Chapter Text
The wail of the sirens faded into the distance. Chris stood, foot throbbing along to his pulse. He should head back to the set, face the others in the wake of how badly the play had gone. But part of him wanted to stay outside, even in the bitter, howling wind, to hide from his failures for just a bit longer.
Allowing himself the indulgence of just a few seconds longer to compose himself, to reign in his tumultuous emotions. It wouldn’t do to show weakness to the others following that substandard performance. Far from demonstrating why he was the best choice of director, that had been one of their worst disasters to date.
He’d tried. He’d really tried. He spent almost every waking hour on this play, and quite a few of his sleeping ones too. But it hadn’t been enough. The set had been a hazard, Jonathan’s last minute costume had been a fiasco and the performances from the actors had been…flawed.
One thing was certain: Robert could never be director again. He’d sabotaged the play. Ruined the performances of his co-stars. Anyone who’d stoop so low as to spoil the entire play because of a dispute with one person couldn’t be trusted to be director. It hadn’t even been to enhance his own performance, it’d been stupid, pointless. Malicious. Chris had thought Robert at least understood that you did what was necessary to get the play running as smoothly as possible.
Max’s sabotage had been less malicious. But still, all that time working on that scene, the mirroring exercises, the run-throughs. Chris still felt flush with the angry humiliation of the scene. Why couldn’t he have just done it properly? Why did he have to ruin it?
Max had been having a great time, Chris could have happily throttled him, if that wouldn’t have derailed the play further.
Max had been so pale, in the back of the ambulance. So still.
Chris wouldn’t worry; they’d had worse injuries in the past. He wouldn’t think about how the last words he’d exchanged with Max outside the script had been the hushed, furious scolding he’d delivered backstage. How he’d torn into him, dampening his glee and watching him wilt. Max would be alright. He had to be. He was with medical professionals- people who knew what they were doing- and with Sandra. He’d be okay.
If he wasn’t it was Chris’ fault.
He breathed out, shakily. They’d been right to overthrow him, he could see that now. He thought he could make up whatever deficit was in his abilities with hard work, pushing himself to the limit to get the company to perform at their very best. But they hadn’t. It hadn’t been enough, he hadn’t been enough.
He certainly wasn’t good enough standing out here, avoiding the others like a coward. His entire purpose in the company was to be practical, organising them through disaster after disaster and figuring out where to go from there. If he wasn’t doing that, why would they need him around?
He needed to stop wallowing in his own self-pity and actually be of some use. He wasn’t the injured party here, he needed to stop being so selfish and start to figure out the aftermath. He could have a breakdown in the shower later, if he really insisted on being so pathetically self-pitying.
The BBC will definitely want a thorough debrief after this, but they’d have to wait. Injuries took precedent. Max and Vanessa were already on the way to hospital, but Jonathan wasn’t. And after that shock he needed medical attention too.
He was Chris Bean. He was the director. And until he was otherwise, they were his responsibility.
Time to face the music. Steeling himself, he started to walk back on set. Carefully he kept his gait to a walk and suppressed the urge to limp. He wasn’t looking to detract from his own failure by drawing attention to such a minor injury. Each step sent white hot shards of pain through his foot, but he managed to keep the whimpers that wanted to escape in his throat.
Following the paramedics departure, the set was even more of a mess than usual. Jonathan, now freed from the iron maiden, was being helped out of his armour by Trevor and Annie. Dennis was hovering to the side in a way that suggested he’d been shooed out the way at some point.
Jonathan had been trapped in the iron maiden until the paramedics arrived. Chris hadn’t wanted to risk freeing him and possibly jostling Max. It had been the right choice; Jonathan had been responsive, Max had not.
With the iron maiden falling on his back, who knew what damage there might be to Max’s spine. And he’d been so still underneath the iron maiden.
