[FIC] Points? What points?

[makingamochrie.livejournal.com]

Ok, I'm back. (Was she ever GONE? I hear you ask).  File this one under Really Weird.  Not just weird.  Really Weird.  The muse made a right turn at Pomona and got lost somewhere along the way.  Twilight Zone stuff.  And most likely not bearing any resemblance whatsoever to what the noble qzee asked for.  But...I did my best.  So, qzee, here's my take on your plot idea.  It's....weird.  Oh yeah, this one's about 8,000 words, so it's gonna have alot of 'continued in the comments' after it.  Why LJ can't allow more words, I'll never know.

TITLE:  Points?  What Points?
PAIRING:  Ryan/Colin (heavily implied)
RATING:  PG  No sex at all.  But Greg's in it, so that rates at least a PG
AUTHOR:  Makingamochrie
INSPIRED BY:   qzee
DISCLAIMER:  Don't own, don't sue, don't try this at home, children.
SUMMARY:  Or a fic where one has a dream in which the points do matter and will only rescue the other/win the others heart if they get the most points throughout the game.

Though Colin had dutifully received his vaccination two months before, he could pinpoint the exact second that the flu—a particularly nasty strain that year—had sunk its claws into him.  He was in the studio, in the middle of the first hour of taping for Whose Line.  When he rose up from his chair for a game of Action Replay, his hips and knees felt as if little men had burrowed inside and were playing his joints like xylophones, using sledgehammers for mallets.

 

He must have staggered a bit, because Ryan was suddenly at his elbow, giving him a very concerned look.

 

“I’m fine,” he replied, blithely as he was able.  “Just a little stiff.”

 

“Maybe we should switch off.”

 

“With your back as bad as it’s been?  No.  I’ll take Wayne, like always.”  He gave Ryan’s arm a little pat and smiled.  “I’ll be fine.”

 

“Colin….”

 

“I’m fine.  Really.”

 

Though not entirely convinced, Ryan let the matter drop, and the two approached Drew’s desk.  Ryan knelt.  Colin remained standing. The music blaring from the headphones as he put them on drilled through Colin’s head and it took all of his training not to groan in pain.  Instead, he plastered an entirely fake smile to his face and pretended to groove to the tune he was currently incapable of processing while Drew rattled off the rules and the game began.

 

It came off better than he expected, Wayne having decided for whatever reason to go relatively easy on him this time, and before he knew it, he was headed back to his seat, outwardly seeming pretty much back to normal.  Inwardly was a different thing altogether, but no one needed to know that.

 

The fever hit at the end of Let’s Make a Date, and a break had to be called so that someone could come out and reapply the makeup that had melted off of his face.  By now, everyone was giving him the old hairy eyeball, and he waved them off, one and all.

 

“Are you okay, man?” Drew asked from his desk.  “You didn’t hurt yourself or anything, did you?”

 

“I’m fine, Drew,” he replied as the makeup artist finally pulled the white bib away and left him in peace.  “I think I might have a touch of the flu, but it’s alright.  I’m good to go.”

 

Ryan’s hand came down atop his, but his skin was so sensitive that he jerked and Ryan pulled his hand away, scowling.  “You’re fucking burning up, Col!”

 

Colin managed to roll his eyes, though it felt as if someone had nailed sandpaper to the insides of his eyelids.  “I have a slight fever, but really, I’m alright.”

 

“Like hell you are.”

 

“I am,” he assured him, his eyes begging Ryan to please just let it go.  He was suddenly so tired that even sitting seemed too much of an effort.  Arguing was…well…more than he could stand at the moment.

 

Against his better judgment, Ryan once again let the matter drop.  Colin hated to be coddled, and if he pushed too far, it would only make a bad situation that much worse.  So he resolved to watch his partner like a hawk and call a halt to the taping the very second things got any worse, damn the consequences.

 

The nausea hit in the middle of Helping Hands, and it took every last bit of Colin’s rapidly waning strength to keep what little was in his stomach—which, thankfully, was only water, and damn little at that, since he was sweating it out much faster than he was taking it in—from spewing across Ryan’s back. 

