FIC: Fumbling His Confidence
Title: Fumbling His Confidence
Rating: R for coarse language, methinks.
Pairing: Greg/Clive undertones. Maybe not undertones, actually.
Summary: His throat tightens, and he comes to the realization - far too late - that this was a bad, bad idea.
Author's Notes: Found this half-finished fic and decided to, well, finish it and post it, I guess, after reading a discussion about who Greg should end up with. I don't know what it is, really. Set at some undefined time in the future. Um, title from Switchfoot's 'Meant to Live'; has nothing, really, to do with the fic. I just liked the phrase. :\ I suck at titles, so I just googled the lyrics to the song I was listening to when I wrote this. *sighs* Made perfect sense to me...
He's still not entirely sure just what possessed him to do this; he presses the receiver a little harder to his ear and takes a deep breath.
His other clammy hand clutches his wife's address book in his lap as tightly as it can - and, for not the first time in his life, he mentally shakes his head at the fact that his wife has this number in her book.
He feels worse than he does performing, in the split second of silence (that always feels like so much longer), before the audience begins to laugh.
And there's not much that feels worse than that.
Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
The phone rings - it finally connects - and his heart nearly leaps out of his chest.
Fuck.
He's actually not entirely sure if he wants someone to pick up or not.
It rings, for the eighth time, he counts - and he promises himself that if it reaches ten rings, he's hanging up.
It's picked up halfway through the ninth.
Fuck.
"Hello?" a sleepy, English, all-too-familiar voice yawns, and he clutches the phone a little tighter and tries to say something.
He'd laugh at how pathetic he's being if it wasn't so ridiculously sad.
"Hello?" the voice repeats, curiously, and he inhales - and feels the irrational sting of tears behind his eyeballs.
His throat tightens, and he comes to the realization - far too late - that this was a bad, bad idea.
So he hangs up.
He slams the receiver back down into its cradle, then picks it up and slams it back down again for good measure.
Fuck.
He wants so badly to cry, goddamn it, but he won't.
Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
So he calls him back.
"Hello?" the now wary voice asks, after only one ring. "Who is this?"
Greg clears his throat. "Clive?" he asks, and he cringes at how small his voice sounds. "Is that you?" he adds, and there's a slight pause - before the other man carefully replies, "Yes?"
Greg swallows, and presses the phone to his hear so hard it aches. "It's - uh - Greg. Proops," he adds, idiotically, and Clive chuckles. "Hello, Greg Proops," he chuckles, and Greg shuts his eyes tightly and drops his chin, until it almost rests on his chest.
He'd forgotten how much he loved that sound; he's remembering how he used to live for Clive's laughter, he's remembering how he'd glance over at him after his 'Hoedown' and hope for a smile - but settle for a smirk - from the host.
He's remembering that he'd never been happy with his performance unless he'd happened to catch a glimpse of Clive laughing at him, and he's remembering that even when he had his back to the other man, he'd cock his head to the side, almost imperceptibly, and hope it was Clive he could hear laughing behind him.
Not that he'd ever admitted that to the smug, condescending son-of-a-bitch.
"Hi," he replies, as he shakes his head to himself.
Moron.
"So," Clive says - and Greg would swear on his life that he can he can hear the older man's smile. "Why'd you hang up?"
His heart nearly stops.
Fuck.
"Sorry?" he asks, faintly, and Clive laughs again. "I would've waited more than ten seconds before calling back," he says, lightly, "But that's just me."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Greg sniffs, a tiny smile creeping across his mouth.
"If you say so..." Clive trails off, amused. "I do," Greg interjects.
There's a slight pause.
"So why'd you call?" Clive asks, gently, and Greg exhales into the receiver. "I, uh - I was just thinking that we hadn't talked in a long - a long time," he says, quickly, and there's another pause.
"If you don't mind me saying so," Clive says, delicately, his accent suddenly stronger, "It's a good thing you never went into acting."
Greg snorts. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Clive chuckles. "That that was truly terrible?" he suggests, and Greg actually laughs. "So why'd you really call?" he asks, conversationally.
Greg pauses. "Does there have to be a reason?" he replies, tilting his head to the side.
Clive exhales noisily. "No, I suppose not-" and he stops when Greg laughs again. "What?" he asks, without a trace of self-consciousness.
"You're so ... British," Greg replies, and Clive laughs, through a closed mouth.
