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. ***** “That was a wonderful display of improvisational expertise, Mr. Proops! Let us see if our audience agrees. Audience, commence voting.” A murmur ran through the crowd as they picked up their tabulation devices, and Colin shifted slightly in his chair. Greg’s bit was enjoyable, and he was sure he’d earn high marks for it. He chanced a look over at Ryan, who stared back at him, shrugging. Once the murmur died down, Simon called Pat to the stage. She stepped down with grace and dignity, turning to face the host expectantly. “Madam, you will be answering my questions as a jealous wife who has learned that her husband is having multiple affairs behind her back.” Colin resisted the urge to snort. That wasn’t improv! It was the truth! Well, he wasn’t sure about the ‘multiple’ part, but he was having at least one, and if what Greg had said was any indication, that past romance had been revived as well. “I can do that,” Pat said, turning and shooting Colin yet another of her death glares. Colin blinked placidly at her, betraying nothing. She turned back. “I’m ready.” “Very well. Your first question: If you won tonight’s grand prize, what is the first thing you would do with it?” “Well, the first thing I’d do would be to take him and lock him in a room with no windows or other doors, and steel-reinforced walls, and I’d keep the only key on a string around my neck. Then I’d go to court and get a restraining order to keep some people,” and here she turned to Colin and sneered, “from even having the chance to look at him, let alone sleep in my bed, with my husband while my children were just down the hall!” As she broke down sobbing, Colin could only stare on, completely stunned. Such a thing had never happened. It never would. Colin had been to Ryan’s house exactly once, in the company of his own wife and son, and he hadn’t even dared to have impure thoughts while there, let alone what Pat was insinuating. Near the piano, Ryan looked just as stunned, and was frantically trying to slip free his bonds, his enraged shouts rendered completely ineffective by the clever gag still in his mouth. “Outstanding!” Simon praised, rising to his feet and applauding with the rest. “A perfect example of true improvisational skill. Brava, Ms. McDonald! Brava!” Wiping the tears from her eyes, Pat gave a graceful curtsey and returned to her seat, not even bothering to look in Colin’s direction. Which was good, he supposed. She could melt the polar ice caps with that glare of hers. “Alright, Mr. Mochrie, you’re next.” Colin stepped onto the stage, hands clasped behind his back as he waited for his assignment. He was feeling more than a bit woozy, and his joints continued to ache, just as they had before he ended up here, but he supposed that shouldn’t be a surprise. This was Hell. Feeling like crap probably came with the territory. “I want you to run up and down each and every step in this studio whilst clucking like a beheaded chicken. You will give your answers as Elvis Presley, and they must all be in the form of a question. This should be tremendously easy for one with your supposed pedigree, yes?” Colin simply nodded, wondering if his legs would be strong enough to get him down the stage steps, let alone up and down all the levels of the audience. Not that it mattered much anyway. He would do it. He always did. Trouper Colin, they’d called him. Time to earn his stripes. The setup was obvious. He’d see if he could even the odds a little. Even if this was the most truly unfunny and uninspired task he’d ever been given in all his years on the stage. “Get going, then. We don’t have all day, you know.” Yanking his polo up so it covered all but the very top of his head, he peered through the slit between the buttons, tucked his hands under his armpits and strutted off the stage, almost stumbling, but quickly righting himself as he began to ascend the first set of steps into the audience. “You’re not clucking, Mr. Mochrie.” “I’m beheaded,” Colin replied, hitting the top and turning to go back down. The audience murmured. Simon looked rather upset. He didn’t appreciate being upstaged in the least. “First question, then. And you’d better answer, beheaded or not, or I shall take away any