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[makingamochrie.livejournal.com]

I'd like to thank everyone who's taken the time to welcome me and give me feedback.  It's very much welcomed!  Thank you!  As promised, here is part 2.

Title:  The Day the Points Really Mattered (subject to change)
Author:  MakingaMochrie
Rating:  NC17 (eventually).  WARNING:  There MAY be ONE instance of hetsex in the story, as it MAY be needed, but I'll try not to make it too graphic if I decide to include it.
Pairing:  Ryan/Colin:  Established relationship
Part: 2 of ?

The movement forced Greg up, and he grabbed his skull, yelping at the raging pain, as he watched, squint-eyed, as Colin covered the last few yards between himself and Ryan’s prone form at roughly the speed of light.  The sudden release of dead weight from his legs wasn’t a pocketful of posies either, and he alternated between hugging his head and his drawn up legs, moaning softly.

 

The tall Canadian dropped to his knees, his glance taking in Ryan’s strange dress and storing it away for later, even as his long fingers moved surely over his friend’s fine boned features, checking for a pulse even as he checked for injuries.  The pulse was there, gloriously strong, if a bit rapid; injuries were, thankfully, absent.  At least as far as he could tell.

 

“Ryan?” he murmured, wiping away the sweat beaded along his friend’s hairline.  He tapped both cheeks lightly.  “Come on, my friend, wake up.”  A brief touch behind Ryan’s neck had him blowing on his fingers.  “Too hot,” he muttered.

 

“How’s he doin’, man?” Greg shouted.

 

“Have to bring him into the shade,” Colin replied, sliding his hand back behind Ryan’s sweat-drenched neck while slipping the other behind his friend’s bony knees.  “He’s been in the sun too long.”

 

“Gimme a second, Col, and I’ll help ya out.”

 

“I’ve got it,” he grunted, taking in a deep breath, then rising with deceptive ease, Ryan’s long length secure in his arms.

 

It was easy to mistake Colin’s pale skin, shining pate, quirky looks, and affable good nature for weakness.  And, to be truthful, most did, even those who worked and played along side him on a regular basis. In point of fact, however, the man was as strong as a bull, both inside and out.  It was a hidden part of his nature that he allowed to come out on occasion; for a laugh, or, like now, because circumstances warranted it. 

 

Crossing through the sand and onto the grass, Colin gently laid Ryan alongside Greg, beneath the somewhat dubious shelter of one of the few palm trees on the oasis.

 

“Shit, man, he’s as red as a beet.  What can I do to help?”

 

“Can you walk?” Colin asked as he ripped strands of silk from the bottom of his robe.

 

“Sure can!”  He only hoped he wasn’t lying.

 

“Take these to the water and soak them, then come back and lay them across his forehead and behind his neck.  We’ve got to cool him down.”

 

“Right-O, Mister M.  And you’ll be…?”

 

“Getting Wayne and Drew over here with the rest of us.”

 

“Wha--?  Who?  Where?”

 

Colin stared down at him, causing him to blush.  “Man, I can’t see shit without my specs. You know that.”

 

After a moment, Colin seemed to deflate, head ducking slightly forward, gaze going to ground.  “You’re right.  I’m sorry.”

 

Greg reached out, snake-quick, and latched a hand around Colin’s ankle.  “No way, man. Don’t start up that shit.  If it wasn’t for you, well….I don’t know, but….”  Sighing, he released his friend’s leg and held his arm up.  “Gimme a hand, will ya?”  Allowing himself to be lifted to his feet, he patted Colin’s hand in thanks, then grabbed the strips of material, balling them tight.  “Cold compresses coming up, el Capitan!” 

 

Colin nodded, watching for a second, before turning away.  When he’d been carrying Ryan back to the dubious shelter of the palm, he’d chanced to notice Wayne lying prone in the tall grasses directly opposite the water hole.  The sight surprised him a little, though he wasn’t sure why; just something in the far back of his mind clicking away like knitting needles trying to make whole a fractured tapestry. 

