Seldom Second Chances (1/12)
Title: Seldom Second Chances
Author: Clay
Pairing: Ryan/Colin
Rating: NC-17 (for later chapters)
Summary: When a freak accident drops an impossible opportunity in Ryan's lap, it's up to him to decide whether to squander it, or to change his fate by going after the one thing he's always wanted.
Word Count: ~5000
Prompt & Author's Notes: I started this story almost a year and a half ago, but I also haven't touched it in nearly as long. Regardless, I never stopped thinking about it, and when I saw Thon prompt 33 - Strangled by the red string, I thought it fit this story perfectly. So maybe I didn't start this story for the thon, but I'm going to finish it for the thon. I still have about half of my proposed 12 chapters to write, and I'm really hoping that this thon is just the kick in the pants I need to get it done. :) Also, since my beta (asuka14) asked, the thing about Claire is completely made up. I mean, the whole thing is made up, of course, but that's super made up. ^_^
Chapter One
Ryan glared at his phone. It was an iTouch 17 or a Smart Apple Pound-of-flesh or something equally as inane. He'd never paid it much attention, and in the scheme of things, it didn't really matter anyway. What mattered was that nothing he typed was coming out anywhere close to “Can't talk. Heading in to tape soon.” His apparently giant fingers were incapable of hitting the proper on-screen buttons, and his latest attempt was closer to “Camp sskh eeadbg ib to ts psuim.” Eventually he gave in and just hit send, hoping Pat would get the gist of it.
He shoved the phone into the pocket of his hoodie and kept his hands housed safely in the soft fabric, idly toying with the one other item he kept inside it. Leaning back against the beige painted concrete that made up the vast majority of Raleigh Studio's complex, he looked around, still feeling a hint of elation of actually being back in the old, familiar back lot. Black-clad stage hands skittered here and there, and across the way he could see through the elephant doors of studio J, where a smattering of workers were building a large, pressed wood construct of some sort.
The sky overhead was far from L.A.'s usual crisp, blue offering. Instead it was gray and cloudless-no rhyme or reason or end in sight to the dreariness, and it dimmed his euphoria slightly, just as it dimmed the surrounding colors to a muted facsimile of what they should have been.
Suddenly, his phone rang.
Cursing softly, Ryan fished the offensive bit of technology back out of his hoodie pocket and managed to successfully unlock it. It took him a minute of fumbling in a vain attempt to answer the call before he realized that the simple act of unlocking the phone had already achieved that. Cursing again, he put the phone up to his ear. “Yeah, what?”
“'Fuck, yeah what?''” Pat echoed. “Is that how you say hello to your wife?” A decade ago that might have been a joke, but there was no hint of humor in her tone now. Ryan couldn't even remember the last time he'd heard her laugh.
Ryan's first instinct was to tell her that yes, that was exactly how he said hello to his wife when she was a cheating, lying bitch, but he bit his tongue and instead muttered a no less acerbic, “I told you I can't talk now. I have to tape soon.”
“Is that what that text said?” she said. “I thought you were having a stroke or something.”
Ryan didn't answer.
After a moment she heaved a sigh and continued, very quietly, “We have to talk.”
Ryan snorted. “Now?”
“Well, then when, Ryan? I was hoping we could do this before the kids got home, but you haven't been answering your phone, and I don't think this should wait until you come back.” She paused, then corrected that to, “If you come back.”
“Tapings are finished on Sunday.”
“And you still haven't bought a plane ticket,” she countered briskly. “What are you waiting for? What are you doing?”
Ryan shoved one hand back inside his pocket and wrapped long fingers around the thin tube within. “Working.”
“And what about your marriage? Are you working on that?”
“Is there something to work on?”
She sounded incredulous as she asked, “Do you want a divorce?”
Breathing out a long, slow breath, Ryan lowered his voice, then asked, “Does it matter what I want?”
Now it was her turn not to answer.
She stayed quiet so long that Ryan actually pulled the phone from his ear to make sure the call was still connected. The digital counter ticked away the seconds, and out of the corner of his eye, Ryan saw a flurry of movement. He looked up to see Mark waving at him, then pointing at his watch. Ryan held up a finger, put the phone back to his ear and turned away.
“Pat-”
“Robert wants to be with me,” she said, cutting him off. Her tone was matter-of-fact as she continued, “He wants to meet his daughter.”
Anger swept up inside of Ryan. “Did you tell him to fuck off?”
“No,” she replied flatly, “you already did that.”
He was floundering as he countered, “W-well, what does Claire have to say about it?”
“You know I haven't told her yet.”
“But you will.” He licked lips and tried to figure out if he still cared.
“She deserves to know.”
“She's still my daughter! Not his.”
Pat sighed heavily. “Ryan...”
“Well then you should have told me sooner.”
Pat was quiet for another moment, and he could practically hear her shaking her head. “I'm not doing this with you right now,” she said.
Ryan snorted. “You're the one who wanted to talk.”
She had something to say to that-of course she did-but at the same moment, Mark called out a harried, “Ryan!?” and Ryan pulled the phone from his ear and twirled to meet the exasperated stage manager.
Mark's arms were spread in a clear what-the-fuck-are-you-doing gesture. “C'mon!” he yelled.
Ryan shrugged apologetically and pointed to the phone.
Mark wasn't impressed. “Now! It's almost 6:30!”
“Let me just have a cigarette first,” he pleaded.
“What?” sounded from the phone, but Mark at least accepted it. Shaking his head, he waved Ryan off dismissively, then stalked back into the studio, and Ryan put the phone back to his ear just in time for a fresh tirade.
“Don't tell me you're smoking. I thought you quit, or was that a lie? What about that electric thing. Aren't you doing that? Or are you giving up on that, too?”
Ryan shoved his hand back in his hoodie and fingered the tube, feeling his blood pressure rising. “I have to go,” he said. “Mark is getting pissed.”
Pat fell silent. When she came back, her tone had calmed significantly. “Will you call me when you get out?”
“Maybe.”
“Ryan.”
“What?”
She just breathed for a moment, and he imagined her looking out their kitchen window at the wall of evergreens along the side of the house. “Come home,” she said. There was another pause, and then, “You know you don't need this job. Is it really more important than your marriage?”