 

The very second Wayne hit the buzzer, he yanked his arms away, broke free from Ryan’s tight hold, and bolted for the bathroom.  He barely made it into the stall before his valiant stomach finally gave up the fight and expelled its contents until there was nothing left.  The resulting dry heaves were so strong, Colin wondered if his toenails were going to come up next. 

 

Finally, blessedly, the spasms loosened, and he laid his weary head down against the cool porcelain of the bowl, expecting at any second to hear the door slam open and any number of people to come storming in after him, demanding explanations.

 

He gave himself only a moment to rest, then dragged himself back up to his feet, holding to the flimsy walls for support until his legs stopped threatening to buckle.  Walking a bit crookedly to the sink, he surveyed the damage in the mirror, taking in the deathly pallor, the dark rings beneath his eyes, and the sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip.  Well, the makeup department would certainly be earning its pay today.

 

Sighing, he turned on the tap and rinsed his mouth out with water, then splashed some on his cheeks and behind his neck in a vain attempt to cool down his now raging fever.  “Alright,” he told his reflection sternly, “you’ve got less than an hour to go.  You can do this. If this taping has to stop because of you, there’s going to be hell to pay, so just go out there and get it done.”

 

He nodded once, then made for the door, walking like a man well beyond his years.

 

Once he’d finally managed to make it back to the stage, he froze there like a statue, wondering if his fever was high enough to cause hallucinations, because surely that could be the only explanation for what he was seeing.

 

Drew’s desk was there, same as always, except that Drew wasn’t sitting behind it.  Instead, a man who looked amazingly like Simon Cowell occupied the chair, clad in a tight, ribbed black T-shirt, wearing Drew’s oversized prop glasses, and staring at Colin like he was something he’d just scraped off the bottom of his shoe.  Something very smelly and entirely unappealing.

 

From beneath the numb blanket of shock, Colin slowly looked to his right.  Greg was there, and that was alright, but he was giving Colin an angry, jealous glare, and that most definitely was not alright at all.  Greg and Colin were close friends, and he’d never been on the receiving end of such a look from anyone, let alone Greg.  Sure, his mad dash to the bathroom might have thrown a delay into the taping, but really….

 

Then he looked to the next chair, fully expecting to see Wayne lounging there.  Wayne would understand.  He always did.  It’s just the kind of man he was.

 

Only Wayne wasn’t sitting there.  Pat was.  As in ‘Pat, Ryan’s wife’ Pat.  And she was giving him a look that made Greg’s appear almost friendly in comparison.

 

Colin felt his jaw unhinge; could almost hear the tendons squealing their protest at this new abuse they had to endure.

 

What the…?

 

“Pat?” he asked.  Or thought he did.  He couldn’t hear any sounds coming out of his mouth.  Pat continued to glare at him, and if that lasted much longer, he was going to combust from the heat of it alone.  The fever running through him seemed positively Arctic in comparison.

 

Okay.  Okay. Calm down.  This is just a joke they’ve decided to pull on you. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last.  You’re the lightening rod, remember?  Just stay cool.  They’ll crack soon enough, have a big laugh at your expense, and things will go on.

 

The next seat was empty, of course—why wouldn’t it be?  It was his, after all.  Bought and paid for with sweat, lots of hard work, and, of course, Ryan.

 

Speaking of which….

 

Colin felt his gaze freezing on his own empty seat, not wanting to move to the right, not even a millimeter.  Because what if he saw Ryan, and Ryan was staring at him the way the other three were?

 

That would be…unendurable. 

 

But he had to look.  There was simply no other way around it.  Ryan was his comfort and his anchor, and, if nothing else, looking into the eyes that he knew so well would tell him if this was the joke he thought it was or, god forbid, something far more serious.

 

And so he looked, and unless Ryan had shrunk a good eight inches and gained fifty or so pounds, he wasn’t there either.  Instead….

 

“Drew?” he croaked out, and this time he heard his own voice, thank God for small favors.  “What is…. What’s going on?  Where’s Ryan?  Why are you sitting there?”  Once the words came tumbling out, it seemed they didn’t want to stop.  “Why is Pat here?  Where did Wayne go? Why are you all staring at me like that?  Where’s Ryan?” 

