to.the.fourth
Nov. 25th, 2008 06:05 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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wl_fanfictionTitle: To the Fourth
Author: Speccy C.
Chapter: 1/1
Rating: All quite tasteful
Summary: Rewatching a certain episode in Season 10, thinking about the fanfic world where I've always quite liked this pairing, but was struck with a very different sense of things on tape. Just came to me.
Disclaimer: Nothing to do with the real guys, just how they catch at the imagination.
7 March 1992 - first time on set together. Nothing special; seats were still filled so differently every time, new games always shuffling in and out, and roles circulating, not yet set. Each was friendly enough, smart and sassy, effortless in his own skin; each someone the other would be happy to find again at a party or ask out for drinks, but neither really took the initiative and the occasion just didn't arise.
10 April 1992 - second time. Still kept rather apart by the game selection. A moment in SFAH so spontaneous neither could quite remember it viscerally, only that it had happened... (Pickpockets. Right.) but damn all their pants were so tight in those days...
20 May 1998 - after so long, only the third time, and the last. How could something develop between two people who had nothing to do with one another? Why was there a sense of rivalry when they were never in the same place at the same time? One of them would blame how long they'd been running, the other would blame Americanization, but it was already becoming formulaic; there was a hierarchy now in which for some ungodly reason they apparently balanced on a tier. When they finally had the chance to see one another face to face again, it was hard not to see the imagined production notes, and not nearly imagined enough public reactions. Colin and Ryan were unassailable but who came third? (And why did someone need to?) As with both times before, they were never given the opportunity to pit themselves directly off each other, but the utmost lack of chemistry they demonstrated even sitting side by side would hardly convince anyone to give it to them later.
We're nothing alike. Why were we always given the same role in games, that have to be divvied now? Why do we have to be so goddamned careful around each other? We can both take a hit, why are we so afraid of offending the other? Hell, we're comedians. Offending each other is our handshake. And we're not strangers anyway. ...Are we?
November 2006 - They looked at each other across the coat-strewn bed. Spread out upon it was the full roster of everyone attending the wrap party. Some items unmistakably matched the character of their owners, some identifiable only with close acquaintance: a telling pin or a whiff of product. Their own were buried in the pile, somewhere.
For a moment they could imagine their thirty-something selves, both skinny and spry, boyishly hopping onto the bed with utter disregard for the outerwear of others. They'd kick off their shoes, one would be barefoot, the other resplendent in psychedelically everything-clashing socks. They'd lean back against the headboard, side by side, wiggling their toes and perhaps playing some idle footsy amongst the menagerie of leather, down and fur beneath them, while talking still idealistically not so much about their careers as the art form itself, and everything the show had done to bring them, in addition to anywhere else, right here with each other.
"It's too late, isn't it?" said Greg. "I mean, we missed it. We could have experienced the whole thing together. Now we're fat crotchety old men."
"I hope you're only calling me fat and yourself old," said Brad.
"But we're agreed with the emphasis on 'crotch'," said Greg.
Brad laughed. Greg grinned. They stared at each other again.
"I'm glad it's over," said Greg. "The apprehension was killing me, wondering what it would be like to finally be done with it. It's easier to deal with reality than anticipation. Nevermind that the challenge and stimulation had pretty much gone. But right now, I just... I want..."
Brad stopped himself from mugging. Greg could see through that. But for some mysterious reason he was nervous out of his skin.
Greg exhaled slowly and heavily, closing his eyes, then opening them narrowed through his glasses at Brad. "I want the thing I missed. I want another crack at... you."
Brad's brow furrowed, though he himself couldn't quite have said if he was in intense thought, or intensely wishing he had a thought.
"Why is it too late, exactly?" said Brad. "Because we're not fresh-faced thin things anymore? I'm still perfectly edgy and attractive, thank you very much."
Greg cracked a smile but didn't reciprocate this time. "Because the paradigm's shifted," said Greg. "Who knows where we'll be off to next."
Brad pursed his lips and looked around the room a moment, perhaps for inspiration, perhaps to avoid looking at Greg.
"Then if all we have is tonight," said Brad, "I don't see why we should waste that too."
The way Greg looked at him told Brad in an instant just how much they'd never known about each other: a depth of reluctance and fear Brad could never have pictured on Greg if he'd tried. (Which of course he hadn't.) But it made him adamant not to turn back from it now. In Brad, in turn, Greg read something that made him shake, then smile.
"Well, then," said Greg. In a motion he crossed the room and grabbed Brad's hand.