Chris had been powerless to do anything about Jonathan’s discomfort until help had arrived, freeing Max and rushing him away to the hospital. Where he’d be fine. Chris would see him shortly; he’d need to. Sandra may be one of Max’s emergency contacts, but she wasn’t Vanessa’s, so Chris would need to follow the ambulance to A&E.
It wasn’t the first time he’d taken or followed one of the others to A&E. Before the coup he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But now. What if the others thought he was abandoning them with the clean-up? Had every time he’d gone with someone for medical attention or met with the BBC been seen as avoiding work?
If it had been, it didn't change the fact that Jonathan needed A&E.
Chris stepped forward to joining them, ignoring the fiery bite of his foot.
“How are you?” he asked Jonathan.
Jonathan blinked, “I’m good Chris. How are you?” This would have been more convincing if not for the dazed, far off tone.
“I’m fine,” said Chris, automatically.
Stood at the edge of the set, Robert scoffed, still wearing the crown despite being in his street clothes. It was unlike him not to be in the thick of an emergency, despite not being a first aider.
Chris had barely been paying attention to Sandra’s closing narration- too busy updating the Emergency Call Handler on the second unconscious casualty- but now Robert’s closing words echoed through his head. “Execute Chris”
Execute Chris.
Maybe the next time they replaced him as director, they wouldn’t want to keep him around. After all, if he wasn’t the director, what use to them would he be? And the new director, unlike Robert, probably wouldn’t have a personal stake in keeping him close to see him humiliated and humbled.
They’d proven that they weren’t as dependent on him as he was on them. And that was fine, his weakness was his own responsibility. He knew to be wary now, to look out for the warning signs.
It was horrifically weak of him but the thought of them leaving hurt. Or even worse, the thought of them all staying, happy together without him. It was selfish to want to tie them down to his own failure, but without the Drama Society they’d have no need to put up with him.
He cleared his throat, “I’m sure we can all agree that could have gone better, but I appreciate the effort you all put in to finish the play. Thank you”
Chris very maturely didn’t exclude Robert from his thanks, which was as much a peace offering he was willing to give Robert. That was also Chris’ fault, he shouldn’t have goaded him. He should have better control of his actors.
Injuries were the priority, he reminded himself.
Chris turned to Dennis, “Did you get burnt?”
Dennis thought for a second, “No.”
That was a relief. He’d already thanked Trevor off-stage for extinguishing the burning lyrics. He made a mental note to thank Vanessa for stopping Dennis’ final word if she regained consciousness. When she regained consciousness.
“Okay” Chris said, turning to the group at large, “apart from Jonathan, any other injuries?”
Dennis raised his hand, “The cannon hit me in the face.”
Chris had moved towards Dennis before he’d even thought about it. The only thing alerting him to the movement was the increased pressure-pain in his foot, catching the breath in his throat.
“Sit down” He instructed, reaching out to steady Dennis as he did so.
Dennis sat. Chris, kneeling next to him, turned his head. Yes, there was a reddened patch of skin that looked like it’d develop into a spectacular bruise. Trevor slid the first aid box towards him from where he was removing Jonathan’s sabatons.
“Have you had difficulty speaking or walking?” Chris asked, opening the kit and pulling out the instant cold pack. He hated that part of him was already considering how to disguise any facial bruises for next week's play, and that reducing the swelling with the compress would make it easier to do so. That even though he was an inadequate director, he still focused on the practicalities rather than acting solely out of altruistic concern. Selfish.
“Speaking hurts,” Dennis responded, slowly.
Chris should have noticed earlier. Nodding or shaking his head would probably also hurt.
“You can give me a thumbs up for yes and a thumbs down for no,” Chris offered, “any dizziness?”
Thumbs down.
Chris twisted the pack, activating it, “Have you vomited or felt like you might vomit?”
Thumbs down. Robert was now hovering over the two of them, looking awkwardly like he was going to join them on the floor. If he spoke to him, Chris was sure his fragile cloak of professionalism would snap and they’d all see how pathetic he was.