 

Ok, so he’d asked that one already, but it really was number one on his current Hit Parade.

 

Drew remained mum, squinting at him as he always did without his glasses, laser surgery or no.  Of course he didn’t have them on.  The man who looked amazingly like Simon Cowell was currently wearing them.

 

And then he finally heard a sound that wasn’t his own voice.

 

Clapping.  Sarcastic clapping, if he was any judge on the matter.

 

Not from the audience, no, which was staring at him like he was the headliner in the local freak show, but from Drew’s desk, where the man who looked remarkably like Simon Cowell was still sitting.

 

“Well, Mr. Mochrie (he pronounced it ‘Mock-ery, and deliberately so),” the man who looked remarkably like Simon Cowell stated, sounding remarkably like Simon Cowell, too, “you came with a most noteworthy set of credentials to recommend you, but I must say, I’m quite…unimpressed. One only hopes things will pick up on your end soon, yes?”

 

“What…. I…don’t….”

 

The man tsked as he shook his head sadly.  “Kindly take your seat, Mr. Mochrie.  Taping has been delayed because of you already.  Don’t make it worse for the rest of us.  God knows, you certainly can’t afford it.”

 

“But, I….”

 

“Your seat, Mr. Mochrie.”

 

“But…where’s Ryan?”

 

“Your seat!”

 

With a sense of distant horror, Colin felt his body respond instinctively to the stern-voiced command. He walked robotically to his chair, turned, and sat down, all completely against his own will.

 

“Well, that’s something at any rate,” Simon—and Colin was finally convinced that this was, indeed, Simon Cowell—remarked.  “Shall we begin?”

 

The lights above the cameras flicked on, and Simon smiled; a smile so patently fake that it could have been drawn on by a supremely untalented three-year-old.  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the inaugural episode of So, You Think You Can Improvise?, the show where the points really do matter.  Allow me to introduce to you today’s batch of competitors.  Hailing from San Francisco, the superbly talented, well dressed, and extremely sexy Greg Proops!”

 

The audience exploded into applause, and Greg waved to them before turning and blowing Simon a kiss.  Simon winked at him, licking his lips.

 

“Next, we have a supreme version of loveliness, Ms. Patricia McDonald!”

 

More applause, though not quite as loud.  Pat didn’t seem to care one way or another, however.  She was much too busy trying to incinerate Colin with her glare.

 

“Next, a bald man from Canada, of all places, Colin Mochrie.”  Was it even remotely possible to sound less interested?  Colin didn’t think so.

 

If five people in the audience applauded, Colin would be surprised.  He shook his head in disbelief.  It was a hallucination.  It had to be.  Nothing else made sense.  Except that his gut was telling him that it wasn’t, and his gut was usually right.  Maybe he’d simply fainted and then drowned in the toilet—a more ignominious way to go, he couldn’t imagine—and this was all the initial tour through the pits of Colin Mochrie’s own private Hell.  If so, he was sure he’d be hearing a hoedown in the very near future.  He shuddered.

 

“And last, though certainly not least, the only man with more network television shows than myself, the wonderfully funny and very wealthy Mr. Drew Carey!”

 

The audience leapt to its feet, roaring its approval.  Drew smiled and waved, then winked to Simon.  Simon winked back and patted a thick white envelope on his desk, and if that envelope wasn’t stuffed to the brim with bills with lots of zeros on them, Colin would eat Drew’s undershorts.  With salt.

 

When the applause finally died down, Simon smiled again.  “Now, since this is our first episode, let me explain the rules of the show to our friends at home.  Each of our performers—and I use that term loosely for some of them—will be given the opportunity to improvise a series of scenes with me.  The scenes, unknown to them beforehand, will be of my choosing.  Our studio audience will then have the opportunity to grade each contestant, with ‘ten’ being the best score, and ‘zero’ being the worst.  The scores will then entered into a computer and divided by the number of audience members, and an average score will be reached.  That will correspond exactly to the number of points each contestant will receive for the scene.  For example, if Greg Proops were to receive an average score of, say, eight, then he would receive eight points.  At the end of the game, whomever has amassed the most points will be this week’s winner.  In addition to returning to the show next week, the winner will also be taking home this wonderful prize.  Ms. Hall?”