Downstairs, Drew took Jeff, Ryan, Colin and Chip aside and started muttering a thought to them about another show.
Author: Speccy C.
Chapter: 1/1
Rating: All quite tasteful
Summary: Rewatching a certain episode in Season 10, thinking about the fanfic world where I've always quite liked this pairing, but was struck with a very different sense of things on tape. Just came to me.
Disclaimer: Nothing to do with the real guys, just how they catch at the imagination.
7 March 1992 - first time on set together. Nothing special; seats were still filled so differently every time, new games always shuffling in and out, and roles circulating, not yet set. Each was friendly enough, smart and sassy, effortless in his own skin; each someone the other would be happy to find again at a party or ask out for drinks, but neither really took the initiative and the occasion just didn't arise.
10 April 1992 - second time. Still kept rather apart by the game selection. A moment in SFAH so spontaneous neither could quite remember it viscerally, only that it had happened... (Pickpockets. Right.) but damn all their pants were so tight in those days...
20 May 1998 - after so long, only the third time, and the last. How could something develop between two people who had nothing to do with one another? Why was there a sense of rivalry when they were never in the same place at the same time? One of them would blame how long they'd been running, the other would blame Americanization, but it was already becoming formulaic; there was a hierarchy now in which for some ungodly reason they apparently balanced on a tier. When they finally had the chance to see one another face to face again, it was hard not to see the imagined production notes, and not nearly imagined enough public reactions. Colin and Ryan were unassailable but who came third? (And why did someone need to?) As with both times before, they were never given the opportunity to pit themselves directly off each other, but the utmost lack of chemistry they demonstrated even sitting side by side would hardly convince anyone to give it to them later.
We're nothing alike. Why were we always given the same role in games, that have to be divvied now? Why do we have to be so goddamned careful around each other? We can both take a hit, why are we so afraid of offending the other? Hell, we're comedians. Offending each other is our handshake. And we're not strangers anyway. ...Are we?
November 2006 - They looked at each other across the coat-strewn bed. Spread out upon it was the full roster of everyone attending the wrap party. Some items unmistakably matched the character of their owners, some identifiable only with close acquaintance: a telling pin or a whiff of product. Their own were buried in the pile, somewhere.
For a moment they could imagine their thirty-something selves, both skinny and spry, boyishly hopping onto the bed with utter disregard for the outerwear of others. They'd kick off their shoes, one would be barefoot, the other resplendent in psychedelically everything-clashing socks. They'd lean back against the headboard, side by side, wiggling their toes and perhaps playing some idle footsy amongst the menagerie of leather, down and fur beneath them, while talking still idealistically not so much about their careers as the art form itself, and everything the show had done to bring them, in addition to anywhere else, right here with each other.
"It's too late, isn't it?" said Greg. "I mean, we missed it. We could have experienced the whole thing together. Now we're fat crotchety old men."
"I hope you're only calling me fat and yourself old," said Brad.
"But we're agreed with the emphasis on 'crotch'," said Greg.
Brad laughed. Greg grinned. They stared at each other again.
"I'm glad it's over," said Greg. "The apprehension was killing me, wondering what it would be like to finally be done with it. It's easier to deal with reality than anticipation. Nevermind that the challenge and stimulation had pretty much gone. But right now, I just... I want..."
Brad stopped himself from mugging. Greg could see through that. But for some mysterious reason he was nervous out of his skin.
Greg exhaled slowly and heavily, closing his eyes, then opening them narrowed through his glasses at Brad. "I want the thing I missed. I want another crack at... you."
Brad's brow furrowed, though he himself couldn't quite have said if he was in intense thought, or intensely wishing he had a thought.
"Why is it too late, exactly?" said Brad. "Because we're not fresh-faced thin things anymore? I'm still perfectly edgy and attractive, thank you very much."
Greg cracked a smile but didn't reciprocate this time. "Because the paradigm's shifted," said Greg. "Who knows where we'll be off to next."
Brad pursed his lips and looked around the room a moment, perhaps for inspiration, perhaps to avoid looking at Greg.
"Then if all we have is tonight," said Brad, "I don't see why we should waste that too."
The way Greg looked at him told Brad in an instant just how much they'd never known about each other: a depth of reluctance and fear Brad could never have pictured on Greg if he'd tried. (Which of course he hadn't.) But it made him adamant not to turn back from it now. In Brad, in turn, Greg read something that made him shake, then smile.
"Well, then," said Greg. In a motion he crossed the room and grabbed Brad's hand.
Downstairs, Drew took Jeff, Ryan, Colin and Chip aside and started muttering a thought to them about another show.
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