Ryan closed his eyes. “I have to go,” he said again.
This time, she really did hang up on him. The sounds of construction from studio J petered out, and Ryan slowly opened his eyes to see the workers huddled in front of the elephant doors, smoking and laughing. Licking his lips, he slipped the phone back in his pocket, and, a moment later, took the electronic cigarette out.
Sucking on it produced a water vapor that looked like smoke, and the nicotine helped to soothe his shattered nerves, but the lack of tobacco and the old, familiar burn in his lungs left him feeling oddly empty.
“Spare one for an old friend?”
Ryan started, but then immediately relaxed. A smile jumped to his lips at the sultry, sardonic tone, and he spun around, holding the black tube aloft. “Not even for myself, unfortunately.”
Deb stood just behind him, her arms folder over her chest and her cropped hair flipping up stylishly just below her ears. She was heavily bejeweled and sporting thick, dark eyeliner and glossy lips. By contrast, her fitted jeans, flats, and loose blouse seemed far more suited to a soccer mom. He loved her dichotomy, and it reminded him of the day he met her-her pretty, painted mouth spouting curses that would make a sailor blush.
He grinned at her, and she grinned right back before her eyes skipped to the electronic cigarette. She gave a curious, barking laugh as she reached for it. “What the hell is this?”
“A sad attempt to get a couple more years out of this old thing,” he told her, patting his tummy as he passed it over to her.
“Sad is right!” She studied it only briefly before she handed it back and looked past him to where the builders were still chatting amiably. “Maybe it's time I make some new friends.”
“Friends?” Ryan puffed on the cigarette once more and raised his eyebrows. “Is that what you call someone who doesn't call or write?”
“No,” she quipped, quirking up the corner of her mouth in the hint of a smile. “Usually I call you bastard, but I was trying to be polite.”
Chuckling, Ryan nodded and leaned back against the building once more. The stone was cool against his back.
“I have a name or two for you, too.”
“Ha!” Deb shook her head, her hands lighting on her hips. “I'd say don't let my husband hear you talking like that, but then you'd have to call him, and god knows that'll never happen.”
There was a twinge in the pit of Ryan's stomach at her words, but he covered it up with a small smile, studying his electronic cigarette intently so he didn't have to meet her eyes. “He never complains.”
“No, he doesn't,” she agreed. There was a wistful tone in her voice that almost made him look up-almost. She snorted, following it up with, “He misses you, you bastard.”
He's right down the hall, he thought to say. We've been rehearsing all week. What is there to miss? But he knew what she meant. Two weeks a year was a far cry from the good old days. They used to spend every night together in some dive or another up in Vancouver; they'd practically explored the entirety of London at one another's sides. Even the last time they'd stood in this very spot, laughing and smoking and hiding from Dan seemed different somehow. It was like he'd forgotten them in the interim.
Like he'd forgotten himself. A sense of longing reached up from deep in his gut and grabbed him, squeezing hard. Just over a decade ago, all he'd done was bitch about how much time he was forced to spend with Colin, and now, thinking about the past, about Pat and that phone call, and...everything, all he could think was how nice it would be to go back there.
Oh, he'd meant every word of derision at the time. There was no doubt about that. He'd needed some space, some room to think and clear his head-but twelve years worth? If he knew then what he knew now...would it make a difference?
“I miss-” he started, finally looking up, but just then his phone gave another annoying chime, and Ryan cut the thought off with an exasperated growl.
Wrenching the phone from his pocket, he fumbled with it in vain, practically dropping it twice. “Buttons!” he exclaimed. “I miss it when phones had fucking buttons!”
Laughing, Deb reached for the phone. “Here, let me-”
But Ryan snatched it away before she could make contact. “Don't.”
Deb started, blinking at him curiously. Frowning, she craned her neck over to read the display, where Pat's name blazoned across the small screen in bold contrast. Deb raised her eyes to him. “Trouble in paradise?”
“When the fuck was it ever paradise?”
Heaving a deep sigh, Deb gave a half shrug. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
She nodded. Silence stretched tautly between them, and Deb turned her head to look out across the way. “I'm going to go grab a real cigarette. Want one?”
He did, but a look toward the stage entrance showed that Dan had given up sending Mark after him, simply to go himself. He stood in the doorway already outfitted with his headset and clipboard and looking absolutely murderous. Time to go back.
“Didn't you make Colin quit?” he said to her instead.
She shrugged again, then winked and started off toward the workers, grinning at him over her shoulder. “What he doesn't know won't hurt him.”
“And what if I tell him?”
She let out a another laugh, turning away. Her response floated back to him on the breeze. “You'd have to talk to him first!”
* * *
Just after 8 p.m. they took a break for the audience and players alike to stretch their legs while the makeup girls took the opportunity to get rid of the shine on their cheeks and foreheads. Years in the industry had Ryan so accustomed to the hovering presence and the soft, soothing dab of that little triangular sponge that he barely noticed it now. To his right, Wayne chatted amiably with his girl, but Ryan kept his eyes down, fiddling with his phone and making a vain attempt at checking his messages…despite the fact that most of his attention was actually on Colin.
A decade ago they'd be using this break to go have a smoke or grab a bite to eat, but Ryan wasn't hungry and the smoking was a bust. Apparently Colin was of a similar mindset, as he was currently perched on the edge of Aisha's desk, chatting with her about her seemingly unconscious need to press the doorbell at all the wrong times.
“If you didn't have this job,” Ryan called out, “you'd make a great door to door salesman.”
The jibe got a few chuckles from the audience, though most of them were busy with their own conversations during the scant few minutes where they didn't have to worry about being on camera. Aisha and Wayne gave him a smile, but Colin....
Colin barely even looked at him.
He turned, glancing at Ryan with a slight, contemplative frown before turning back to his conversation.
Ryan scowled and looked back down at his phone. Deb's words played in his mind.
You'd have to talk to him first.
A fat lot of good that was doing him.
It occurred to him then that Colin didn't know a damned thing that was going on in his life. He didn't know about Claire’s paternity or Ryan’s marriage problems, not about upcoming auditions or how Upfront was doing. It just hadn't occurred to him to open up to Colin about those things-not in a long, long time. There had been a time when he couldn't wait to get to Colin to tell him every little thing that had happened over the course of the day, from the amazing plate of eggs he'd had for breakfast to how he'd bombed on stage that evening and everything in between.