points the audience might see fit to give you.” Colin didn’t answer; just ran down the steps, across the row, and up the next set, breath coming in short, painful gasps. “Alright, then. I shall ask you the same question as the others, to make it easy on you. If the unthinkable happens and you win tonight’s prize, what is the first thing you’ll do with it?” “Well, uh….” Elvis was one of his worst accents, and he knew it. Not that accents of any sort were a specialty of his. Except maybe Kirk, or Klink. And he knew it was even worse because his voice was muffled both by his shirt and his panting breaths, but he did what he always did and gave it his best shot. “Well, uh-huh, ah…ah…ah…guess mah answer would be ‘What is takin’ him outta that cage and untyin’ him?’ Thank yuh. Thank yuh verra much.” Simon shook his head. “I’ve heard better Elvis impersonations from a group of five year olds who’ve never heard of the man. You are truly horrid at this, Mr. Mochrie. Whomever pays your salary is a fool.” Down one set of steps, across a row, up the next, ignore the cracks. “Very well, then. Second question: Once you’ve done that, what would you do next?” That one was easy. He didn’t even have to rip off Jeopardy to answer. “’Ryan, are yuh okay? Uh-uh-do yuh need annywader? Food? I-uh-got some nice peanut butter and buh-buh-buh-bacon uh-sandwiches riiiiiight here. Well, uh-huh. Would you uh-uh-like them?” The buzzer sounded, and Colin thanked God…or Satan…or whoever was ruling this particular Hell he found himself in. Trotting down the last of the steps, he made his way back to the stage, determined that no one would see just how weak and sick he really was. It was more important now than ever. “I must say I’m very disappointed in you, Mr. Mochrie,” Simon tsked as Colin returned to the stage. “I was given to expect greatness, not the talent equivalent of an elementary school Christmas pageant, with half the children suffering from severe intestinal cramps.” “I’m sorry to have disappointed you,” Colin replied softly, yanking his shirt back to rights and smoothing the fringe of his hair on the sides. Simon just shook his head. “Return to your seat please. Mr. Carey, it’s your turn, sir.” Drew answered his questions as a stand-up comedian; again, there was no improv involved, since that’s what he was. Colin was too busy trying to surreptitiously catch his breath to listen to the answers, but based on the expression on Ryan’s shocked face, they must have been real doozies. They went to commercial directly after that. Greg and Pat brought their heads in close, whispering conspiratorially while Drew sprouted a phone from his ear, squinting at nothing. Though all he wanted to do was sit and try to recover whatever energy he might have left, Colin pushed himself out of his chair and made his way over to Ryan, who had by now given up on trying to get himself loose. Colin was only able to get his fingers through the close-set bars, but it seemed to be enough as Ryan, with a grateful expression shining in his eyes, grazed the tips of his friend’s fingers with his own. The contact seemed to steady and strengthen them both. When he felt how incredibly hot Colin’s fingers were, Ryan shot him another very concerned look. Colin simply shrugged. “It’s Hell,” he said. “I’m supposed to be hot.” Ryan’s eyebrows knit low over his eyes in confusion. “Don’t worry. I don’t understand it myself. But, just in case, when you get out of here, check the lavatory. I think I might still be in there. With my head in the toilet.” He held up a hand. “Forget it. It’s just the fever talking. I’ll be fine once it breaks.” Simon was gesturing at him to return to his seat, and after a final look at Ryan, he did just that, sliding into his chair just as they returned from commercial. “Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to So, You Think You Can Improvise? I’d like to say you’ve seen some stellar performances so far tonight, but unfortunately, that would be a lie. Let’s look at the point totals, shall we?” He looked down at his monitor and smiled. “Very good. Ms. McDonald leads all comers with a score of eight point seven. Mr. Proops is only slightly behind at eight point five. Mr. Carey has some work ahead of him at seven point two, and, as if