Chapter Text
“I’m not sure I want Robert in my piece, I don't know if I trust him not to,” Jonathan waved a hand, “hurt someone.”
The uncertainty in Jonathan’s voice made Annie look up. He was watching Robert, alone in the corner, playing distractedly on his phone. Nobody had greeted Robert when he came in. Nobody had spoken to him. Annie would feel bad for that, but Robert deserved it.
Annie was friends with the whole society, and excluding one person wouldn’t usually sit right with her. But it was usually a mistake. An accident. Jonathan had a point.
“He hurt Chris,” Annie said. There was a difference between an accident and purposefully injuring someone.
“Yeah.” Jonathan said, quietly. He still looked as shocked by this as Annie felt. They’d had accidents before, ranging from trivial to life-threatening and they’d rallied round. But this? This felt different, Robert had shot Chris.
Annie pushed on Chris’ shoulder, red warmth beneath her hands.
Looking at her hands now it seemed wrong that they were clean, unbloodied.
She felt sick. It didn’t seem quite real, that they were living in a world where Chris had been shot. Robert had shot Chris.
She’d probably feel better once she’d seen Chris. Reassured herself that Chris was, well not ok; he’d been shot, but alive and fine. He was Chris, nothing could keep him down too long.
Trevor had messaged from the hospital last night, they knew that Chris was going to be ok. Trevor had relayed that visiting hours were over and that Chris would be at rehearsals.
He wasn’t yet, although everyone else was. For the first time since Play of the Week started everyone was on time, early even, waiting for Chris and Trevor to get here. It was usually the other way round, with Chris and Trevor arriving well before anyone else.
There was a sense of nervous tension about the room, Annie wasn’t the only one feeling it. It was in the way Max kept glancing at the door, in Sandra’s flurry of activity as she flitted between everyone else, in Jonathan’s quiet confession. They’d all split into smaller groups, rehearsing and rewriting as they waited.
Annie had gratefully accepted the opportunity to practise her mime with Jonathan, the thought of rehearsing a comedy while still waiting for Chris seemed… wrong. Not to mention Robert had a fairly big role and she wasn’t sure she wanted to speak to him yet. Or ever.
He’d shot Chris.
Shit, how did they move on from that? Just keep going, rehearsing for next week's contributions, next week’s comedy and all as if yesterday hadn’t ended in tragedy?
She’d need to rehearse it eventually. She really wanted her comedy to go well. Just a day ago, she’d been disappointed that she’d have to wait another week to perform it. Now all her enthusiasm had been silenced by the gunshot. Killed by the sick, numb feeling that had buzzed in her throat since last night.
It was probably going to go wrong anyway. Things always did and Annie, unlike Chris, was no great organiser. She wasn’t really sure what she was anymore.
She loved acting, loved it more than she’d ever loved any hobby. But she wasn’t sure that she was good at it. She thought she was doing alright. Sandra had always been complementary when they met for drinks.
Chris used to think she was promising. He’d been so keen to recruit her after Murder at Haversham Manor . He’d spent ages walking her through the basics with a patience she’d hadn’t known he possessed back then. It was the first time she’d seen the director he’d become.
He’d said less and less after the coup. She tried to convince herself that he complimented her acting less because they spent less time together and not because she was a poor actor. She didn’t need constant reassurance. Everyone knew that Robert exaggerated, and made things up and was overly critical. It didn’t mean she was a bad actor.
But she’d been wearing the biggest hat he could find.
This morning, with Chris’ absence there was no organisation to the other’s rehearsals, with four separate pieces to practise. Last week, Chris had timetabled everyone so that they were coordinated in what they rehearsed and performed. Annie hoped he’d be well enough to do the same this week.
It had only been 14 hours since she’d last seen Chris. 14 hours since Robert had shot him. Everything had changed in those 14 hours. She’d been certain 14 hours ago that despite the bickering and the disagreements and the personality clashes that nobody in CDS would ever deliberately hurt another.
But Robert had shot Chris.
It was so unbelievable, and yet it happened.
14 hours and everything had changed.
“Chris!”
At Max’s shout, Annie looked to the door. There, looking tired and pale but thankfully upright, stood Chris.
