AN: This takes place sometime after season 3. Some knowledge of Mad Men would be ideal, but you should be able to read it without any. There's also a bunch of references to various films and shows which I managed to sneak in.

This is my first fic for this pairing who have quickly become my new obsession and happy place. Hope you enjoy! (and there is at least one more, maybe two more chapters I have planned for this fic)

OOOOOO

The most important part of an establishing shot is to orient the viewer. Making the spatial relationship between the characters and their surroundings clear, they play an important role in preparing the viewer to receive narrative information.

The scene is an opening long shot. A small club at night in downtown with a small hotel above it. The historic buildings preserved and renovated. Old meets new meets new-old. Surrounded by hipster coffee shops and specialty boutiques, all closed for the evening, the club sticks out like a glowing beam reflecting colored light off surrounding windows, cars, water on the asphalt.

A vintage looking green and red neon sign juts out from the building; narrow glass doors framed in brass sheet the front. With a black and white sign next to the entrance that says NO CLASS, NO PASS under white round incandescent lights, the Three Olives is Greendale's answer to what would happen if Vegas crashed into Ciro's. Banking on the increasing nostalgia for the past and vintage everything, this club is the mother ship of the new downtown. It's a fun playtime backslide in time. When women were women and men were men. A time when grandpa drank away his nights in a bar, probably not too much unlike this one as movies suggest, avoiding your grandma. When wearing fedoras didn't make you look like a douche. And that is awesome, because they're cool to wear.

He's supposed to meet her here.

OOOOOO

On the bed, there is a dark grey suit laid out. A white shirt with a starched crisp point collar, simple silver cuff links already attached to the sleeves is carefully placed inside the jacket, a white square handkerchief just peeking out of the front pocket. On top, a slim grey and white striped tie with a silver tie clip. Next to the suit in a small paper bag are two packs of Lucky Strikes (filtered and unfiltered), a silver Zippo lighter, a money clip with segregated pre-counted amounts, and a tube of Groom & Clean with a note taped on it.

Three Olives at nine tonight. Mr. Draper will be interested in a beautiful girl sitting at the bar.

Underneath the note is a Google Maps print out of directions and scribbled on the paper: PS - the shoes and hat are at the foot of the bed.

PSS – Be sure to wear your argyle socks. But NOT the yellow ones. Don't forget your ID.

PSSS – If you smoke in the apartment I will kill you.

PSSSS – Happy Birthday!

He opens the jacket and sees a rather thin label that has Brocks Bros – Angry Men Edition stitched on it. It takes him a brief moment before he realizes that it's a reproduction of the reproduction 2009 Mad Men limited edition clothing line from Brooks Brothers designed by costume designer Janie Bryant. A quality affordable Chinese knock off that only sweat shops and child labor can provide.

He checks the foot of the bed and as promised, there's a shoe box with a grey hat on top of it. The shoes are shiny black and the hat matches the suit perfectly. He lays everything out and looks at it. It's times like these Annie's compulsive perfectionism is nothing less than, well, perfect. He looks at the clock and it's already seven so he quickly strips off his skinny jeans, hoodie and t-shirt, showers and shaves. Slicking his hair, he keeps some volume in the front as opposed to a more severe straight pull back. According to hair stylist Lucia Mace in Contemporary Hair Artistry in Film and Television, Jon Hamm's angled face was framed better with a slight lift in the bang with a side part. And it turns out, so is his.

The suit is a great fit; she must have gotten the measurements from his Abed Being Normal suit. In an interview with Wall Street's costumer Ellen Mirojnick, she pointed out that in Mad Men, the suits worn by Don Draper ooze office alpha male, with their trim silhouettes, skinny lapels and single-vented jackets. Entering the room like an elegant yet masculine skyscraper, Draper wears high-lustre suits of silk and mohair in charcoal and gunmetal grey, accessorized with white dress shirts and confidence-inspiring neckties.

"He wears classic, gorgeous-cut garments that make you feel like you are looking at the man, and not necessarily at the clothes," she said. "And it looks altogether cool."

Looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, he has to agree.