this is a surprise to anyone within the sound of my voice, Mr. Mochrie trails his fellows with a truly pitiful score of two point one. Which is exactly two point one points higher than the score I myself would have given him. Perhaps you should make things easier on everyone involved, Mr. Mochrie, and leave the stage now, yes?” Fiddling with his shirt, Colin smiled pleasantly at the host. “Thank you, Mr. Cowell, but I think I’ll stick around for a little while longer. You never know what could happen.” “In your case, not much, I’m quite sure.” Colin merely shrugged, unfazed. “Let’s move on, shall we? The next game is for all four of our contestants. Would all of you come down onto the stage, please?” Once they were standing where he wanted them, Simon continued. “Mr. Carey, you will be playing the host of a popular daytime talk show—you know the type, I’m sure. Typically American, lots of fighting and cursing and all around nastiness. Ms. McDonald, you will be playing the part of Snow White. Mr. Proops will be Prince Charming, and lastly, Mr. Mochrie will be the so-called Big, Bad Wolf. Is that quite clear to everyone involved?” All four of them nodded. “Very good. Very good. The purpose of this game is to see how well each of you thinks on your feet, as it were. There will be no set theme. You will merely make it up as you go along. Clear?” Four nods. “Good. Begin, please.” “Hello and welcome to the Sperry Jinger show!” Drew announced, miming holding a microphone. “When Good Fairy Tales Go Bad. On today’s show, we have Snow White! Please welcome Miss White.” The audience was silent as Pat walked to the middle of the stage, nervously twisting her hands. “Um…hello?” For some reason, she mimed chewing gum, changing Snow White into a bit of a tart. Which, of course, gave Colin an idea. “Tell us, Snow…I can call you Snow, right?” Drew continued, all smarmy niceness. Pat nodded. “Tell us, Snow, why are you here?” “Well….” Her voice trailed off, obviously at a loss. The audience remained silent. There was a part of Colin, which he rarely acknowledged, that was actually enjoying Pat’s plight. Luckilly, it was only a tiny part. The rest of him rushed in to rescue her from her floundering, knowing Greg would ordinarily have been right there on his heels, if he hadn’t turned psycho. “I know why she’s here!” he growled, doing his best ‘medium, slightly ticked-off wolf’ impression. “She’s here because someone’s been trying to poison her and she doesn’t know who it is!” “I do so know who it is!” Pat screamed shrilly, launching herself at him and pounding his chest with her fists. “It’s you! You’re the one poisoning me! Poisoning my marriage! Sleeping with my husband! Corrupting my children with your perversions! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” “Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!” the audience shouted. From somewhere, a shoe flew in. Since Pat was screaming the truth, or at least in part, it cut deep, but Colin wasn’t an actor for nothing, and he pulled back, both hands up, miming great surprise. “Your husband? I didn’t even know you were married!” Then, mumbling under his voice, but deliberately into his mic, he said, “Well, there goes the whole,” and here he raised single index fingers hooked into sarcastic ‘quote marks’, “snow, white thing.” Was that a laugh he heard? He was almost sure it was. “Get your filthy paws off of her, you beast!” Greg cried, flying in, pulling Pat away, and cradling her close to his chest. “You have no right to touch even the tiniest hair on her pure, virginal head.” “Virginal?” he scoffed. “I hate to break it to you, Prince Charmless, but there’s been more than one worm in that apple of hers, if you get what I’m saying.” Somehow, he seemed to suddenly be channeling Brad. More laughter. Ok, isolated chuckles, but that was more than the scene had gotten before. “So?” “Well,” Colin pointed out, “you can’t very well sweep her off her feet if the big zamboni’s already been there, you know.” “Sure I can,” he replied, leering. Colin mimed shock again. “The wife and the husband both?” “Wouldn’t you like to know!” “And you call me a beast.” Yes, he was sure he was hearing laughs. Good. “My final thought for the day….” “Can it, Drew,” Pat growled, sounding like a Linda Blair stand in for the newest Exorcist remake. Drew stumbled back. Almost tripped. Didn’t. Colin leaned in closer to Greg. “You, um, might want to know some things I’ve found out about your little paramour there.” “Yeah? Like what?” “You don’t think she keeps those seven short guys around just for laughs, do you?