He didn’t look like he’d just been shot. There was no blood, no visible slings or bandages. The only things that were off about him was that he was holding his arm a little stiffly and he was wearing a Duran Duran t-shirt. Trevor tended to be precious over his Duran Duran stuff, so it was sweet that he’d lent it to Chris. Lent was probably too mild a word; even with the wider sleeves probably being easier to get over Chris’ wounded shoulder than his usual long-sleeved shirts Annie couldn’t imagine Chris easily agreeing to it. Trevor was truly a master at talking Chris into (and out of) things.
Beside Chris, Trevor hovered; tired concern radiating off him, clutching Chris’ laptop bag.
The room went quiet, before erupting into a commotion.
“How are you?” Annie asked, but it was lost in the chaos of the others.
“Are you ok?”
“Should you be in?”
“Do you need anything?”
“Does it hurt?”
“Do you want a cuppa?”
Chris, who usually calmed chaos by walking into the room: not caused it, blinked. He looked uncharacteristically overwhelmed, the years of him wrangling the society tended to make him pretty on top of their antics.
He held up his good hand to stop the barrage of questions. Annie tried not to think how that hand had left bloody handprints over her tree costume. She wondered if he still had blood under his fingernails.
“I’m sorry for being late,” Chris said, as if anyone was gonna blame him for being late after he’d been shot, “I’m fine. We have a lot to do this week. Since yesterday was only half of the Cornely Drama Festival, I think we can save the debrief until after next week’s broadcast and do it all at once. That way everyone can get feedback for their contributions together.”
Chris looked around, as if expecting them to argue with that. Annie was thankful that she could have another week without having to watch Chris getting shot. Maybe then she could pretend it hadn’t happened, and concentrate on her contribution.
As if anything would be able to erase the loud sound of the gun. Chris crying out and her instinctive, internal denial of ‘Robert can’t have done that’.
“Annie and Jonathan, I believe Trevor wanted to talk to you about some of the props. I’ll need to talk to everyone about how much rehearsal time your contributions need, Dennis I’ll start with you-”
“Oh! Is mine this week?” Dennis asked.
Chris looked like he regretted his life choices, his right arm twitched before his left hand came up to massage his forehead.
“Yes, that's this week,” he told Dennis, sounding tired, “Can everyone else make sure that all the props and costumes from yesterday have been packed away. Put anything broken aside; we’ll look at it later.”
Chris led Dennis over to the table and Trevor placed Chris’ laptop in front of him, running a hand across Chris’ good shoulder as he walked towards Annie and Jonathan. Annie could see Chris almost lean into the touch.
“What do you need?” Jonathan asked Trevor.
“Over here,” Trevor said, leading them out into the corridor.
It unnerved Annie more than she’d expected to not be able to see Chris anymore.
She fought down the panic, listening to the call operator through Jonathan’s phone. Hand unpleasantly warm as she pushed it against Chris’ shoulders. Strangely, her attention caught on the dried crusts of glue on Chris’ bloodied hand. She’d done that. It was the least of his problems right now, but that one had been her. She’d thought it’d be funny. She tasted bile and panic and a sense of hysterical wrongness. It was sickening now.
The glued flute. It was a joke. It should have been funny. It served Chris right for being so finicky about the ballet. Of all the things Chris chose, why did it have to be something as pretentious as ballet? It should have meant that Chris would have to stop avoiding her, if only to yell, like he always did when the cast played jokes on each other on stage. They’d all had fun with that, playing jokes on each other waiting for the moment Chris would inevitably lose it, like a game of buckaroo.
It was a joke; it wasn’t funny now.
Trevor shut the door behind them, taking a long look through the door’s window before turning to face them.
“Right, it’s about Chris,” he said, face tired and worried.
Annie suspected that his night had also been a sleepless one. Had him and Chris come directly from the hospital?
“How is he?” Annie asked.
Jonathan had asked Chris earlier and Chris had said he was fine. But Chris always said he was fine, even when he really wasn’t. Case in point last night.
“I’m fine.” Chris had bit out between the choked off whimpers, breath hot against her skin as she pressed a wound pad into Chris’ shoulder.
Trevor pulled a face, “Not great, I mean as gunshot wounds go he's doing well. He’ll make a full recovery, he just needs to take it easy and not use that arm.”