He couldn't remember when all of that had changed.
With a light sigh, Ryan tried to push those thoughts from his mind. Maybe he could just get lost in the daily grind and forget about Colin for two seconds. He smiled at the girl as she finally finished up, and he thanked her genuinely as she walked away.
The smile didn’t last long, however, as he dipped his head and went back to searching for his text messaging application on his phone. He’d thrust the thing at Sam the second he got it, barking at the boy to set it up for him, and when it was returned, it had been filled with little colored squares, like a tome written in some alien tongue.
Giving up, Ryan jabbed his finger at a random green and white button, and was pleasantly surprised to see Pat’s words jump onto the screen. The pleasantry dropped away the second he actually read her words, of course, but he barely had time to think about that when the phone was suddenly snatched from his hands.
Ryan let out an involuntary gasp, jerking his head up to see Wayne gleefully dancing away, white teeth flashing as he waved the phone mockingly.
“What’s got you so distracted, old man?” Wayne joked.
Ryan snapped his arm out, grabbing at the phone, but Wayne was too quick. “Give it back.”
“Chill out, man!” Wayne quipped now. He glanced down at the phone. “Let a brother help you out. You seem-” But he cut himself off as his eyes scanned the screen, and the smile was gone a second later. Ryan didn’t remember much of Pat’s text, but one word had definitely stood out. Divorce. “Oh.” Wayne looked up again, and now every ounce of playfulness had been replaced with gut wrenching pity. “Oh, man, I-”
Growling, Ryan lunged from his chair and made another grab for the phone. “Give it back!”
Wayne let it go easily now, and he stood, shaking his head slightly as Ryan slinked back into his chair, clutching the phone to his chest.
“I am so, so sorry.”
“Just leave it,” Ryan said, almost pleading now. He took a deep, steadying breath, then paused, feeling the weight of eyes on him. Slowly, he looked up at the audience and his fellow performers alike, blanching. He'd forgotten that the audience was still there-still watching-restless and chatty as they were.
Wayne moved in a little closer, his voice quieting to a near whisper as he gave Ryan’s shoulder a light squeeze. “Man, you know I've been there. If you ever want to talk...”
“Yeah, well, I don't-” Ryan diverted his eyes. He looked back down on the phone like it fascinated him, but his mind was a blank, his fingers immobile on the bright screen.
Suddenly, Wayne seemed to perk back up. “Wait,” he said, grabbing back the phone before Ryan could stop him.
“Hey!”
“I was going to show you something,” Wayne continued, ignoring the outburst. “It’s why I grabbed your phone in the first place.” His fingers moved deftly over the digital keyboard, and Ryan forgot his anger for a moment, fascinated. “You’ve been in a funk all night, and I thought you could use some cheering up.”
He raised his eyebrows, curiously somber as he offered the phone back to Ryan. “And now I’m sure of it.”
Ryan took the phone back gingerly. The screen was black, with a translucent white triangle in the middle. He frowned at Wayne, waiting for an explanation.
“We want this to work, right?” Wayne said.
Snorting, Ryan raised an eyebrow. “What, my marriage?”
Shooting him a sardonic glance, Wayne shook his head. “No. I mean, well, yeah, but-this.” He gestured broadly. “The show and stuff.” He smiled, warm and nostalgic. “Back in the day? Last time we did this? We were having the fucking time of our life. We really cared. I was watching this clip the other day, and you would not give up the scene, no matter what. That’s dedication for you.” He gave a small chuckle. “I thought you could use a reminder of what giving a shit actually looks like.” He reached across Ryan to tap at the triangle, and for a moment it was replaced by a tiny, spinning circle. Wayne squeezed his shoulder once more. “And not just for the sake of the show.” With that, he left Ryan to meander back to his chair.
Ryan looked after him. Wayne's presumptuousness was obnoxious, and Ryan wanted to give a parting shot of his own, but just then the phone seemed to come to life in his hands. He looked down at it as the video Wayne had called up finished buffering and started to play.
Before him was a bygone version of Drew Carey sitting at that old familiar desk as he read from a handful of blue cards. His plump cheeks were a strange sight after losing all that weight, and it took Ryan back in time. He found himself actually smiling, eager to see where this was going to go.
Drew called for a game of Party Quirks, and they all scanned their cards before dutifully lining up along the side of stage. Ryan couldn’t recall the game off the top of his head, but that didn’t bother him. If he couldn’t remember the show they did two weeks ago, he certainly didn’t expect himself to remember one that had to be a decade old. Besides, it was not that game but the people that captivated him now. Other than the oddity of Drew, there was Colin, his hair dyed blond and wearing one of those horrid Hawaiian shirts. Then there was himself, looking pretty good in a vibrant, cerulean button down shirt. God, he looked young.
The game started, and while Ryan wasn’t a big fan of being on the audience side of improv, he actually found himself enjoying the game. He even caught himself chuckling at their antics and the way Kathy was getting more and more flustered by their odd quirks. Currently, Colin was spouting nonsense in a bad French accent and snorting like a pig. Ryan smiled.
Suddenly it was his past self’s turn to enter, and a combination of anticipation and trepidation had him tensing slightly. Oh, the things he used to do for this show. He suddenly felt his age as he tried to imagine how he'd ever muster up that level of enthusiasm again.
As Ryan watched the small screen, white text overlaid the image, and he squinted to read it: CAROL CHANNING WHOSE HEAD KEEPS GETTING STUCK TO THINGS
Oh. That.
He sucked in a small breath, eyes riveted to the screen. It was one of the few games that he actually did recall, and surprisingly clearly at that. After all, it wasn't every day that he caused damage to the set.
He watched the game play out, feeling like he'd just stepped into a time warp. There he was, this much younger version of himself talking to Kathy, his head firmly set on the ground, and then suddenly he swerved to the right, scrambling across the set on hands and knees and then- smash-he shattered the neon light on Drew’s desk.
The camera kept cutting back to Colin attempting to smother a laugh behind his hand. And there he was, making sure the game played on. Talk about the sacrifices you made for your job.