“Do you have a headache?” Chris wrapped the pack in a flannel.
Thumbs up.
“Any confusion, or loss of memory?”
Dennis blinked at him, “I forgot my lines, I’m sorry Chris.”
“That’s okay.” Chris pressed the compress against Dennis’ face, “Hold that there.”
His pupils were the same size, which was a good sign. But with Dennis, it was always difficult to tell if he was experiencing head injury related confusion or just Dennis related confusion. Better safe than sorry.
Chris stood up, his foot protesting in flashes of swollen pain.
“I’m going to take Jonathan and Dennis to A&E. Don’t worry about the set down, just do what needs to be done to make the set safe and we’ll do the rest tomorrow. If anyone from the BBC is looking for me, I’ll ring them from the hospital.”
That would be a pleasant call, Chris had no doubt. Trevor had disappeared off to the side, presumably to collect the keys. Chris was grateful he wouldn’t have to walk any further to hunt them down.
“I’m fine,” Jonathan said, looking somewhat to the right of Chris, “I just need a nap.”
What Jonathan needed was a doctor, and he was being needlessly awkward about it. Chris couldn’t understand why Jonathan thought he didn’t need medical attention, he’d had a huge electric shock, he was very lucky to still be conscious.
“You’ve had an electric shock, you’re going to hospital and that’s non-negotiable.” Chris sighed, “If it makes you feel better, I need to drive up anyway as Vanessa’s emergency contact.”
Annie hesitantly spoke, “You’re going to drive Chris?” She’d collected the first aid kit from next to Dennis and was now looking at Chris warily.
Chris didn’t know what she was looking for. Signs he’s going to lose his temper, an indication that he’s skiving from the clean-up or maybe some acknowledgment of what went wrong tonight?
Keep calm, keep professional. Injuries first, everything else comes after.
“Yes. We’ll go over today’s performance tomorrow, depending on how everyone is. I’ll keep you updated in the group chat.”
Annie exchanged a loaded look with Robert and opened her mouth.
Trevor, having arrived with the van keys, put a hand on her shoulder and she shut it again.
“Are you gonna get changed before you go Chris?” Trevor asked.
With the others in street clothes, he’d almost forgotten he was still in costume. Just the thought of taking his boots off made his foot reach a throbbing crescendo. It was why he hadn’t risked changing out of his boots for his final scenes. And just changing the top half would look significantly less dignified than attending A&E in full costume.
“No, I’ll just change once I’m there.” In the toilet where he could vomit should he need to.
Trevor nodded, “I’ll give you a hand getting these two to the van.”
He muttered something to Annie, presumably last minute instructions and hauled Jonathan to his feet.
“Are you alright to stand Dennis?” asked Chris.
“Yes,” said Dennis.
He did not stand.
Robert pulled him up to his feet before Chris could reach down to help.
“Up you come. You get to go on an exciting field trip to the hospital." Robert said, "You good to walk to the van, or do you need to be princess carried?” He glanced at Chris before looking back at Dennis.
He had to just be addressing Dennis, so Chris stayed quiet.
“I can walk, I’m good at walking.” Dennis said, proudly.
Trevor had Jonathan’s arm slung over his shoulder. Jonathan seemed mostly upright but better to be safe than sorry. Chris went to grab Jonathan’s other arm.
“No, no. I’m good with just Trevor.” Jonathan stated hurriedly.
That hurt.
But, Chris reminded himself, that was more than fair. Chris had been the reason Jonathan was in the armour in the first place. Injuries made people snappish, Jonathan was clearly out of it and Chris deserved it.
Keeping pace with Dennis, he followed Jonathan and Trevor to the van. Each step was now sending burning, almost crunching pains from the top of his foot to his sole. It was fine, it was just pain. He dealt with pain every day. He couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t hurt somewhere. This was the price he paid for being director of Cornley Drama Society.