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, earning more laughs. He usually didn’t like to go the gutter route, but it looked like that was the only thing that was going to stir this particular audience. “He’s lying!” Pat exclaimed. “Am I,” Colin purred. “You know why they call him ‘Sleepy’, don’t you?” “Why?” Greg asked. “Because he’s always….” And here he mimed a gesture that would no doubt get a censor bar right across it. Greg gasped in pretend shock. “No!” “Oh, yes. And Sneezy, well, they only call him that because he’s allergic to (bleeped, kinda rhymes with hussy, only with a p), isn’t that right, Snow?” More laughter, some cheering, and another shoe. “But Doc,” he continued, “now there’s a man who really knows how to conduct an examination, if you know what I mean.” Greg gasped again and stepped back from Pat, eyes wide behind his glasses. Lots of titters peppered through the crowd. “And Grumpy, well, he only sticks around because she’s the only one who’ll lift her skirts in his direction.” The slap across his face stung, but he didn’t mind a bit. Not one little bit. “And Dopey?” Colin shrugged. “He might not have a lot in the brains department, but he more than makes up for it below the belt, if you get what I’m saying to you.” Greg just shook his head. “And I suppose next you’ll tell me that Happy is happy all the time because he’s banging Miss Snowy.” “Every chance he gets!” Colin cheerfully replied, earning himself another slap to the same cheek. “Damn!” Greg said in admiration. “You sure do know a lot for a wolf.” Colin shrugged. “I’m the bad guy. It pays to get the dirt on all these goody-two-shoes. Makes my job a lot easier.” “Oh, why don’t you just go eat Little Red Riding Hood,” Pat snapped, earning her her first laugh of the sketch. “Thanks, but that would be more your style,” Colin replied, smiling sweetly. Greg gasped yet again. “Chicks, too?” “Oh yeah. She swings all kinds of ways. Aren’t you glad I was here to help you out before you made the worst decision of your life? One kiss, and it’s happily never after, you know.” He shuddered. And Pat was on him again, launching blows from seemingly everywhere. Colin stood there and took it until a knee got a little too close to some parts he was rather fond of, and he backed away, still smiling sweetly. He cocked a hand to his ear. “Oh! Another Prince Charming! Well, I’m off. I have to warn him before he tries to wake up Sleeping Beauty. Those little pricks’ll get you every time.” He let out a very respectable howl. And Simon, thunderclouds of anger rolling across his face, finally buzzed the scene, and Colin made his way back to his seat to generous applause. Simon glared at them all. “Not bad,” he said, pointing to Greg. “Could have been better,” he said to Pat. “Utter tripe,” to Colin. “Fair at best,” to Drew, who got up and stuffed a few more greenbacks into the already overstuffed envelope. “Outstanding!” Simon crowed. “And I’m quite sure the audience will agree with me, as it always does. Audience? Start voting, please, while we go to commercial.” Colin could see the twinkle in Ryan’s eyes from where he was sitting, and he couldn’t help but grin back. Sure, it wasn’t his best work, but it was better than the rest, and in this case, that meant everything. He gave his partner a cheery ‘thumbs up’ and then they were back from commercial. “Welcome back to So, You Think You Can Improvise? The performances have certainly hit a plateau this evening, and a very low one at that, but we’ll just soldier on and pray for a miracle. Let’s look at the current standings, shall we?” He peered down at his monitor, and frowned. “Well, it appears that our audience is a wee bit humor impaired this evening. The always inspiring Greg Proops vaults into the lead with a score of seventeen. In an unbelievable turn of events, Mr. Mochrie is now in second place with a score of thirteen point five. The irrepressible Drew Carey is just a smidge