 

With a small sigh, he made off in that direction, the flat of one hand trailing across the nodding heads of grass, scattering pollen green upon the mostly still air.  By the time he got to where Wayne had been, the younger man was sitting up, completely naked, and staring, with stunned disbelief, down at his manacled hands.  Thick chains ran up from the wide bands to an iron collar encircling his neck, and down from there to cuffs around his ankles, and between them as well.  Colin stopped less than a foot away, and Wayne’s head came up slowly, his expression the perfect cross between true dumbfoundedness and absolute, blinding hatred.  “If this is a joke, man,” he growled, lifting his cuffed hands, “I am so not laughing.”

 

Colin met his eyes without flinching.  “Do I look like the type of person who would go in on a joke like this?” he asked, voice absolutely neutral and as quiet as the grave.  “Or even stand by and allow it to happen?”

 

Perhaps two seconds passed before Wayne looked down, shamefaced.  “No, man,” he mumbled.  “You don’t.  I’m sor--.”

 

“Enough of that,” Colin replied mildly, reaching down and helping his friend to his feet.  “Here,” he continued, undoing the intricate rope knotting that held his finely wrought together and slipping it off his shoulders, exposing his lightly furred chest and belly and porcelain pale skin.

 

Wayne shook his head, holding a hand up as well as he was able.  “No way, man.  You’ll fry to a crisp in a minute flat.”

 

“Alright, then.”  Without another thought, Colin flipped the robe over one shoulder and set to working on the finely crafted linen underwrap that was more of an above-the-knee skirt than anything else—something the Egyptians might perhaps have worn, once upon a time.

 

Removing it completely, he shook the cloth out, checked both sides—for what, Wayne wasn’t sure—then held it up, eyebrows twin question marks.  The younger man smiled, his teeth blindingly white against the deep dark of his skin, and nodded vigorously.  Nodding back, Colin proceeded to wrap the garment around his friend, taking care not to entrap the chains as he did so.  “There,” he said when it was done, taking a step back to admire his handiwork even as he slid back into his robe and belted it securely.  “It’s the best I can do for now.  We’ll work on getting those chains off after we figure out what’s going on here.”

 

“Wait.  So you don’t know either?”

 

“Not a clue.”

 

“Damn.”  For the first time, Wayne noticed the others gathered beneath the palm.  Then he noticed that Colin wasn’t moving in that direction.  “Hey!  Where you going?”

 

“Drew.”

 

“Drew?  What--?”  Eyes wide, the younger man gave up and began trotting after his friend as best as his hobbled ankles would allow. 

 

When they reached their destination, Drew, sprawled half on his belly, half on his side, looked in a bad way.  His face, naked chest and belly were blotchy and wet with sweat, and his chest was moving in an abnormally quick manner.  Despite his girth, he appeared almost fragile without the oversized prop glasses normally adorning his face.  “Is he okay?” Wayne asked as Colin went to his knees, feeling for a pulse he already knew was there.

 

“I think so.  Need to get him back into the shade and cool him down a little.  He should be okay then.”  I hope.  Standing, he tried to gear himself up for taking on such a task.  Strong he might be, but Drew had put on several pounds in the last months, and Colin was already overheated and the slightest bit dehydrated.  “Well,” he said at last, rubbing his dry hands together, wincing at the raspy sound they made, “nothing for it but the doing, I suppose.”

 

“Let me help, man,” Wayne interjected.  “I can’t do much with these damn cuffs, but I think I can get his feet if you can lift his shoulders and head.  You with me?”

 

“I’m with you.”  Squatting down, Colin got a good grip on his boss’ sweaty shoulders and, on the count of three, slowly lifted. 

 

“Damn, Drew,” Wayne grunted, laboring under the weight, “we’ve got to get you back on your diet!”

 

“Let’s just move him to the shade.”

 

It was awkward, but they got him there. Colin was pleased to note, as they lay Drew down, that Ryan was looking much better under Greg’s careful ministrations. 

 

Greg’s look of absolute horror when faced with Wayne’s ‘accoutrements’ put paid to any lingering thoughts the singer had toward this being some sort of elaborate, if completely tasteless, prank.  “What the fuck?!?”

 

Wayne shrugged.  “You got any more of those, man?” he asked, gesturing to the wet cloth strips, chains clanking.  “I think Drew could use a few.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.  I figured we’d need more, so I….”  He mimed ripping strips from the bottom of his own robe, now gone raggedy and soft, and tossed the sodden ones to Wayne, who caught them easily, manacles and all. 