He grabs the unfiltered Lucky Strikes (authenticity) and puts them in the top pocket of the dress shirt and does a good once over in the mirror of the full shebang. The look is powerful and razor sharp and makes him feel conciliated and indestructible. And very Season One.

Cool.

Cool cool cool.

OOOOOO

We're cut to an upwards angle long shot of the man walking towards the door of the club. His face is partially hidden by a grey fedora, just tilted enough to shadow his features. It's critical to use this type of shot to emphasize to the audience that this is the main character, he's powerful and important. (Before leaving, he spent about fifteen minutes practicing the angle in the bathroom mirror.) There are important details into the structure and context of a character. The blue prints, you might say. And if Don Draper is anything, it's mysterious and present and very leading man.

Outside the door of the Three Olives, he was expecting to see a seven foot tall three hundred pound steroid powerhouse with a clipboard lording over a velvet rope, turning away anyone in a line that winds around the block, he deems ugly, not cool or not showing enough boobage. Instead, there's a moderate but non-intimidating line of about twenty people and at the head of the line, there's a surprisingly small statured doorman standing in front of another boringly normal small looking man sitting at a small wooden podium in a black suit checking ID's, taking covers, and putting little black light ink stamps on patrons' wrists.

He takes out the money Annie had pre-counted out for him lined up and tucked neatly in the money clip; various amounts separated by paperclips and small labels, and finds the one that is labeled, "cover charge".

After about twenty minutes waiting, he's greeted by the small man who is on auto repeat, "Have your ID and thirty dollar cover ready. No smoking outside the bar area, two drink minimum."

He hands the other little man the money and his ID and the man says, "Thank you, inside of your right wrist please," and hands his ID back, gives him a little invisible stamp and he heads inside.

Not exactly what his cinematic trope knowledge had always led him to believe, but if you film in a low positioned shot at a full walking pace in a rear tracking shot focusing on an inanimate object or someone's mid back and put it to catchy music, something as pedestrian as carrying a brief case or flashing a card to gain entrance somewhere seems inherently cool.

At least it does when George Clooney or Bradd Pitt does it.

OOOOOO

When you go into the club, it's like walking into 1961. If 1961 had people texting on smartphones anyway. It's a rather impressive looking joint, better than he expected because let's face it, this is Greendale. The ceiling is Tudor roses on white pressed tin panels, framed with over sized white moldings. Everything from the busy casino patterned carpeted and checkered linoleum floors to the smoke haze dimming the room to the heavy noise dampening red brocade draped on the walls tell you you're in the overly romanticized anachronistically challenged past.

The extras are all in era costuming, hair slicked or beehived or Jackie Kennedy'd. Glamorous accessories, gloves, hats, big bold jewelry, earrings you see women clipping on and off every time they try to talk on the phone, tiny clutches that couldn't possibly hold anything more than a tampon and a credit card. You've travelled. Not where, but when. He catches a look at himself in a mirror and sees himself in the backdrop of time.

It's almost like that episode of Inspector Spacetime when the Inspector travelled back and met his past self. Only here, he finds himself in the Tropicana lounge. And himself in another self pretending to be someone else. And all the while an advertising convention was going on. Crossover episode. Peter Campbell is the host for a Glorock alien, which tells the viewers why he's such a smarmy opportunist bastard. He's infiltrated 1960s advertising unbeknownst to his co-workers to enslave the human race with subliminal Secor Laxative commercials which alter brain waves. But not as in the original with the Second Inspector, he was terrible. Fifth or Tenth maybe. Annie could play Trudy, she looks like her in a way. Jeff could play Don. Chang as Peter, Britta; Mrs. Draper #1, Pierce is a ringer for Roger and Shirley, Joan. She has a matching top half of her. It's close enough.

That would be cool.

