won't be a difference between the used tumbler and him. Just not tonight.

"Wouldn't happen if you kept around anyone your age."