His first thought was how young and stupid he was there, but in actuality he was probably older then than Wayne was today. Still, 40 seemed like a lifetime ago.
He turned his attention back to the video, but the game was over now. His younger self headed back to his seat where Colin and Wayne met him and checked on him, and Colin joked about his head bursting into flames. Ryan grinned at the joy on Colin’s face at the concept.
“Two minutes!” Mark called.
Ryan started, looking up. It felt like he had actually been ripped from the past instead of a silly little video, and it took him a moment to acclimate as everyone settled in around him.
Colin was the last to find his chair, and Ryan immediately turned to him. Feeling a little more upbeat, he touched Colin’s shoulder, showing him the phone. “Remember this?” he asked.
“Hm?” Colin barely glanced at it before his attention was drawn off stage. Frowning, Ryan looked to the wings to see Deb waving at them both. “What did you say?” Colin asked, but now Ryan was the distracted one.
Deb gave him a wicked grin and mouthed something that looked suspiciously like “Tell him,” but that couldn't be right.
“What did you want?” Colin asked. He sounded perturbed now.
Ryan forced his eyes away from Deb. He blinked at Colin, then looked down at the phone, but the video was gone. He must have hit a button or something because now he had a list of videos, labeled with nothing but times and dates. The top one read April 28th, 2013 20:18:14. He tried to make it work again, but he just got a whirling colored wheel, and by the time he managed to get it going, Mark was telling them it was time.
“What, Ryan?”
Ryan just shook his head and shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Nothing, Col. Never mind.”
Moments later, taping picked up again, and it didn’t matter anyway.
They were detailing the next game-Weird Newscasters-but all Ryan could think about as they took their places center stage was that decade old game. The thing with the light had been a fluke. It was so random, so spontaneous. When was the last time he'd really let himself just get lost in the game and really, truly play?
He was so distracted, he almost missed his quirk.
“And Ryan,” Aisha said, drawing his attention at the last minute, “You're an exotic dancer who's far past her prime and trying to relive her glory days.”
At those words, suddenly Ryan was smirking. Gone were his personal problems and thoughts of the past. All that occupied his mind was the game. If he had been thinking about it, he might consider that it was this ability to so thoroughly escape that kept him coming back to improv, but he wasn’t. He was thinking that if there was one thing he’d learned over the years it was that sex sells, and making his fellow performers uncomfortable in the process sold even better.
He grinned wider. He could do that. Maybe he wasn't as flexible as he once was, but he hadn't been for a long time, and God knew he could handle the 'past her prime' aspect.
As the game started in earnest, Ryan stood there with his hands clasped at his waist, thinking. He needed someone to play his character off of. There was Wayne. It would be good retaliation for his butting into Ryan’s business earlier, but he hadn’t actually heard what Wayne’s quirk was, so there was a good chance that plan could backfire spectacularly. Besides, he would prefer a straight man to his wacky persona.
There was Aisha. She had already proven her ability to be delightfully stony faced even in the most amusing of situations-maybe too much so. He wanted someone he could really get a rise out of.
Suddenly he thought of the video and of Colln sitting there, his hand clapped over his mouth, amusement clear in his eyes.
You want flames? He thought. You got it.
He straightened his back and forced himself to barely spare a glance for the other performers, keeping his composure. It was always more fun when they didn't see it coming.
In just a few scant moments it was his turn. Immediately, he went into a swagger, lighting up a pretend cigarette then blowing out a long plume of imaginary smoke.
“Today in weather,” he said in the slurred, rough tone of a 70 year old woman who'd ingested more smoke than oxygen most of her life, “it's going to be hot.”
He's smoothed his hand over fake breasts, then went into a tried and true rendition of throwing them over his shoulders before he pursed his lips at the camera. “Hot and wet.”
A few stumbling dance moves followed with him sliding jerkily up and down an imaginary pole, and he caught Colin watching him out of the corner of his eye. Perfect.
“And don't forget traffic,” he purred, sauntering forward. “The roads are all-“ He stopped and spun toward Colin, catching his slight intake of breath and grinning wickedly. “-backed-” And then he was right in front of him, doing a lewd squat as Colin tensed further. “-up.”
He thrust his hips forward, catching Colin off guard. Colin rocked on his stool as Ryan straddled his thighs, going into a gyration that had his back protesting and his blood pressure rising.
“Ryan,” Colin whispered, just low enough for the microphone not to pick it up. “Please. Don't.”
But Ryan ignored him. “How you like granny, son?” he slurred. It earned both a laugh and a groan from the audience, but Colin wasn't playing along.
His cheeks were tinged pink, and as Ryan watched, he threw a look back toward the wings, like he was worried that Deb was still there, watching, and fury boiled up inside Ryan. When the fuck did Colin get so uptight?
“You know you like it,” he growled, letting just a hint of that anger seep into his words. At the same time he dragged his hand down Colin’s chest, fingers catching on his mic and buttons and making an obnoxious racket, but Ryan didn't care.
Colin took in another breath, then whispered, “Stop it.”
Ryan ignored him, and instead moved closer still.
“Stop it!” Colin hissed, and then suddenly he was jerking back. His stool teetered dangerously, only catching and righting itself in the last possible instant, but it was too late for Ryan. He’d pitched forward when Colin had suddenly disappeared, unconsciously wheeling his arms in a vain attempt to keep upright, and before he knew it, he was landing bodily against Colin's chest.
On instinct, Colin shoved him away. Ryan still hadn’t regained his feet from the original fall, and now practically rolled off Colin, his knees buckling.
Suddenly the ground was rushing toward him. Ryan threw his arms out, trying to break his fall, and his full weight landed on his hands as they hit the carpeted stair. A sharp pain shot up his arms where the balls of his palms connected with the stage, the force of which had him sliding forward until his hands were shoved under the lighted step. His palms burned from the contact, but that was nothing compare to what happened next. His momentum kept him moving forward, jamming his fingers against the back of the stair, where they folded, his knuckles bumping up to hit the tube lighting. There was a crack, then a flurry of sparks, and then everything went white.
To be continued...