The camera switches to a tracking shot following him as he walks over to the bar. It's a monolithic wood structure that is sunken into the flat paneled dark wood wall, mirrored backed shelves stocked with every kind of booze you can imagine, frosted glass covered lights hang elegantly from the ceiling making everyone look better than they really do. Red backless vinyl stools on large brass stands full of poufy layers of taffeta, lace and tulle from the women waiting on their drinks. The bar staff is all wearing vests and bowties, the waitresses walk back and forth with trays. They're dressed like Playboy bunnies only sluttier and sans the ears. And if this weren't enough to send a thrill on an era appropriate set, there's bombshell cigarette girls wandering with their trays strapped on their shoulders. Approaching with an alluring smile they ask, "Cigars? Cigarettes? Tiparillos?"

You can't help but say, "All of the above."

You'd never think it from seeing the outside, but the place is surprisingly large inside. The bar is the naturally the first thing you run into, There's a small band playing on a stage at the far end and a sunken hardwood dance floor with couples swaying in front of them. Rows of small tables encircle the stage and floor. Sofas and conversation pits in the darkness of the upper level looking down on everyone else, half naked waitresses hurrying back and forth.

There was no episode of Mad Men that took place in a club like this. The closest thing to it was when Don Draper went to a cramped small venue with his artist girlfriend and her hippie friends. This would be more like if Casino slammed into Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.

But, this. This is better. As a director, you want to have a blank slate within a universe to bring your true vision to light, without the confines of what has come before. Outside of the established scripts and under your own paradigm.

A one shot.

His back is in a foreground medium shot that pulls its focus in on a woman in a red dress near the end of the bar when she finally catches the lead's eye. The shot pans to her, removing him from the viewer's sight as it centers in, a backless red halter dress exposing the gentle slope of shoulders and inward curve of spine. Brown hair swept up in a loose bouffant, thick black eyelashes and red lips. And for sure, he would be drawn to her even if this scene wasn't storyboarded this way. The context of this scene is his detached admiration and infatuation with this particular woman, even if it's not completely apparent to the audience yet. In an off-script smile, he almost gives it away.

That can be fixed in editing later.

Cut to a medium shot as he approaches. She looks quickly to him and then back, her cheeks blushed and a clearing in her throat as she relaxes and gets into her role. Sometimes actresses have a hard time with a handsome and sexually irresistible lead man until they get comfortable with him. According to Lily Collins, Julia Roberts still gets nervous on set. Whitney Houston said she had terrible anxiety when she found out she was working with Kevin Costner. Happens all the time. He can't help that God made him so sexy. Leaning on the counter, faced towards her, without looking away he points to the bartender and says, "I'll have an Old Fashioned," nodding towards her, "and another of what she's having."

Her skin is white and smooth and all of her is beautiful pale and red. She smiles brightly and takes a sip out of her glass and says, "Thank you. But I think I've had enough tonight."

Putting his hat in one hand and pulling the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket he smiles and says, "One more can't hurt." He motions to offer her one, but she shakes her head and puts her hand up politely refusing. Placing the cigarette on his lip, he takes out his lighter and it makes that lovely sequential of clicks when you do it just right (he rehearsed in the cab on the way over just to make sure) and takes that first drag. Only instead of looking smooth and cool, the smoke hits his throat much hotter than a normal cigarette and he starts coughing uncontrollably.

So unprofessional.

Jumping out of her seat, the woman pats him on the back as he bends over hacking like an amateur she says, "Oh my God, Abed, are you alright?"

"No, no, I'm fine," he croaks through his burning larynx. "It's alright," he says clearing his throat standing straight, quickly wiping his teary pink eyes. "Just a cold I'm fighting."

She leans in and whispers before she smoothes the back of her dress behind her sitting back on the bar stool, "I left the filtered for a reason, you know."

The bartender comes over with his drink and says, "Hey buddy, you alright?"

Jesus Christ, the walk-ons aren't supposed to ad-lib. "Everything is fine, really."

Just a prop malfunction.

A rookie mistake.

You can always tell when an actor isn't really smoking. Whether it's tobacco, herbs or marijuana, the rules apply. If they take a drag and the smoke just stays in their mouth for a second, it comes out in a thick bloated mass with no shape, hanging in the air before floating away on its own disjointed accord. It looks terrible. It's a complete deviation and insult to your character commitment as a professional. When someone smokes properly, it's controlled and comes out as a beautiful, symmetrical dispersal on the exhale.

