Title: Time and Place Pairing: Clive & Greg friendship, or pre-slash, take your pick. Rating: PG Summary: Saying goodbye isn't easy. Or, Clive's being angsty, and Greg's trying to make him less so. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No harm is intended. Clive stopped briefly in his dressing room to make sure he hadn't left anything behind. He didn't bother to change, he just wanted to be out of there. He walked briskly though the hall, head down. It wasn't that there was anything wrong, just an absence of things that were right. He was anxious to be done with the series. Then he could go back to London, and start in on a new chapter of his life. Clive stepped outside into rain, which did nothing to improve his mood. He had been promised sunshine and warmth in Southern California. This rain didn't even remind him of home. It was alien, falling in thick, heavy drops, loud and unpleasant against the roofs of the automobiles in the car park. Even the rain here seemed to have an American accent. He stood, just outside the door, getting rained on, silently cursing the studio for -- again -- failing to arrange for his contractually obligated ride. "Fuck." Clive glanced to his right to find Greg coming outside, hands flying to his head to protect his hair from the downpour. It almost made him smile. Almost. If Greg had some smart-arsed comment about Clive standing in the rain (which he almost certainly did), he kept it to himself. "One more week, huh?" "Yeah." One week and he'd go home. One week and who knew when he'd see Greg again. The thought depressed him more than liked to admit. Over the years they'd grown close, and Greg had been one of the few bright spots in LA -- and that included when the sun was out. Greg fidgeted. "Are you just going to stand there all night?" "I think I hate it here." He looked up at Greg, who looked back at him like he was not at all surprised. "I'm from here and I hate it here." Clive stuck his hands in his pockets. There was a crumpled piece of paper in the left one. He idly contemplated what it might be. "Come on, let's get you out of here: get you drunk, get you laid, get you happy." "How thoughtful of you," Clive replied slightly more thankful than sarcastic. At least Greg would provide some company, and an excuse to drink, and another night in LA would pass, bringing him closer to home. "Though it might be difficult finding someone who'd want to sleep with me, middle-aged balding foreigner that I am." The hand on his elbow was insistent. Clive let Greg pull him towards his car. "Ah. There's where you're mistaken. You're British. And therefore charming by default in the eyes of most American women. If you don't exploit that for all it's worth, there might just be something wrong with you." "I am married, you know." "Yeah, me too." Clive wasn't entirely sure, but he thought Greg winked. "Doesn't mean you have to throw fun entirely out the window. You're thousands of miles away from home -- live a little." "No wonder my wife doesn't like you," Clive said as he got into the passenger seat. Greg put NPR on, low, and they listened to the radio and the squeak of the wiper blades as he drove. When the got in the bar parking lot, Greg cut the engine, but neither of them moved. "It's raining kind of hard," Greg said. Clive nodded. It was also a long walk from the car to the entrance. He didn't mind the rain himself, but he knew that Greg was catlike in his desire to stay dry. Greg turned the key in the ignition. "There's a bar at your hotel, right?" Clive didn’t bother answering. *** "So then I said to him, they're giving them away free at the ocelot farm down in Irvine." "Ah." Clive and Greg sat at the hotel bar. It was brightly lit and smoke-free, with a hugh tropical fish tank across an entire wall. The tank was nice enough to look at, but tended to attract children, and it all added up to a rather unorthodox atmosphere for a bar. But drinks were drinks, Clive supposed. And even though they were on their third round, Greg still insisted on paying -- that was unusually generous of him, and Clive wasn't about to complain. "You're not being your usual feisty self, Mr. A." "Sorry," he said, and took another sip of his scotch. Greg rolled his eyes. "This isn't going to turn into a pity party, is it? Because I'm not in the mood." "You're never in the mood when you're not the center of attention." "Oh, that hurts." Greg smiled at him. Clive smiled back. *** "Shouldn't you be getting home?" "Yes, mother," said Greg, as he moved to stand, unsteadily. Clive caught his arm and steadied him, even though his own head was swimming. "Maybe. Maybe we should call you a cab." "But--" Greg began to protest. Clive fished in Greg's pockets for his keys. "Getting a little friendly there, Clive?" Greg breathed in his ear. He extracted them and waved them in front of Greg's face, then closed his fist around them when Greg moved to snatch them. "Invite me to dinner tomorrow, and I'll bring your car back." "Whoa. You really are hitting on me. You should know I don't put out on the first date. Though I suppose we've been out together lots of times, so..." Greg trailed off. "Yup, inviting myself to dinner with you and your wife is clearly me trying to get into bed with you," Clive replied, patronizingly. "And I highly doubt you don't put out on the first date." Greg smirked. "I’m sure it's all part of some cunning plan. Anyway, I don't want you driving my car. You people drive on the wrong side of the road." Clive thought maybe that would be something he would feel insulted about if he could put a more coherent thought together. Instead, he barely managed to say, "I think me sober tomorrow can take better care of your car than you drunk tonight." "Spoilsport." "That's why I like you Greg. So articulate." *** When the last taping was over, there was, of course, a party at the studio. Clive sipped champagne and mingled awkwardly with producers and directors. He mingled less awkwardly with cast members, but it was all bittersweet, knowing that they'd be continuing on without him soon. Eventually, he found himself alone in a corner with Greg, each of them regarding the other with a hint of trepidation. "So," Clive said, just to break the silence. "So," Greg replied, looking him straight in the eye. "When are you leaving?" Clive cleared his throat. "My flight's at seven." "Tomorrow morning?" "Yeah. I have to get to the airport at the crack of dawn, then sit though a long, boring flight." "That doesn't leave us much time to get trashed." Clive's smile didn't reach his eyes. "None at all, I'd say." Greg tugged on his shirtsleeves. "Hmm." Clive hadn't wanted to say goodbye. Goodbyes were always uncomfortable, and it seemed like there was no way he'd be able to avoid this one. "So," he said, with all the casualness he could muster. "I hear you hate it here." Greg nodded once. "Then you should probably come visit sometime." Greg nodded again, more enthusiastically, and they hugged awkwardly. When they untangled, Clive walked away, unwilling to look back; he didn't think either of them wanted a big emotional scene -- and that was the road they seemed headed down. *** When Clive checked out of his hotel in the morning, the concierge handed him a thick envelope with his name and an order that it wasn't to be opened until he was on the plane scrawled on it. He barely sat down in his business class seat before tearing it open. It was seven or eight double-sided pages, at least. Not enough to keep him occupied for the whole flight, but it would help pass the time. Mr. A, it began. You couldn’t possibly think I was going to let you have the last word... -- end --