Oh shit. Annie could see Jonathan’s face mimic the look of horror on her own. Chris had never taken anything easy in his life. It was a nightmare of a job keeping him off any injury and that was without Chris distrusting them all, still looking at them like he expected to be stabbed in the back.
What’s worse, he wasn’t the director this week. They couldn’t even fob him off on observing and going through scenes again and again. And…
“Robert shot his right arm.” Annie said, his writing hand. They were going to have to keep Chris from doing paperwork. One of the most reliable ways of keeping an injured Chris entertained.
Jonathan didn’t know the full horror of trying to wrangle an injured, prickly Chris. He wasn’t a first aider who’d be called to back up whatever cast member Chris was arguing with. Annie usually got off fairly easy, between Trevor and Robert. Trevor had been Chris’ babysitter since the early days of the society and Robert had a low tolerance for Chris’ bullshit and no problem physically forcing him to rest if he got fed up.
But Robert shot Chris. They couldn’t trust Robert with Chris anymore. Just the thought of Robert and Chris alone made Annie feel a bit sick.
Robert was her friend. But so was Chris, and he could have died.
She took the first aid kit from Max, opening it so fast that packaged items flew out. Chris was on his knees, swaying and breathing heavily. She ripped open the haemostatic dressing, pressing it against Chris shoulder. He took a harsh breath in but didn’t respond.
“Chris? Chris, are you with me? Help me lie him down.”
Barring last night, Annie hadn’t really done a lot of first aid recently. Trevor usually got the bulk of it, as he was backstage and not usually trapped on scene. But since Chris had qualified he’d taken more and more. Leaving Annie without. It was a silly thing to be upset over. But she’d been first aider the longest, it had been her job. And now she wasn’t needed. More and more Chris and Trevor had it covered, communicating and coordinating a plan without a single word. Leaving Annie with nothing to do, with no way to help. She wasn’t much of a first aider anymore.
Chris blinked at her through red, puffy eyes, “No,” he slurred, weakly attempting to wriggle away from her hands, as she pressed harder. Into the warmth, into Chris. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Chris didn’t cry, fuck he was dying. He never cried.
Tear gas! He’d been tear gassed! The panic released her throat from its iron grip.
Oh god, Robert had tear gassed Chris and shot him.
“Yeah, I’m gonna sort it. But I’m thinking about next episode. He’s not in Dennis’ bit, Sandra’s is a radio drama, but he has quite a lot to do in both of yours.”
“There’s no chance of him reducing his part on his own, is there?” said Jonathan, looking resigned.
“Nope.” said Trevor, “You know what he’s like, he’d rewrite it for anyone else’s injury but not his own.”
That was true. He’d turned up for the debrief to The Lodge with shadowed eyes and rewritten More Horse scripts; accommodating Robert’s nasty concussion.
“I’m not saying write him out, just change it so he’s not doing anything strenuous. Please.” Trevor ran a bruised hand down his face, looking tired and worn down.
Trevor always had too much to do in too little time. He was a much better stage manager than Annie ever was, more what Chris wanted from a stage manager at least. But he’d been their only crew member full stop since Harper’s Locket . He’d been rushed off his feet all series. It felt like she’d hardly spent any time with him anymore, especially once the coup had happened and Trevor had taken to guarding his time with Chris. It was no secret that Trevor was on Chris’ side in all that. It shouldn’t feel so much that Trevor had chosen Chris over her given that she was in the wrong. She just hadn’t thought that Chris would take it so personally; he bounced back from anything.
She certainly hadn’t thought Robert would be such a bully. In the short time he’d been director he’d made her cry just as much as Chris had in his much longer directorial career. He’d been mean to all of them but he made a special effort for Chris. And Annie wasn’t much of a friend anymore because she said nothing. She was glad for it even. Because if Robert was having a go at Chris then surely it meant Annie wasn’t a bad actress, because Chris was really good.
It had taken Chris a few plays to settle into being encouraging and as patient as he ever gets. She’d told herself that Robert just needed time to do the same.
She was wrong. Now Chris was hurt and she didn’t know how to fix it. He wouldn’t talk to her, but he was hopefully talking to Trevor. And now he was shot and she needed to rewrite her comedy for his own safety.
“I can do that, Chris wont suspect a thing.” Annie grinned at him, hoping that it looked surer than she felt.
Trevor smiled back, relieved. Annie was happy to have lightened his load.