It's why women go crazy for the jaded main character with never ending perma-stubble. He's hard-boiled, bad ass, and saves the fucking day with a Marlboro and a sub-machine gun. Like in Die Hard. Any movie with Bruce Willis really. Or, the alpha males with their trim silhouettes, skinny lapels and single-vented jackets entering the room like an elegant yet masculine skyscraper.

It's an image thing.

Depending on the algorithm used, Don Draper would only be half to three quarters as sexy if he didn't smoke those cigarettes like a boss. This kind of sex appeal is easy to construct as a director or screen writer if you follow a subset of rules and narrative devices. Sexy smoking or evil smoking. Cool smoking or after school special smoking. All conform to a universal understanding of characterization.

Take your character seriously.

Hollywood legend says that Nicolas Cage had his teeth pulled so he could better look the part of a veteran who had half his face blown off. He binge drank to understand and portray his cirrhotic liver character in Leaving Las Vegas.

Go big or go home.

It gets harder and harder to find this level of commitment. But, Annie on the other hand always commits. Even if it means punching him in the chest or showing some hypnotizing cleavage while mowing down targets with a paintball gun or role playing kinky sex between an elf maiden and a hung ranger. She gets it. Ever the perfectionist, she goes the distance.

So he pulls another drag and takes it like a champ. It still burns like hell, and he can't imagine people smoked these before filters were invented, but if you don't suffer for your art, then you might as well quit. And he's not going to let a prop screw this up.

"So," he says, leaning back on the counter instantly slipping back into character, his voice squeaks a little before he brings it down and low and inflected, but he keeps the scene on track, "You enjoying this place?"

We're cut to a medium two shot. With the framing being tighter to the conversation, the audience will be more emotionally involved with the story, as refined performances and reactions can be seen in the characters. It focuses on subtle facial expressions that follow a structure to imitate, without having to understand them.

Leaning toward him she asks if he's sure he's okay. He says he doesn't know what she's talking about. She leans back and looks at him, perhaps a bit annoyed and sighs. Looking around she shrugs and says, "I'm a bit bored to be honest."

He takes a sip of his drink. "Well that's what the alcohol is for."

"True. Although it tends to complicate things." Leaning her elbow on the counter, she starts teasing a piece of her hair and turns towards him. Her other arm is resting against the side of her breast making them an unintended focal point towards the camera. Raising her eyebrows she says, "So what's your deal?"

"Until proof of the contrary, I can be your best friend."

"Is that so? As a potential best friend, I have to ask, what are you doing here?"

"Specifically?"

"Specifically."

"Maybe it was to accidentally meet you here." She laughs and rolls her eyes. He tells her he's just taking a break from work. Says it's not really interesting what he does, but she presses anyway.

"Advertising."

"So you sell things?"

He says he sells ideals. The ideals of what people aspire to. What they want. Or what they need to be told to want. It's a creative business, he says. Like an artist. An artist of want. And they do real art too, but not him.

"So you're an idea man."

Before the bartender can put his drink down on a napkin he grabs it and takes a huge swig to try to soothe his roasted tonsils. "Exactly."

She crosses her legs, brushing her foot against his shin. "Well, Mr. Idea Man. What do you want?"

Right now, he says, right now what he wants is to buy her another drink.

"How drunk do you usually get women you've just met?"

He leans his head in close to hers. "The drunker you are, the funnier I become. ABC did research."

She smiles and sips on her martini glass. Pulling out the stick of olives, she places it in her mouth and it's becoming quickly apparent that Annie knows more than she's ever shown before about flirting and the full implementation of using props. Her eyes play over him for a second and she says, "You know, you never told me your name."

"No I didn't." He stamps out his god-awful cigarette in an ashtray. "Name's Don."

She drags an olive off the little pink plastic stick into her mouth. "You're a bit of a quick mover, aren't you Don?"

"When I see something I want," he says and brushes his hand against hers, "Why wait?"

Her cheeks flush and she laughs. "I'm sure. My name is Elena."