behind at thirteen point four. And, sadly, Ms. McDonald is trailing all comers with a score of nine.” He shook his head sadly. “There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose.” Pulling out the next card, his smile returned. “Well, let’s just see if we can’t change that a bit, shall we? The next game is called Comic Book Heroes. The premise is a relatively simple one. The first contestant will step onto the stage to be given a ‘comic book hero’ name by me. He, or she, must continue to act out the part throughout the entire scene. Each hero will name the others in turn until all four are on stage. There will also be a crisis to solve. Sound easy enough?” Everyone but Pat nodded, having done, or announced, the game ad infinitum over the years. “Very well, then. Let’s begin, shall we? Mr. Mochrie, you’re first.” His smile turned truly evil. “Why don’t I call you…Tango Man?” Colin nodded, inwardly pleased. Obviously, Simon hadn’t bothered to watch the show. He could dance, if pushed to it. “And your crisis, Tango Man, is…no more music!” Oh, gee, think that one up all by yourself, did you? “Begin, please.” Walking forward a few steps, Colin mimed picking something slender up with two fingers. Turning it sideways and clamping it between his teeth, it became a rose. Then, with deliberately exaggerated motions, he pretended to pull his invisible partner close to his body and began a sensuous tango. The audience cheered in pleased surprise. Simon sat there, mouth hanging open. Try making a fool out of me, will you? I already do that far better than you ever could. And I get paid to do it! In the middle of a particularly intricate maneuver, he abruptly stopped and frowned his displeasure. Releasing his ‘partner’, he walked to the left and mimed twiddling with some buttons. “Damn CD player,” he grumbled, giving it a smack on the side. Then he walked over to the World Crisis Monitor, twisted the knobs, and gasped in shock. “There’s no more music! How will I ever do the tango with no more music? Oh, I hope my superfriends come quickly! Help! Help!” Yes, his accent was abysmal, but this time, it had the audience laughing, so he kept with it. “Help! Help!” he cried again when the obvious cue was missed. Pat then stumbled onto the stage, having been basically pushed there by Drew. “Thank goodness you’ve arrived….Mad With Love For Me Woman!” Ok, so that was a bit cruel, but really, how could he help himself, after what he’d already been through. “You bastard!” Pat screamed, once again throwing herself at him. “Oh, my darling,” he continued in that horrid accent that was nonetheless generating healthy laughter, “the words of love you speak to me have me overcome with joy! And the way you throw yourself into my arms! Come, let us dance the dance of lo-oo-oo-ve. We will let the music be our hearts, beating for one another.” Pat refused to budge, so he simply grabbed her arm, thrust it out, held it there while his other one went firmly around her waist and lifted her into the air, beginning to tango once again. Simon looked as if he were about to spit nails. Pat was glaring at him, per usual, but it had lost some of its heat as he became resigned to it. The audience laughed and cheered. Drew eventually came in. “Sorry I’m late, but I overslept. My alarm went off, but it was set to music, so….” Colin squeezed Pat’s hand to prompt her, but she continued to glare at him, so, sighing, he broke pattern. “Thank God you’re here, Bad Standup Comedy Act Man! Look! No more music!” “Music?” Drew immediately said, miming grabbing a microphone. “Lemme tell you about music. My wife served me beans last night, and I was tooting away till dawn! Ha-Cha-CHA! Thank you, you’re a great audience.” As Colin continued to tango with Pat, Greg jumped in. “Sorry I’m late. The muzak stopped in the elevator I was in, and I woke up!” “Thank goodness you’re here, Evil, Mad Scientist Boy!” Drew cried. “There’s no more music!” Colin added, spinning with Pat in his arms and immediately regretting it as the dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. “Muahahahaha!” Greg cackled, rubbing his hands over one another in perfect ‘Evil Mad Scientist Boy’ fashion. “There’s no more music because I stole it all! It’s part of my nefarious plot to