He clapped both her and Jonathan on the shoulder, “Thanks.”
Trevor turned, looking though the door window, “Oh, for fuck’s sake Chris.” he grumbled, disappearing through the door.
“Right,” said Jonathan, looking determined, “rewrites.”
“We just need to rewrite Chris’ bits at least.” And possibly come up with some ways of distracting Chris from attempting anything strenuous this week, Annie hoped she could get the rest of the troupe on board. It wouldn’t be fair to leave everything to Trevor.
Maybe she could stage an argument with someone, if it got heated enough, Chris would have to step in.
Jonathan hummed, “I think I am going to remove Robert too, I’ve been having a right job getting the risk assessment passed Chris with the fire-eating in so I don’t think he’d be surprised.”
That was reasonable. Annie knew she should feel guilty about excluding Robert. She tried to be understanding and kind after accidents, she knew she hated the sick, guilty feeling of causing an injury. But there was a difference between being kind and being a doormat. She’d thought Robert was her friend. She’d thought he was Chris’ friend. But he’d shot Chris.
“You're not gonna remove Chris, are you? I don’t think he’d take that well.”
He’d been moping since the coup. It was understandable, but it had been difficult to miss how withdrawn he was. How touchy; he seemed to be looking for the worst possible interpretation of all of their actions. Annie needed to find time to talk with him, to make things better. Removing him from a play he’d previously been cast in wouldn’t help.
“God no.” Jonathan looked as horrified by the concept as she felt, “I’ll just stick him next to the horse instead of on it.”
It’d be easy enough for her to just keep Chris’ dialogue and remove most of his actions, he only came in near the end anyway. She’d tell him it was for timing reasons and that her play was running over its slot.
He wouldn’t suspect a thing.
Chris stepped outside, letting the door close behind him. He didn’t have long before his first meeting in a day full of them; apparently getting shot required a lot of meetings to resolve. He needed to salvage the possibility of funding for a third series. It was a long shot but hopefully he could manage it. The BBC had previously proven very lenient following serious injuries gained on set and Chris was willing to play up his wounded shoulder if that’s what it took.
Not that he’d really have to play it up much. It hadn’t receded into soreness; it throbbed a deep thrum of constant pain and each time his shoulder moved it crescendos into shards of agony. He hadn’t realised how much he moved his shoulder before now.
He needed this to be successful, him losing the BBC’s funding last time had led to the coup and with his ballet going so horribly wrong, he couldn’t afford any additional missteps.
The possibility of getting shot had not been in the risk assessment. Clearly, it was something he’d overlooked.
He was already falling behind, he’d barely put any time in at all yesterday once he’d done the scheduling for this week. The half-day had exhausted him and Trevor had had to shake him awake and drag him home.
Both Annie and Jonathan had separately approached him yesterday to cut most of his parts. They both said it was running too long, but Chris knew it was because he was less than useless on stage with his arm out of commission. He knew he should be upset but just didn’t have the energy to feel anything but faintly grateful.
His shoulder hurt even when he kept his arm as still as possible. He’d made the mistake of picking up his laptop this morning. The pain had been intense enough that he’d spent the following five minutes miserably bent over the toilet. He couldn’t imagine the pain of riding a horse and the humiliation of being reduced to a vomiting wreck just for a little pain.
It was his own fault. He could have agreed to the surgery. But he couldn’t justify missing this week, not when his position as director was already on such thin ice. Not when the others were looking forward to their contributions.
Jonathan had been thumbing through books about circuses during rehearsals for weeks. Sandra had written four scripts, and the only reason it wasn’t more was Chris insisting that Trevor needed a definitive list of sounds. Annie had been digging through old photos and programmes. And Chris wasn’t sure what Dennis was doing, except that it involved Max.
He couldn’t let them down. Not for something as minor as pain.
No-one from the BBC had expected him to be in yesterday, so it had thankfully been meeting free. Which was probably for the best considering how exhausted he’d been. He wasn’t much more awake now, between the torment of his shoulder and his overactive mind, sleep had eluded him.
In deference to his meetings he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. It had wide enough sleeves that it had passed Trevor’s judgement on acceptable jostling of his arm. It was more professional than yesterday's attire, and something he’d usually choose to wear. Those practical considerations didn’t stop Chris from inexplicably missing wearing Trevor’s Duran Duran t-shirt yesterday. It had been kind of Trevor to lend him it when he’d realised the only clothes of Chris’ at Trevor’s would aggravate his arm.