"So what do you do, Elena, when you're not being bored?"

Elena is a restaurant owner, she tells him. An upscale place. Trendy without being too pretentious. According to Elena, the restaurant business is always changing; she never knows what's going to be popular or what kind of image it will have to take on next to survive. But it never truly changes, she says, not at its core, just what it presents to others. What it needs to be to fit in. Velveeta right now is indigenous regional cheese. Hazelnuts are imported European cobnuts.

She inherited the place from her father who rose to the rank of an important title in WWI. He was an underground freedom fighter in Switzerland during WWII and took down Nazi communication lines in ski resorts. Her mother was an existentialist writer he met in France. She was a communist and had a love affair with Camus and Sartre before inventing the electric pencil sharpener.

"That's rather interesting."

Not really, she says.

But to tell the truth, she says, she's running away from it all. At least for tonight.

He orders another round and asks, "What are you running from?"

She starts sipping on her second or perhaps third or fourth drink. "Oh don't get me started on that. Tell me more about you."

The main character should never give too much away this early in the game. Especially when he's hiding an angst ridden double life. Or triple life.

"Well, I've been reading the most amazing book."

She raises her eyebrows. "What is it?"

"It says that the future is already written. It's all there," he says, turning the lighter in his hand, holding it with his thumb to his palm when he spreads his hand slightly forward to declare the revelation. "And the proof lies in premonitory dreams."

They both look at the stage when someone in the band drops something, with a loud crash and a swear. Followed by an announcement they were taking a short break. Eyes back to the counter, she pushes the bottom of her glass sliding it back and forth on a cocktail napkin with one of her pearl beaded fingers. Thinking for a moment, she says, "Even dreams are bad news then."

"Not always," he says. "For instance, I had a dream that I would accidentally meet a beautiful woman who happened to be bored with her perfect straight laced life."

"A beautiful woman, was it," she says, and nods her to the side in false modesty. No matter how many times they say they get tired of it, women never tire of being told they're beautiful. "I find that hard to believe."

He says, "No, it's true. It's a dream I've been having for awhile. What do you think that means?"

She smiles and sways at him, bumping her arm against his and says, "Let me guess, you're psychic?"

"No," he says. "It's the proof that dreams are windows to the future. That it was meant to be."

Popping another olive in her mouth, she says, "Tell me something about you that isn't a book or prophetic destiny."

He tells her about growing up on a farm in Pennsylvania or Illinois or somewhere vaguely in that general area before knocking back the rest of his drink and changing the subject to something more interesting. "That dress is something else."

She looks down at her layers of pouf and raises her eyes upwards at him and grins that way women do when they know they have you under their thumb. "You think?"

He motions his hand. "Let me see the rest."

Biting her lip she says, okay. Sure. She slides off the bar stool and does a turn around. Puts her hand on her hips and smiles with those glossy red lips. Her sweetheart bodice pushes her chest out while pulling her waist in. The skirt spilling down over her hips. It's a complete display of what her Young Republican-esque high waisted skirts and shirt and cardigan combos selfishly hide. She leans in, her mouth to his ear and whispers, "I found it in my Bubbe's closet. How cool is that?"

Turning her back to him, she straightens her legs and slightly pulls out her skirt, her head craning back feigning to look down towards the back of her legs but really looking at him and asks, "Are my seams straight?"

Camera pans down from white shoulder to red heels and he says, "I'll say."

"This place is a bit loud and crowded," she sighs and hops back in her seat, her string of white pearls bouncing against her neck. She spins around with her back to the counter and arcs her back pushing out her focal points. Tilting her head towards him she says, "Do you want to get out of here? I have a feeling you're the opposite of boring."

"I'm not the solution to your problem." Lighting another cigarette and nailing it perfectly with dialogue. "I'm just another problem."

"Probably," she says grabbing her white sateen micro-purse and standing up. "But life is nothing but a series of problems."

She says, "One more can't hurt."

He can't argue with that.

"Come on," she says holding out her hand. "Walk me to my room."

Cool.

Cool cool cool.