"Have you been back to England, recently?" Clive asks, and Greg swallows. "No ... not for a long time," he replies, sounding a little distant, even to his own ears.
"Well when you do, we'll have to catch up," Clive declares, and Greg smiles sadly to himself - it's such bullshit - before snorting. "Is that a euphemism for something, Mr. Anderson?" he asks, pretending to sound shocked, and Clive chokes on his laughter. "Why does everything come back to sex with you, Greg?"
"You mean, why does everything come back to sex when you talk to me? Or why does everything come back to sex with me?" he asks quickly, mock-flirtatiously, and Clive laughs again. "You haven't changed much, have you Greg?" he chuckles, and Greg smiles slightly. "Thankfully, no," he replies, dryly.
"How're Ryan and Colin?" Clive asks, hesitantly, after a brief - slightly uncomfortable - pause. "Fine," Greg shrugs, "I guess. I don't really know. I don't see much of them anymore," he admits.
Clive clicks his tongue. "That's a shame," he says, ignoring Greg's almost inaudible, "Why?"
"You and Ryan were pretty... close," he adds, and Greg sighs. "Yeah, well, so were you and I," he points out, flatly, and there's a silence. "That's - that's true," Clive allows, his voice a little strangled, and Greg nearly smiles.
There's a pause, and Greg has - somehow - both so much he wants to say to Clive, and absolutely nothing to say to this man he hasn't seen face-to-face in years.
He's irrationally mad because he expected this to feel like it did a decade ago - however illogical it may be, he expected to fall right back into their little give and take, back and forth - and he's mad that it's so fucking awkward, because it's never been this awkward with Clive before.
But he doesn't know who he should be mad at.
He hates that a tiny part of him is expecting Clive to make him feel young again - because he always did; sometimes Greg felt embarrassingly young when the former host would chastise or scold him, even through his laughter - but right now, he doesn't feel young.
He just feels fucking awkward.
And the strange thing is, he's actually feeling older because hearing Clive's voice again only reminds him of a time he weighed about half as much as he does now - and had hair probably twice as tall.
He hates that a tiny part of him despises Clive for not being able to fix this for him.
He hates that Clive can't fix him.
And he hates, probably most of all, that he expected Clive to be able to - he expected him to understand why he was calling, and he expected him to be able to help him, without Greg having to even try to put it into words.
But Clive doesn't understand.
And he knows he shouldn't expect him to.
He thinks he's built their relationship up again, in his mind - he's done it before, so he'd actually be surprised if he's not doing it again.
He doesn't think they were ever anywhere near as close as he's pretending they were.
He realizes that neither have said anything for at least a minute, and - instinctively - he squeezes the phone again.
"Oh, I should let you go," Greg blurts out - because it's the only thing that comes to mind, and his stomach clenches when he says it, but he's not sure if it's out of sheer relief or regret.
He hates that he can't tell anymore.
"OK," Clive says, slowly, and Greg hopes that he's not imagining that his old friend actually sounds disappointed.
"So - I guess I'll talk to you ... sometime," he says, casually, his voice a little distant again, and Clive pauses. "That'd be good," he says, carefully - and it sounds genuine, Greg allows, but he refuses to let himself believe it.
He's probably just reading too much into it, again; "You could ring me," he points out, softly, and Clive murmurs, immediately, "I could."
There's another pause - he's not sure if Clive's waiting for something; he's not sure if he is, either.
"Well, bye," he says, flatly, and Clive pauses for a long moment. "Good-bye, Greg," he finally says, very gently, and Greg feels his eyes begin to sting again.
He hangs up the phone - very carefully this time - and leans forward, cupping his hands over his nose and mouth.
Jennifer enters the bedroom, on her way to their bathroom, he presumes, and he doesn't look up. "Greg?" she asks, tenderly, stopping at the foot of the bed. "Who was on the phone?"
She reaches out to gently touch his back - and he knows he should care more; he knows she's worried. "No-one," he replies, flatly, arching away from her touch without thinking, and her hand hovers, uncertainly.
"Greg?" she asks again, and he snorts. "No-one," he repeats, thickly, as he struggles to his feet, his mind miles away. "Are you OK?" she asks, and his head jerks to the side automatically.
He rips his glasses off his face and scrubs at his eyes. "Just forget it. It was no-one."