Author's Note: This is what happens when I set my brain to random play! I've never done drabbles before - they're harder than I was expecting! And nope, I still don't own The Producers, sadly ...

And I'll see your true colours shining through

Your true colours

And that's why I love you

So don't be afraid to let them show

Your true colours

True colours are beautiful

Like a rainbow

- Cyndi Lauper, 'True Colours'

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For my wonderful cast, who I miss like crazy,

and for The Muse, because I've never seen colours like yours.


Sunlight Through Rain


"Back again, sir?"

My boss gives my favourite customer an obsequious smile along with his roses.

A shrug; a brilliant, beaming grin, hands waving in all directions. "Opening night!" comes the reply, as though that explains everything.

"She's a very lucky lady," my boss says, handing over the change, and receives an almost-but-not-quite hysterical giggle in return.

Quite by accident, our eyes meet; I mouth, "Break a leg!" and, daringly, I wink.

He blows me a kiss and practically skips out of the door, sombre clothing given the lie by the flamboyant splash of red he carries.

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Shirley scowls at her reflection; tugs resentfully at a lock of hair. Remembers kids in the schoolyard, calling her "Ginger Tom" - because of the damn hair, because she was such a tomboy ...

She wonders idly if Ulla will be at the theatre.

Preferably wearing that red dress ...

Or no dress at all ...

Stomping from the bathroom, Shirley collects the scattered gels on the floor, musing as she goes. And then she returns to the mirror, holds up a shard of blue plastic; watches the ginger turn briefly brown.

Maybe that's why I do this job, she thinks, wryly.

Wishful thinking.

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The plan was to take his sandwiches, sit in the park; but Leo only makes it to the sidewalk.

He stops, dazzled by the sea of cabs, and the choice: he could hail one, just go ... as far as possible.

Or ...

Some of those drivers are going pretty fast. Fast enough? Enough to be painless if he - ?

But something makes him stop after only three steps.

Appetite gone, Leo dumps his lunch in the nearest trash can; walks slowly back to Whitehall and Marks. He wonders what stopped him.

Something too stubborn to quit?

Or something too cowardly to run?

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Max watches his partner and their new secretary-slash-receptionist as they stumble through their daily awkward, almost-but-not-quite romance; he watches through narrowed, envious eyes, and finds himself in a previously unthinkable position.

Nothing seems to be working. Not the good old Bialystock charm (possibly slightly rusty, given the lack of practice on anyone under the age of eighty-five), not his inexhaustable supply of innuendo and double-entendre ... he finds himself at a total loss and doesn't like it one bit.

Leo once wanted to be Max.

And now it seems Max would rather be Leo.

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Whenever they spoke of him - which was frequently - they spoke of him as Bud. Max's fault, of course; but they all had to agree it was perfect: what else would you call a baby Bloom?

Except that now, gazing into eyes as blue and perfect as Ulla's, Leo finds it hard to remember even the possibility of him.

Because now there is her.

"Rose?" suggests Carmen, in a reverent whisper.

"Darling, please," Roger winces, "absolutely not!"


"No ... "

"Bluebell? Um ... Lily?"

"Carmen! No flowers!"

Leo wraps the blanket around her and ignores them. He smiles.

The blue matches her eyes.

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To mark the one-year anniversary of freedom, Leo had planned a night out. Fancy restaurant, champagne, making jokes in the present of things that hadn't been funny at all in the past.

But they were in the past, and that was the point.

Instead, he and Max have ended up here, on the roof above the Jane Street apartment, along with Roger and Carmen, Ulla and Franz, all of them lying on their backs, heads close together, stupid-drunk and ridiculously happy, listening to the burbling of Franz's pigeons.

Staring up at the deep blue space between the stars.

: : : : :


They see the smile first.

Carmen claps one hand over his mouth, but a deafening squeal escapes between his fingers. Roger sits open-mouthed and practically drooling as the smile is followed by a truly spectacular body.

"Name?" Carmen manages.

"Whatever you want it to be," comes the reply, and the smile gets even wider.

"Job's yours," croaks Roger. "There'll be a kind of - sort of, uhhmm ... uniform. Is there any, er, colour you'd like - ?"


Roger and Carmen exchange a look; turn as one to gaze around the room. Carmen frowns. Roger shrugs.

"We'll redecorate," they say as one.

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