The door opened behind him and Robert stepped out, cheek bruised and looking unusually subdued.
“Chris,” he said, letting the door close with a bang.
There was a lance of pain burning through Chris’ shoulder. He didn’t remember grabbing it, but his hand was there so he must have done. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.
Why did it hurt? What had he done? There’d been a bang and then pain.
Christ, Robert had shot him.
He should be angry about that. Should be hurt. But honestly he couldn’t work up the energy. The world was muffled, it felt like he was navigating through a dream where there were no consequences to his actions, no real feelings to feel.
“Robert,” he said in acknowledgement. He hadn’t had words for Robert in weeks, and now submerged in a pool of water separating him from the real world, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find those words.
He’d been looking forward to his ballet.
Chris loved the ballet, he admired the costumes, the skill of the dancers and the way they’d convey emotion with every movement. He wouldn’t want to do ballets all the time, he loved plays far too much for that. But he’d wanted to do it just once. The others had always barred any attempts to share it with them, even though Chris was sure that once they’d tried at least some of them would love it too.
He’d tried, years ago now, to drag Annie and Trevor to a ballet. It had been after the success of the Latin and Ballroom dancing taster session. But Annie had found the idea of ballet snobbish and Chris had never asked her again. He still had hoped that actually performing in a ballet last night would change her mind.
He wasn’t an idiot, he’d chosen an easy ballet, designed to be performed by children. Which turned out to be a godsend since Chris’ vision still hadn’t cleared from the second dose of tear gas when it had started.
They weren’t professional dancers, but it should have given them a taste of how good ballet could be.
His shoulder was on fire. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. Something had gone terribly wrong.
But now, Chris wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to watch ballet again without remembering.
Robert was looking at him, as if waiting for him to break the silence. Chris didn’t know if he wanted answers. Didn’t know if he had questions. Didn’t know if he could speak around the lump in his throat, the damper around his emotions, the soreness in his shoulder and eyes.
“How are you?” Robert asked, looking at him intently as if looking for whatever people usually looked like after being shot by one of their ex-closest friends. Chris didn’t know what he expected to find, he just felt empty, tired. Hollowed out.
The Chris Bean who felt things like anger and hurt and happiness was so alien to him now, it might as well be a different person.
“Chekhov's gun!”
Chris heard Robert through the pain in his shoulder that seemed to radiate through his whole body. It took a few breaths longer to figure out what that meant. Robert had a gun. Robert had shot him. He’d been shot. Robert sounded so pleased with himself, so proud.
He registered that the cameras had stopped rolling and allowed himself to fall to his knees.
“I’m fine,” said Chris, hoping that it was the truth as his shoulder throbbed white, tingling ran up and down his arm. Mixing flashes of hot angry pain with alarming numbness.
“Look Chris, I didn’t mean it. The gun was loaded with a blank, it was safe. I don’t know how it caused,” Robert gestured at Chris, “this.”
He didn’t mean it? Mean what? He’d pointed a gun at Chris and fired. He’d tear gassed him. Twice. He’d stolen their money.
Chris intellectually knew that any of those things should make him angry, should make him yell and shout at Robert. Christ, Robert would be lucky to escape all this without ending up in prison. But he just felt exhausted. He wished he could feel anger; it’d be easier, safer.
He’d expected that Robert would attempt to humiliate him in his ‘acting masterclass’, and had resolved to bear it with as much dignity and professionalism as he could manage. But in his own contribution, he should have had the power. He shouldn’t have been shot.
With effort Chris tried to dredge up some feeling through the fog, if Robert wanted to have this conversation now, then they’d have it.
“You fired a gun you’d got off the dark web, Robert. What were you expecting?” At his own words, Chris’ anger grew, still muffled, still disjointed, but there.
“If the barrel isn’t blocked it’s illegal and a blank does not necessarily mean safe, as I think we’ve proven.”
Robert flinched back, eyes fixed on Chris’ shoulder. At what he’d inflicted. Good. It wasn’t bad now, hidden by bandages. But once they were gone, Chris was going to have to look at that scar everyday. He’d never be able to hide from the fact Robert had shot him. Robert didn’t get to hide from what he’d done.