take over the world!!! Muahahahahaha.” “The world?!” Drew piped in. “I rented three hookers last night, and let me tell ya, they sure rocked my world! Badda BING! Oh, I gotta million of ‘em, folks!” “But you can’t take over the world!” Colin cried. “You’re a comic action hero!” “I am? Oh, yeah! I am! Well….” He mimed holding up a small box. “I’ve got the DNA of Roberto Firpo (famous composer of Tangos) right here. We’ll just clone him and viola! Dancing in the streets, baby!” Releasing Pat, Colin rushed over to Greg and drew him in close. “That’s music to my ears! You’re a genius!” Then he began to tango with Greg, who, thankfully, allowed him to take the lead. The audience roared. Pat wandered off the stage. “I’m here every Wednesday, folks!” Drew said. “Goodnight! You’ve been great. Don’t forget to tip your waitresses!” And then he, too, exited. Colin and Greg were left to tango around the stage, and at the end, Colin dipped him low and laid a healthy kiss right on his lips, then froze, holding the position. The crowd jumped to its feet, hooting and whistling. Colin smiled against Greg’s lips, and finally pulled away as Simon frantically pressed the buzzer until it seemed it would break. “Colin! Colin! Colin! Colin!” the audience shouted. Greg actually grinned at him, and Colin smiled back in reflex, then eased Greg back up to a standing position. “Fuck it man,” Greg said. “You won tonight. Go get your prize.” “Colin! Colin! Colin! Colin!” “But…Simon….” “Who gives a fuck! The crowd knows who it wants. You won, fair and square. Go get ‘im.” “Colin! Colin! Colin! Colin!” In somewhat of a daze, he released Greg, then turned and started toward the cage that held Ryan. “Colin! Colin! Colin! Colin!” But things started to fade in and out. One minute, Ryan was there, plain as day, bright eyes twinkling. Then he was a fuzzy outline of himself, a shadow with no substance. “Colin! Colin! Colin! Colin!” He staggered forward several steps, and put a hand up to his throbbing head. “What’s happening to me?” “Colin! Colin! Colin! Colin!” He felt himself falling, to weak to continue on anymore, but somehow, the landing wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be. Instead, it was as if he’d fallen into the world’s softest bed and, groaning at the pain running throughout his entire body, he finally gave in and closed his eyes. “Colin! Colin! Colin! Colin!” Another slap came to his cheek, harder this time, and he moaned weakly. God, what was Pat doing to him now? Would it ever just stop? Maybe Drew or somebody would finally take pity on him and pull the screeching banshee off of him. Another slap. Or maybe not. “Colin! Colin! Colin! Colin!” “Please,” he whispered miserably. “No more.” “Colin!” His eyes fluttered open, treating him to a close-up view of Ryan’s pale, concerned face staring down into his own. As he watched, a relieved smile curved those sensuous lips, and he found himself smiling back. “So I did win,” he breathed. “Thank God.” His eyes fluttered closed again. “Colin! Stay awake, buddy! Open your eyes. C’mon, open your eyes for me, Col.” Why? He was so tired, and the bed was so comf—on second thought, it wasn’t all that comfortable anymore. It didn’t smell all that good, either. Prying his lids back open, he took a look around. Ahh. That was the reason. Somehow, he’d made it back to the studio bathroom, where he’d evidently passed out on the floor. Beyond Ryan, he could see Greg, and Drew, staring down at him with expressions identical to Ryan’s. Drew had his glasses back on, and that was good. Greg didn’t look like he wanted to kill him, and that was even better. Best of all, though, was when he felt the upper half of his body scooped up and held in strong, loving arms, and his senses were filled with nothing but Ryan. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. When the chips were down, and the points really mattered, he’d pulled through and captured the heart of the man of his dreams. It was only later on that evening when he learned that he hadn’t toured Hell, nor had he hallucinated. He’d merely gotten sick and passed out in the bathroom. By then, it hadn’t mattered. And the dream he had stayed with him for years afterward. FIN. Whew! Wasn't that fun?!? *sigh* Thanks for reading, everyone.