I can’t help but fear I’ve done this wrong
'Cause seldom second chances come along
-“Second Chances” by Needtobreathe
Author: Clay
Pairing: Ryan/Colin
Rating: NC-17 (for later chapters)
Summary: When a freak accident drops an impossible opportunity in Ryan's lap, it's up to him to decide whether to squander it, or to change his fate by going after the one thing he's always wanted.
Word Count: ~5000
Prompt & Author's Notes: I started this story almost a year and a half ago, but I also haven't touched it in nearly as long. Regardless, I never stopped thinking about it, and when I saw Thon prompt 33 - Strangled by the red string, I thought it fit this story perfectly. So maybe I didn't start this story for the thon, but I'm going to finish it for the thon. I still have about half of my proposed 12 chapters to write, and I'm really hoping that this thon is just the kick in the pants I need to get it done. :) Also, since my beta (asuka14) asked, the thing about Claire is completely made up. I mean, the whole thing is made up, of course, but that's super made up. ^_^
Chapter One
Ryan glared at his phone. It was an iTouch 17 or a Smart Apple Pound-of-flesh or something equally as inane. He'd never paid it much attention, and in the scheme of things, it didn't really matter anyway. What mattered was that nothing he typed was coming out anywhere close to “Can't talk. Heading in to tape soon.” His apparently giant fingers were incapable of hitting the proper on-screen buttons, and his latest attempt was closer to “Camp sskh eeadbg ib to ts psuim.” Eventually he gave in and just hit send, hoping Pat would get the gist of it.
He shoved the phone into the pocket of his hoodie and kept his hands housed safely in the soft fabric, idly toying with the one other item he kept inside it. Leaning back against the beige painted concrete that made up the vast majority of Raleigh Studio's complex, he looked around, still feeling a hint of elation of actually being back in the old, familiar back lot. Black-clad stage hands skittered here and there, and across the way he could see through the elephant doors of studio J, where a smattering of workers were building a large, pressed wood construct of some sort.
The sky overhead was far from L.A.'s usual crisp, blue offering. Instead it was gray and cloudless-no rhyme or reason or end in sight to the dreariness, and it dimmed his euphoria slightly, just as it dimmed the surrounding colors to a muted facsimile of what they should have been.
Suddenly, his phone rang.
Cursing softly, Ryan fished the offensive bit of technology back out of his hoodie pocket and managed to successfully unlock it. It took him a minute of fumbling in a vain attempt to answer the call before he realized that the simple act of unlocking the phone had already achieved that. Cursing again, he put the phone up to his ear. “Yeah, what?”
“'Fuck, yeah what?''” Pat echoed. “Is that how you say hello to your wife?” A decade ago that might have been a joke, but there was no hint of humor in her tone now. Ryan couldn't even remember the last time he'd heard her laugh.
Ryan's first instinct was to tell her that yes, that was exactly how he said hello to his wife when she was a cheating, lying bitch, but he bit his tongue and instead muttered a no less acerbic, “I told you I can't talk now. I have to tape soon.”
“Is that what that text said?” she said. “I thought you were having a stroke or something.”
Ryan didn't answer.
After a moment she heaved a sigh and continued, very quietly, “We have to talk.”
Ryan snorted. “Now?”
“Well, then when, Ryan? I was hoping we could do this before the kids got home, but you haven't been answering your phone, and I don't think this should wait until you come back.” She paused, then corrected that to, “If you come back.”
“Tapings are finished on Sunday.”
“And you still haven't bought a plane ticket,” she countered briskly. “What are you waiting for? What are you doing?”
Ryan shoved one hand back inside his pocket and wrapped long fingers around the thin tube within. “Working.”
“And what about your marriage? Are you working on that?”
“Is there something to work on?”
She sounded incredulous as she asked, “Do you want a divorce?”
Breathing out a long, slow breath, Ryan lowered his voice, then asked, “Does it matter what I want?”
Now it was her turn not to answer.
She stayed quiet so long that Ryan actually pulled the phone from his ear to make sure the call was still connected. The digital counter ticked away the seconds, and out of the corner of his eye, Ryan saw a flurry of movement. He looked up to see Mark waving at him, then pointing at his watch. Ryan held up a finger, put the phone back to his ear and turned away.
“Pat-”
“Robert wants to be with me,” she said, cutting him off. Her tone was matter-of-fact as she continued, “He wants to meet his daughter.”
Anger swept up inside of Ryan. “Did you tell him to fuck off?”
“No,” she replied flatly, “you already did that.”
He was floundering as he countered, “W-well, what does Claire have to say about it?”
“You know I haven't told her yet.”
“But you will.” He licked lips and tried to figure out if he still cared.
“She deserves to know.”
“She's still my daughter! Not his.”
Pat sighed heavily. “Ryan...”
“Well then you should have told me sooner.”
Pat was quiet for another moment, and he could practically hear her shaking her head. “I'm not doing this with you right now,” she said.
Ryan snorted. “You're the one who wanted to talk.”
She had something to say to that-of course she did-but at the same moment, Mark called out a harried, “Ryan!?” and Ryan pulled the phone from his ear and twirled to meet the exasperated stage manager.
Mark's arms were spread in a clear what-the-fuck-are-you-doing gesture. “C'mon!” he yelled.
Ryan shrugged apologetically and pointed to the phone.
Mark wasn't impressed. “Now! It's almost 6:30!”
“Let me just have a cigarette first,” he pleaded.
“What?” sounded from the phone, but Mark at least accepted it. Shaking his head, he waved Ryan off dismissively, then stalked back into the studio, and Ryan put the phone back to his ear just in time for a fresh tirade.
“Don't tell me you're smoking. I thought you quit, or was that a lie? What about that electric thing. Aren't you doing that? Or are you giving up on that, too?”
Ryan shoved his hand back in his hoodie and fingered the tube, feeling his blood pressure rising. “I have to go,” he said. “Mark is getting pissed.”
Pat fell silent. When she came back, her tone had calmed significantly. “Will you call me when you get out?”
“Maybe.”
“Ryan.”
“What?”
She just breathed for a moment, and he imagined her looking out their kitchen window at the wall of evergreens along the side of the house. “Come home,” she said. There was another pause, and then, “You know you don't need this job. Is it really more important than your marriage?”