 

As he wiped the sweat from Drew’s face and chest, he noted, in a more-or-less offhand way, that they were dressed quite similarly.  The linen covering him from waist to knee was similar in color and style to Wayne’s—originally Colin’s—but where Wayne’s was plain, Drew’s was edged in black silk with a glyph of something resembling a ram’s head inside of a hexagon directly over his groin, also done in black silk.  It definitely was not a good look on him, but at least his dignity was covered. 

 

Not that Drew seemed the type to care one way or the other about that.

 

“Weird,” Wayne murmured, looking over his shoulder to where Greg and Colin were squatting, huddled together like fishwives and talking in low tones, Colin’s long fingers interwoven with Ryan’s even longer ones.  His eyes widened, then narrowed a bit.  “Anyone know why Ryan’s in a dress?”

 

The sound of a puzzle piece clicking in Colin’s head was drowned out by Greg’s amazed “damn!”, and when he looked over Ryan again, Colin did so from a new perspective.  The tall, stick thin comedian was wearing what would have been a form-fitting gown, had he but the form to fill it out with.  Made from some type of fabric none of them could guess, it clung to every smooth plane and sharp angle of Ryan’s overlong body, neatly limning the utter truth behind every ‘men with big feet and big noses’ joke ever made. 

 

“Oh my,” Greg breathed, fanning his face while playing the virginal deb.  Colin’s tiny smile stopped one strand of a spider’s web short of a smirk, though his cheeks were dusted with a rose that could not be completely explained away by the sun’s heady glare.

 

Ignoring them both, Wayne reached out a hand and fingered the cloth, looking especially at the vast array of sparkling jewels that appeared to make up some sort of pattern that his eyes couldn’t…quite…catch.  “Man, are these things for real?”

 

Colin looked helplessly toward Greg, who pretended to get out his jeweler’s loupe, then shrugged.  “I can’t tell for sure, but if they’re not, they’re the best fakes I’ve seen since Pamela Anderson’s tits.”  He narrowed his eyes at Colin.  “You look like you know something.”

 

“I might,” was the soft reply as he used his free hand to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck.  Damn, was it hot!

 

“Mind sharing with the rest of the class?”  Greg’s voice wasn’t knife-edge, but the sarcasm was there, making Colin feel unaccountably better.  The damp cloth he handed him was even better, and he wiped it against the back of his neck, shivering slightly.

 

“It’s…what we’re wearing.”

 

“Come again?”

 

Colin sighed.  He’d taken control enough for one day and was more than ready to sit back and let someone else lead for awhile.  Preferably for the rest of this little adventure they seemed to be on.  But the one he usually looked to to take the lead was only now beginning to stir, and Greg’s eyes promised murder, or something equally as unpleasant, if he held his silence much longer.  “It’s our clothes,” he said again, lifting an arm to let the expensive, shimmering fabric flutter before Greg’s narrowed gaze. 

 

“I got that the first time you said it, Colin….”

 

“What were we all doing before we wound up…wherever here is?”

 

“Hmm.  Let me think….”  The chin went on the hand as the claws came out, fully sharpened.  “Let’s see…Oh!  I know!  We were wor-king!”

 

Colin rolled his eyes.  “And?”

 

“And….”  The light went on in Greg’s eyes like a one armed bandit just come up sevens, and his lips spread slowly in a smile of dawning comprehension.  “You were the sheik, and I was the underling, and he was the….”

 

“Wife, yeah.”

 

“So it’s real?  What we were playing is real??”

 

“Unless you’ve got any better guesses….”

 

They both turned to Wayne, expressions identical.  “Don’t look at me!” he said, chained hands raised.  “I wasn’t even part of the skit!”

 

“That’s right!” Greg exclaimed.  “He wasn’t!  Either was Drew!”

 

“And they’re both here now. I know,” Colin replied, rubbing his chin.  “That’s the part that’s confusing me.”

 

“Join the club,” came low, raspy, and much beloved voice, and Colin’s grin was genuine and filled with absolute, utter relief when he looked down to meet the sparkling green eyes looking back up at him.