With some difficulty Chris, Trevor and Dennis managed to get Jonathan into the backseat; they thankfully had a lot of practice moving unconscious or dazed bodies in and out of awkward situations. Dennis clambered in next to Jonathan. As Chris shut the door he could hear Dennis hum Bonny Peggy Ramsey to himself.
“Thanks, Trevor” Chris said, holding his hand out for the keys. With how inconvenient his foot was being, moving Jonathan would have been much more difficult without Trevor. Not to mention Jonathan’s current aversion to Chris; he didn’t want to force his presence where it wasn’t wanted.
Rather than the keys, Trevor just gave him a level, even stare.
“You’re not driving with that foot, mate” Trevor nodded at Chris’ foot, “I’ll drive and you can get it seen by a doctor.”
Chris flushed. It wasn’t even that bad, not a proper injury like the rest of the troupe. It was already unacceptable that he’d let the pain interfere with his performance, to cause him to drop the poison bottle.
“I’m fi-”
“You’re not. I know how heavy that drawbridge is” Trevor interrupted, “If it was anyone else, you’d be the first to insist it needed to be checked out.”
Trevor’s tone brooked no argument and his face had that stubborn set to it that meant he wasn’t going to back down. Chris had never almost never won this argument debate with Trevor once Trevor had decided he needed medical attention. The only time he possibly had won had not been worth it. He couldn’t do that again.
“Look,” Trevor’s tone had softened, “we need our director to be ok too. And more than that, we want you to be ok Chris.”
Trevor wasn’t who Chris was worried about. His signature wasn’t on the piece of paper that Chris still carried in his coat pocket. But he had a point. Chris was the director. There was still time to prove to the rest of the company he was worthy of that mantle. He’d worked hard on this play, but he’d let his guard down, he’d allowed himself to relax towards the end. He’d been complacent. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“We can’t just abandon Annie and Robert.” Chris protested.
“Annie knows I’m going, she’ll pass the message on to Robert.” Trevor shrugged, “You’re hurt and that matters.”
And it shouldn’t, because Chris’ injury wasn’t important. But Trevor caring that Chris had stupidly hurt his foot even when it was an inconvenience made Chris feel warm inside. He should feel ashamed about how happy it made him when Max, Vanessa, Dennis and Jonathan were all more seriously injured. Christ, that was half the cast.
Trevor coming with him sounded amazing, a solid supporting presence to help wrangle the others. Someone who was on his side.
“Alright, if you’re sure.”
Trevor clasped him on the shoulder in response, opening the passenger door for him and supporting him in. Chris felt the cold absence of his touch as the door closed and Trevor walked around to the driver’s side.
“Oh! Is Chris coming with?” Dennis excitedly asked from the back, around the cold compress.
Jonathan hummed in agreement from where he was staring out the window.
“Does that mean his foot will get better?”
Jonathan spun to face Dennis and shushed him dramatically. Chris was going to blame his recent electrocution on how un-subtle he was. But then again, Jonathan was surprisingly bad at subtlety. Chris would miss that.
And they’d noticed his foot. Was that why nobody had blamed him for this evening yet? Because they thought he was more seriously injured than he was. He hadn’t meant to mislead them, to manipulate them through pity and common decency. His pride wouldn’t accept this reprieve, nor was he morally reprehensible enough to allow this misunderstanding to continue.
Chris opened his mouth, “My foot is f-”
The driver door slammed shut, cutting off his last word. Trevor raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to finish the sentence.
Chris did not.
“Everyone strapped in?” Trevor asked, as he started the ignition.
As the van pulled out, Chris wondered how far behind them Annie and Robert would be. He hoped they brought snacks, Sandra was a nervous eater. There was still so much to do. The next few weeks would be busy as he bought redemption through hard work. But at least the Cornley Drama Festival would allow him time to relax. And hopefully, by the end of the series, he’d have a plan in place to retain his directorial position.
He could do it. He had to if the alternative was losing them.