Ryan closed his eyes. “I have to go,” he said again.
This time, she really did hang up on him. The sounds of construction from studio J petered out, and Ryan slowly opened his eyes to see the workers huddled in front of the elephant doors, smoking and laughing. Licking his lips, he slipped the phone back in his pocket, and, a moment later, took the electronic cigarette out.
Sucking on it produced a water vapor that looked like smoke, and the nicotine helped to soothe his shattered nerves, but the lack of tobacco and the old, familiar burn in his lungs left him feeling oddly empty.
“Spare one for an old friend?”
Ryan started, but then immediately relaxed. A smile jumped to his lips at the sultry, sardonic tone, and he spun around, holding the black tube aloft. “Not even for myself, unfortunately.”
Deb stood just behind him, her arms folder over her chest and her cropped hair flipping up stylishly just below her ears. She was heavily bejeweled and sporting thick, dark eyeliner and glossy lips. By contrast, her fitted jeans, flats, and loose blouse seemed far more suited to a soccer mom. He loved her dichotomy, and it reminded him of the day he met her-her pretty, painted mouth spouting curses that would make a sailor blush.
He grinned at her, and she grinned right back before her eyes skipped to the electronic cigarette. She gave a curious, barking laugh as she reached for it. “What the hell is this?”
“A sad attempt to get a couple more years out of this old thing,” he told her, patting his tummy as he passed it over to her.
“Sad is right!” She studied it only briefly before she handed it back and looked past him to where the builders were still chatting amiably. “Maybe it's time I make some new friends.”
“Friends?” Ryan puffed on the cigarette once more and raised his eyebrows. “Is that what you call someone who doesn't call or write?”
“No,” she quipped, quirking up the corner of her mouth in the hint of a smile. “Usually I call you bastard, but I was trying to be polite.”
Chuckling, Ryan nodded and leaned back against the building once more. The stone was cool against his back.
“I have a name or two for you, too.”
“Ha!” Deb shook her head, her hands lighting on her hips. “I'd say don't let my husband hear you talking like that, but then you'd have to call him, and god knows that'll never happen.”
There was a twinge in the pit of Ryan's stomach at her words, but he covered it up with a small smile, studying his electronic cigarette intently so he didn't have to meet her eyes. “He never complains.”
“No, he doesn't,” she agreed. There was a wistful tone in her voice that almost made him look up-almost. She snorted, following it up with, “He misses you, you bastard.”
He's right down the hall, he thought to say. We've been rehearsing all week. What is there to miss? But he knew what she meant. Two weeks a year was a far cry from the good old days. They used to spend every night together in some dive or another up in Vancouver; they'd practically explored the entirety of London at one another's sides. Even the last time they'd stood in this very spot, laughing and smoking and hiding from Dan seemed different somehow. It was like he'd forgotten them in the interim.
Like he'd forgotten himself. A sense of longing reached up from deep in his gut and grabbed him, squeezing hard. Just over a decade ago, all he'd done was bitch about how much time he was forced to spend with Colin, and now, thinking about the past, about Pat and that phone call, and...everything, all he could think was how nice it would be to go back there.
Oh, he'd meant every word of derision at the time. There was no doubt about that. He'd needed some space, some room to think and clear his head-but twelve years worth? If he knew then what he knew now...would it make a difference?
“I miss-” he started, finally looking up, but just then his phone gave another annoying chime, and Ryan cut the thought off with an exasperated growl.
Wrenching the phone from his pocket, he fumbled with it in vain, practically dropping it twice. “Buttons!” he exclaimed. “I miss it when phones had fucking buttons!”
Laughing, Deb reached for the phone. “Here, let me-”
But Ryan snatched it away before she could make contact. “Don't.”
Deb started, blinking at him curiously. Frowning, she craned her neck over to read the display, where Pat's name blazoned across the small screen in bold contrast. Deb raised her eyes to him. “Trouble in paradise?”
“When the fuck was it ever paradise?”
Heaving a deep sigh, Deb gave a half shrug. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
She nodded. Silence stretched tautly between them, and Deb turned her head to look out across the way. “I'm going to go grab a real cigarette. Want one?”
He did, but a look toward the stage entrance showed that Dan had given up sending Mark after him, simply to go himself. He stood in the doorway already outfitted with his headset and clipboard and looking absolutely murderous. Time to go back.
“Didn't you make Colin quit?” he said to her instead.
She shrugged again, then winked and started off toward the workers, grinning at him over her shoulder. “What he doesn't know won't hurt him.”
“And what if I tell him?”
She let out a another laugh, turning away. Her response floated back to him on the breeze. “You'd have to talk to him first!”
* * *
Just after 8 p.m. they took a break for the audience and players alike to stretch their legs while the makeup girls took the opportunity to get rid of the shine on their cheeks and foreheads. Years in the industry had Ryan so accustomed to the hovering presence and the soft, soothing dab of that little triangular sponge that he barely noticed it now. To his right, Wayne chatted amiably with his girl, but Ryan kept his eyes down, fiddling with his phone and making a vain attempt at checking his messages…despite the fact that most of his attention was actually on Colin.
A decade ago they'd be using this break to go have a smoke or grab a bite to eat, but Ryan wasn't hungry and the smoking was a bust. Apparently Colin was of a similar mindset, as he was currently perched on the edge of Aisha's desk, chatting with her about her seemingly unconscious need to press the doorbell at all the wrong times.
“If you didn't have this job,” Ryan called out, “you'd make a great door to door salesman.”
The jibe got a few chuckles from the audience, though most of them were busy with their own conversations during the scant few minutes where they didn't have to worry about being on camera. Aisha and Wayne gave him a smile, but Colin....
Colin barely even looked at him.
He turned, glancing at Ryan with a slight, contemplative frown before turning back to his conversation.
Ryan scowled and looked back down at his phone. Deb's words played in his mind.
You'd have to talk to him first.
A fat lot of good that was doing him.
It occurred to him then that Colin didn't know a damned thing that was going on in his life. He didn't know about Claire’s paternity or Ryan’s marriage problems, not about upcoming auditions or how Upfront was doing. It just hadn't occurred to him to open up to Colin about those things-not in a long, long time. There had been a time when he couldn't wait to get to Colin to tell him every little thing that had happened over the course of the day, from the amazing plate of eggs he'd had for breakfast to how he'd bombed on stage that evening and everything in between.