And to think, Chris had thought the coup would be the worst Robert would ever do to him.
A hand pulled Chris’ hand away, he forced his still stinging eyes open and saw the blur of Annie. She pressed into his shoulder, hard and painful. He didn’t want it to hurt more.
“No,” he said, if she kept pressing he felt like he was going to vomit. He couldn’t do that, it would look weak. Annie pressed harder.
He could hear yelling and then one voice rose above the others, angry and loud in a way it rarely was.
“What the fuck, Robert?”
That was Trevor, yelling. There was a spitting fury in his voice that Chris had never heard from him before.
Robert made a noise of pain and Chris tried to look. His vision went white as pain thudded through his body, spinning and distorting and growing .
“I didn’t think it’d do this. Chris, I didn’t want you to get hurt.” Robert’s voice was pleading.
“You tear gassed me twice, Robert” Chris reminded him, because that was deliberate even if the gun had been accidental.
A few inches to the left and he’d have killed him. Bang and no more Chris. it’d almost have been easier. Dying at the end of his contribution would have been a fitting end to the mess he’d made of everything.
It was an accident. The gun had to have been accidental.
Please.
“Come on Chris, that doesn’t count. It doesn’t hurt that much, it just makes you cry. Are you too weak for a bit of pain to add some realism?”
That was Robert’s problem, he was lazy. He never moved past his initial assumptions or did research and always assumed he knew best. It made him an incredibly difficult actor to manage, everything became a battle with him.
“It’s not a bit of pain, it really hurts,” Chris said, tired.
To his credit, Robert looked surprised, “really?”
“Yes really.”
“Oh”
“If you had done this to anyone else, I’d have to seriously consider throwing you out.” Chris informed him.
He was the director, he had a duty of care to his actors. If he thought for a moment there was a chance of Robert maliciously endangering any of them, he had a duty to remove him. No matter the former friendship between them.
If he was wrong. If Robert shot any of the others it’d be his fault. That’s why he needed Robert to understand that this could never happen again.
That seemed to stop Robert in his tracks. He froze, looking at Chris’ face as if searching for sincerity. He’d find it, Chris meant every word.
“You’d throw me out if I’d done this to anyone else?” Robert asked. There was something strange about the way he said it, but Chris couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Yes,” Chris did, he meant it.
“Chris, I didn’t mean it. You have to believe it was an accident.”
Chris did. It was an accident, he’d recover. If this had been anything else, any other injury he wouldn’t be so caught up on it. But Robert shouldn’t have even had a gun. If he’d been carrying it around for every performance then it was a miracle no-one had been shot before.
“Why even carry a gun in the first place?” Chris asked, grey and tired again, “It’s just asking for an accident to happen.”
“I don’t always have it!” Robert said, indignantly.
“That’s not what you said on stage,” Chris knows because it felt like every moment leading up to the end of the ballet was on repeat in his head every time he stopped to think. What could he have done differently? How could he have stopped himself getting shot? How could he have stopped their chances for funding from disappearing?
It was exhausting.
He wanted to forget.
He wanted to remember.
“Yes, well. I mainly had it because I knew it’d wind you up.”
That was such a pettily stupid reason. It made perfect sense for Robert. Christ, only Robert would think it was worth spending money on an illegal gun just because he knew that Chris would object to its presence was in any way a good idea.
“Look, in my defence, it clearly worked!” Robert tried for what was probably meant to be a winning grin. It pulled oddly at the purpling bruise, and fell flat and forced.
That was a terrible defence: “And then you shot me!”
It was the first time he’d said it out loud. Robert had shot him. It made it real. Oh Christ, this was reality. If Chris still had emotions, he felt he’d be blinking back tears.
“I’m not saying mistakes weren’t made, I just hadn’t expected you to-” Robert gestured at Chris’ bad shoulder, “suddenly appear.”
“It was in the script!” Then again, it was even odds this series if Robert had even read it.
“You’d missed your cue, it startled me!”
“Oh, so it’s my fault?” Chris wanted to leave. He wanted to stay. He didn’t want to be having this conversation. He wanted this to have never happened. He wanted to hurt Robert and see how he liked the quiet, muted world of numb disbelief where the only thing that felt real was the fiery pain. He didn’t know what he wanted. He wanted it all to stop. It felt like everything had stopped the moment Robert shot him, that he was still in that moment. That he was never going to leave that moment.