 

Laura, painted on smile in place, began the opening bars of a hoedown.

 

Oh God, Colin thought.  It’s true.  I am in Hell!

 

Then Colin’s attention was diverted as a large something covered by a red silk coverlet was brought in by a small forklift and placed down in front of Laura’s piano.  Linda, guitar still strapped over one shoulder, walked over to the object and, with a magician’s flair, yanked the red silk off, revealing….

 

Ryan Stiles, still dressed in his taping clothes, scrunched down in a square cage much too small for his long body, hands bound by rope in front of him and gagged with, if Colin wasn’t mistaken, one of his own colorful ties.

 

Colin’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair, and he was just about to vault out of it when he read Ryan’s eyes, and, apparently, his thoughts as well.

 

No! No! No! No! No!

 

Okay, maybe it was just his eyes.  He’d seen that look well enough to know what it meant in his sleep.  He relaxed back into his chair, giving Ryan a nod, pleased when he received a firm, resolute one in return.

 

Ok, fine.  Then he’d just have to find a way to win, wouldn’t he.  Being the only true improvisor on the stage should have given him the decided advantage, but he knew it didn’t work that way.  Simon obviously detested him.  Greg looked like he wanted to rip his head off.  Pat, well, it took no imagination whatsoever to see what it was that she wanted to rip off.  And Drew was, well, Drew.  No hindrance, but surely no help, either.

 

And then another thought popped into his head and he dragged his gaze from Ryan and onto Drew.  Colin and the other two all shared a common bond; their love of Ryan, a love that could in no way be termed brotherly (or sisterly).  But Drew….

 

Colin’s eyes widened.

 

Oh, my.  The things you learn when you’re dead.  I wonder if Ryan knows?  Yeah, he probably does.  Well, this certainly makes things more interesting.

 

Simon was speaking again, and Colin turned toward him.  “Shall we begin?”

 

More applause.

 

“Mr. Proops, if you will please step onto the stage?”

 

Smirking, Greg bounded out of his chair and down onto the stage, standing comfortably facing the host at an oblique angle.  “Ready when you are, Mr. C!”

 

“Very well, then.  This first series is called ‘Question and Answer’.  I will ask you a question and you will supply me with the answer.  Easy enough?”

 

“Sure is, Mr. C!”

 

“Good.  You’ll also have to answer as Dr. Ruth Westheimer.”

 

The audience laughed.  Greg smirked.  Colin rolled his eyes.  Greg could do Dr. Ruth in his sleep.

 

Greg dropped to his knees, to more laughter, and Simon leered at him, getting a leer in return. 

 

“Are you ready for your first question, then?”

 

Greg nodded.

 

“Very well.  As you know, the prize you’re all competing for is Mr. Ryan Stiles.  What is your favorite thing about Mr. Stiles?”

 

“The penis,” Greg answered as Dr. Ruth, smiling benignly as the audience convulsed with laughter.  “It is so beautiful, so perfect.  It is…wonderful.”

 

Colin shot a quick look toward Pat, and to his everlasting shock, she was as overcome with laughter as the rest, bent double in her chair and slapping her thighs in her mirth.

 

“I see,” Simon replied once the audience had finally calmed.  “And if you were to win this prize, what would be the first thing you would do with it?”

 

“Make love.”  The audience screamed again.  “Making love is the most important part of a person’s life, and I love making love with Ryan.”

 

“Perfectly understandable.  Last question.  Once you were finished making love with him, what would you do next?”

 

“Grab his penis with love and make love all over again!”

 

The buzzer sounded, and Greg jumped to his feet, bowing to the wild cheering directed his way.  Turning back to his chair, he leveled his most challenging smirk at Colin, and then sat down, blowing Simon another kiss.

*****

To be continued in the comments section.