He couldn't remember when all of that had changed.
With a light sigh, Ryan tried to push those thoughts from his mind. Maybe he could just get lost in the daily grind and forget about Colin for two seconds. He smiled at the girl as she finally finished up, and he thanked her genuinely as she walked away.
The smile didn’t last long, however, as he dipped his head and went back to searching for his text messaging application on his phone. He’d thrust the thing at Sam the second he got it, barking at the boy to set it up for him, and when it was returned, it had been filled with little colored squares, like a tome written in some alien tongue.
Giving up, Ryan jabbed his finger at a random green and white button, and was pleasantly surprised to see Pat’s words jump onto the screen. The pleasantry dropped away the second he actually read her words, of course, but he barely had time to think about that when the phone was suddenly snatched from his hands.
Ryan let out an involuntary gasp, jerking his head up to see Wayne gleefully dancing away, white teeth flashing as he waved the phone mockingly.
“What’s got you so distracted, old man?” Wayne joked.
Ryan snapped his arm out, grabbing at the phone, but Wayne was too quick. “Give it back.”
“Chill out, man!” Wayne quipped now. He glanced down at the phone. “Let a brother help you out. You seem-” But he cut himself off as his eyes scanned the screen, and the smile was gone a second later. Ryan didn’t remember much of Pat’s text, but one word had definitely stood out. Divorce. “Oh.” Wayne looked up again, and now every ounce of playfulness had been replaced with gut wrenching pity. “Oh, man, I-”
Growling, Ryan lunged from his chair and made another grab for the phone. “Give it back!”
Wayne let it go easily now, and he stood, shaking his head slightly as Ryan slinked back into his chair, clutching the phone to his chest.
“I am so, so sorry.”
“Just leave it,” Ryan said, almost pleading now. He took a deep, steadying breath, then paused, feeling the weight of eyes on him. Slowly, he looked up at the audience and his fellow performers alike, blanching. He'd forgotten that the audience was still there-still watching-restless and chatty as they were.
Wayne moved in a little closer, his voice quieting to a near whisper as he gave Ryan’s shoulder a light squeeze. “Man, you know I've been there. If you ever want to talk...”
“Yeah, well, I don't-” Ryan diverted his eyes. He looked back down on the phone like it fascinated him, but his mind was a blank, his fingers immobile on the bright screen.
Suddenly, Wayne seemed to perk back up. “Wait,” he said, grabbing back the phone before Ryan could stop him.
“Hey!”
“I was going to show you something,” Wayne continued, ignoring the outburst. “It’s why I grabbed your phone in the first place.” His fingers moved deftly over the digital keyboard, and Ryan forgot his anger for a moment, fascinated. “You’ve been in a funk all night, and I thought you could use some cheering up.”
He raised his eyebrows, curiously somber as he offered the phone back to Ryan. “And now I’m sure of it.”
Ryan took the phone back gingerly. The screen was black, with a translucent white triangle in the middle. He frowned at Wayne, waiting for an explanation.
“We want this to work, right?” Wayne said.
Snorting, Ryan raised an eyebrow. “What, my marriage?”
Shooting him a sardonic glance, Wayne shook his head. “No. I mean, well, yeah, but-this.” He gestured broadly. “The show and stuff.” He smiled, warm and nostalgic. “Back in the day? Last time we did this? We were having the fucking time of our life. We really cared. I was watching this clip the other day, and you would not give up the scene, no matter what. That’s dedication for you.” He gave a small chuckle. “I thought you could use a reminder of what giving a shit actually looks like.” He reached across Ryan to tap at the triangle, and for a moment it was replaced by a tiny, spinning circle. Wayne squeezed his shoulder once more. “And not just for the sake of the show.” With that, he left Ryan to meander back to his chair.
Ryan looked after him. Wayne's presumptuousness was obnoxious, and Ryan wanted to give a parting shot of his own, but just then the phone seemed to come to life in his hands. He looked down at it as the video Wayne had called up finished buffering and started to play.
Before him was a bygone version of Drew Carey sitting at that old familiar desk as he read from a handful of blue cards. His plump cheeks were a strange sight after losing all that weight, and it took Ryan back in time. He found himself actually smiling, eager to see where this was going to go.
Drew called for a game of Party Quirks, and they all scanned their cards before dutifully lining up along the side of stage. Ryan couldn’t recall the game off the top of his head, but that didn’t bother him. If he couldn’t remember the show they did two weeks ago, he certainly didn’t expect himself to remember one that had to be a decade old. Besides, it was not that game but the people that captivated him now. Other than the oddity of Drew, there was Colin, his hair dyed blond and wearing one of those horrid Hawaiian shirts. Then there was himself, looking pretty good in a vibrant, cerulean button down shirt. God, he looked young.
The game started, and while Ryan wasn’t a big fan of being on the audience side of improv, he actually found himself enjoying the game. He even caught himself chuckling at their antics and the way Kathy was getting more and more flustered by their odd quirks. Currently, Colin was spouting nonsense in a bad French accent and snorting like a pig. Ryan smiled.
Suddenly it was his past self’s turn to enter, and a combination of anticipation and trepidation had him tensing slightly. Oh, the things he used to do for this show. He suddenly felt his age as he tried to imagine how he'd ever muster up that level of enthusiasm again.
As Ryan watched the small screen, white text overlaid the image, and he squinted to read it: CAROL CHANNING WHOSE HEAD KEEPS GETTING STUCK TO THINGS
Oh. That.
He sucked in a small breath, eyes riveted to the screen. It was one of the few games that he actually did recall, and surprisingly clearly at that. After all, it wasn't every day that he caused damage to the set.
He watched the game play out, feeling like he'd just stepped into a time warp. There he was, this much younger version of himself talking to Kathy, his head firmly set on the ground, and then suddenly he swerved to the right, scrambling across the set on hands and knees and then- smash-he shattered the neon light on Drew’s desk.
The camera kept cutting back to Colin attempting to smother a laugh behind his hand. And there he was, making sure the game played on. Talk about the sacrifices you made for your job.