 

“Thank God you’ve returned, Captain Crossdresser!” Greg oozed before Colin had a chance to say anything.  “Nice gown, by the way.  Tuleh?  Versace?”  His gaze traveled deliberately downward and he licked his lips twice in what could have been a parody of lasciviousness.  Or not.  With Greg, you never really knew.  “Wang?”

 

Ryan looked puzzled, and Colin rolled his eyes slightly before changing his grip and tugging his hand gently.  “Think you can sit up?”

 

Nodding, Ryan got up mostly on his own, though he did allow himself to lean lightly against Colin until the dizziness began to abate.  He took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and turned to face the calm Canadian.  “I heard what you said, and I think we should—.”

 

Whatever else he might have said was interrupted by the sound of horses approaching.  Covered heads appeared above the serrated edges of a nearby dune, hovering for a moment like disembodied ghosts, before becoming recognizable as the horsemen from whom the noises were emanating.  There were, perhaps, two dozen in all, each armed to the teeth and waving curved swords as they headed toward the oasis at a gallop, ululating their battle cries.

 

Ryan, Colin and Greg jumped to their feet while Wayne stayed down with Drew, who was still unconscious.  On instinct, Ryan canted his body so that he was three-quarters in front of Colin, his back and shoulders to the onrushing group, his neck twisted so that his eyes, narrowed and dangerous, faced them directly.  From afar, it might have looked amusing—a tall, thin figure in a dress trying to protect a not much smaller male dressed in expensive robes—but it was all Ryan, and that wasn’t going to be changing any time soon.  Colin’s arm snaked around Ryan’s narrow waist and clutched, tightly.

 

The horses stopped right where the grasses sprung up, and the men leapt from their mounts.  Most took two or three steps forward, then dropped abruptly to their knees, heads touching the ground in deference while the other six broke off, four grabbing a struggling and shouting Wayne, and two aiming their swords at Drew’s unmoving head. 

 

In that moment, Colin realized two very important things:  even though the strangers’ mouths were not shaping words belonging to the English language, both his ears and his brain heard them in English, and secondly, Wayne was going to wind up as food for whatever fauna populated the water hole unless he did something within the next ten seconds.

 

Pitching his voice deliberately low—and thanking whatever Fate it was who gave him over twenty years of practice at it—Colin looked to Greg, and said, “Harem guard.”

 

Greg’s eyes were blank for a second, then lit with perfect understanding.  He stepped forward, slipping into character so quickly that even Ryan and Colin, who’d seen him work for more than two decades, were taken aback.  “Unhand him, you idiots!” Yes, it was a bit of a cliché.  At least it got the point across.

 

Four pairs of dark eyes widened and eight hands dropped the struggling Wayne as if burnt by his flesh.  The dark-skinned entertainer landed with a soft ‘oof!’ and a loud rattling of chains.

 

Greg walked—strutted, really—up to the nearest interloper, grabbed him by the front of his none-too-clean robes and gave him a good shake.  “Did your brains dribble out your ears when you weren’t looking, or were you just born that way?” he demanded, shaking the poor man with every other word and sounding every inch the insult comic that was so much a part of who he was.

 

“But—but—.”

 

“Did anyone give you permission to manhandle the Caleph’s personal property?”

 

“But—he—.”

 

“Speak, you imbecile, before I have your tongue cut out and fed to the asps.”

 

“He was attacking the Harem Master!” the man yelled out, pointing to the still unconscious Drew.

 

There was a moment of absolute, pin-dropping silence as the gazes of Greg Proops, Colin Mochrie, and Ryan Stiles crossed in a sort-of manage a trois that included their thoughts as well.  The corners of Ryan’s mouth turned abruptly downwards, as if he’d just bitten into the world’s most sour lime; Colin’s index finger came up against his lips, hard; Greg settled for chewing frantically on the insides of his cheeks, all in a desperate bid not to break down into gales of laughter.

 

If Irony was in need of a face, Drew Carey would have graced it at that very moment.

 

“H-Harem Master?” Greg tumbled out in a strangely high, trembling voice, nearly blowing everything.

*****

That's it for now, folks!  Thanks for reading!