His first thought was how young and stupid he was there, but in actuality he was probably older then than Wayne was today. Still, 40 seemed like a lifetime ago.
He turned his attention back to the video, but the game was over now. His younger self headed back to his seat where Colin and Wayne met him and checked on him, and Colin joked about his head bursting into flames. Ryan grinned at the joy on Colin’s face at the concept.
“Two minutes!” Mark called.
Ryan started, looking up. It felt like he had actually been ripped from the past instead of a silly little video, and it took him a moment to acclimate as everyone settled in around him.
Colin was the last to find his chair, and Ryan immediately turned to him. Feeling a little more upbeat, he touched Colin’s shoulder, showing him the phone. “Remember this?” he asked.
“Hm?” Colin barely glanced at it before his attention was drawn off stage. Frowning, Ryan looked to the wings to see Deb waving at them both. “What did you say?” Colin asked, but now Ryan was the distracted one.
Deb gave him a wicked grin and mouthed something that looked suspiciously like “Tell him,” but that couldn't be right.
“What did you want?” Colin asked. He sounded perturbed now.
Ryan forced his eyes away from Deb. He blinked at Colin, then looked down at the phone, but the video was gone. He must have hit a button or something because now he had a list of videos, labeled with nothing but times and dates. The top one read April 28th, 2013 20:18:14. He tried to make it work again, but he just got a whirling colored wheel, and by the time he managed to get it going, Mark was telling them it was time.
“What, Ryan?”
Ryan just shook his head and shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Nothing, Col. Never mind.”
Moments later, taping picked up again, and it didn’t matter anyway.
They were detailing the next game-Weird Newscasters-but all Ryan could think about as they took their places center stage was that decade old game. The thing with the light had been a fluke. It was so random, so spontaneous. When was the last time he'd really let himself just get lost in the game and really, truly play?
He was so distracted, he almost missed his quirk.
“And Ryan,” Aisha said, drawing his attention at the last minute, “You're an exotic dancer who's far past her prime and trying to relive her glory days.”
At those words, suddenly Ryan was smirking. Gone were his personal problems and thoughts of the past. All that occupied his mind was the game. If he had been thinking about it, he might consider that it was this ability to so thoroughly escape that kept him coming back to improv, but he wasn’t. He was thinking that if there was one thing he’d learned over the years it was that sex sells, and making his fellow performers uncomfortable in the process sold even better.
He grinned wider. He could do that. Maybe he wasn't as flexible as he once was, but he hadn't been for a long time, and God knew he could handle the 'past her prime' aspect.
As the game started in earnest, Ryan stood there with his hands clasped at his waist, thinking. He needed someone to play his character off of. There was Wayne. It would be good retaliation for his butting into Ryan’s business earlier, but he hadn’t actually heard what Wayne’s quirk was, so there was a good chance that plan could backfire spectacularly. Besides, he would prefer a straight man to his wacky persona.
There was Aisha. She had already proven her ability to be delightfully stony faced even in the most amusing of situations-maybe too much so. He wanted someone he could really get a rise out of.
Suddenly he thought of the video and of Colln sitting there, his hand clapped over his mouth, amusement clear in his eyes.
You want flames? He thought. You got it.
He straightened his back and forced himself to barely spare a glance for the other performers, keeping his composure. It was always more fun when they didn't see it coming.
In just a few scant moments it was his turn. Immediately, he went into a swagger, lighting up a pretend cigarette then blowing out a long plume of imaginary smoke.
“Today in weather,” he said in the slurred, rough tone of a 70 year old woman who'd ingested more smoke than oxygen most of her life, “it's going to be hot.”
He's smoothed his hand over fake breasts, then went into a tried and true rendition of throwing them over his shoulders before he pursed his lips at the camera. “Hot and wet.”
A few stumbling dance moves followed with him sliding jerkily up and down an imaginary pole, and he caught Colin watching him out of the corner of his eye. Perfect.
“And don't forget traffic,” he purred, sauntering forward. “The roads are all-“ He stopped and spun toward Colin, catching his slight intake of breath and grinning wickedly. “-backed-” And then he was right in front of him, doing a lewd squat as Colin tensed further. “-up.”
He thrust his hips forward, catching Colin off guard. Colin rocked on his stool as Ryan straddled his thighs, going into a gyration that had his back protesting and his blood pressure rising.
“Ryan,” Colin whispered, just low enough for the microphone not to pick it up. “Please. Don't.”
But Ryan ignored him. “How you like granny, son?” he slurred. It earned both a laugh and a groan from the audience, but Colin wasn't playing along.
His cheeks were tinged pink, and as Ryan watched, he threw a look back toward the wings, like he was worried that Deb was still there, watching, and fury boiled up inside Ryan. When the fuck did Colin get so uptight?
“You know you like it,” he growled, letting just a hint of that anger seep into his words. At the same time he dragged his hand down Colin’s chest, fingers catching on his mic and buttons and making an obnoxious racket, but Ryan didn't care.
Colin took in another breath, then whispered, “Stop it.”
Ryan ignored him, and instead moved closer still.
“Stop it!” Colin hissed, and then suddenly he was jerking back. His stool teetered dangerously, only catching and righting itself in the last possible instant, but it was too late for Ryan. He’d pitched forward when Colin had suddenly disappeared, unconsciously wheeling his arms in a vain attempt to keep upright, and before he knew it, he was landing bodily against Colin's chest.
On instinct, Colin shoved him away. Ryan still hadn’t regained his feet from the original fall, and now practically rolled off Colin, his knees buckling.
Suddenly the ground was rushing toward him. Ryan threw his arms out, trying to break his fall, and his full weight landed on his hands as they hit the carpeted stair. A sharp pain shot up his arms where the balls of his palms connected with the stage, the force of which had him sliding forward until his hands were shoved under the lighted step. His palms burned from the contact, but that was nothing compare to what happened next. His momentum kept him moving forward, jamming his fingers against the back of the stair, where they folded, his knuckles bumping up to hit the tube lighting. There was a crack, then a flurry of sparks, and then everything went white.
To be continued...
I can’t help but fear I’ve done this wrong
'Cause seldom second chances come along
-“Second Chances” by Needtobreathe