Maybe he should have never left that moment.
“Chekov’s gun.”
it hurts
Robert looked alarmed, “I didn’t say that-”
“Chekov’s gun.”
Robert wouldn’t
“-you didn’t have to!” Chris took a calming breath in, his shoulder was agony, “Christ Robert, do you have any idea how much of a mess you’ve made?”
“Chekov’s gun.”
red on green. complementary colours are such an eyesore
“I don’t think I was solely responsible for-”
Because God forbid Robert ever take responsibility for anything. No, that was always someone else's problem.
“Chekov’s gun.”
Robert had he had he had he had and it hurts
“You tear gassed me, on live TV. You shot me, on live TV. You admitted to fraud, also on-”
“Chekov’s gun.”
Annie pressing on his shoulder, voice shaking as she tries to keep calm
“I wouldn’t call it fraud, you gave me the money, Chris.”
“Chekov’s gun.”
blood is a nightmare to get out of wool
“I gave you the money for insurance; did you spend it on insurance?”
“Chekov’s gun.”
Annie’s there but he wants Trevor, he hurts and he’s greedy because Trevor has better things to do and Annie’s already here.
“Not exactly”
“Chekov’s gun.”
why Robert why, what did he do
“Then that was fraud Robert, which you confessed to on broadcast. Congratulations, you’ve managed to top your shoplifting escapade. I hope you’re prepared for the consequences.”
“Chekov’s gun.”
the costume is soiled with his blood, the ballet is soiled with his blood. he wants to bin the costume. he doesn’t
“You said you weren’t chucking me out! I’ve already been tossed out of the youth group.”
“Chekov’s gun.”
Trevor is there and Annie is there. they are touching his shoulder and it hurts and he wants them to stop.
“I’m talking about prison! Which is what happens when you’re stupid enough to commit multiple crimes on live TV.”
“Chekov’s gun.”
it wasn’t an accident
There was a terrible pause. From the look on Robert’s face he hadn’t considered this outcome.
“How do we get out of this?” Robert had lost most of his earlier defensiveness.
“Chekov’s gun.”
he can’t need surgery, not for something Robert has done.
Chris didn’t really have much of a choice here. There was only so much he could do to defend Robert, even if he wanted to, without implicating the rest of the company in Robert’s actions. And he couldn’t justify putting Robert before the Drama Society, not when it was his own fault.
“Chekov’s gun.”
voices everywhere and he can't focus. he's the director, he should be more cognizant
“I don’t think I can stop it. And even if I could, why should I? You shot me, you stole from us, you’ve been swindling the rest of the company.”
“Chekov’s gun.”
Annie’s voice shakes. Trevor yells. Max is crying. Jonathan sounds panicked. Sandra screams. Robert argues. he can’t hear Vanessa or Dennis.
“I’ve never swindled them,” Robert stepped forward. For the first time in the conversation, his features were twisted in genuine ire.
Robert was much bigger than him. Chris hadn’t really noticed before and now it was all he could think of. The heartbeat in his shoulder sped up.
“Chekov’s gun.”
“Chekov’s gun.”
“Chekov’s gun.”
“Chekov’s gun.”
He let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.
“You’ve been charging Vanessa £200 an hour to invent some hogwash.”
Chris should be angry about this. It was the decent thing to be when a friend someone he had a responsibility to had been ripped off. He’d been so proud of Vanessa when she’d confided in him that she was seeing a Life-Coach. Self-improvement wasn’t easy. And it was Robert all along, taking advantage. It should make Chris furious.
“She agreed to that price.” Robert clearly knew he was in the wrong, that was his excuse-making tone.
Irritation pierced through muffled feelings; dull, muffled grey bubbled away to the harsh, hot anger that coursed through him. The contrast was dizzying and Chris just snapped.
“Yes, because she trusted you and you exploited that. Like you always do. You’re parasitic. You wanted money and you conned it off her. You leech off everyone for everything. You're incapable of forming any sort of friendship which you don’t exploit. If you want anything, you get someone else to do the work for you. Money? Oh, just take it from Vanessa or just directly from the show’s budget. You need a place to stay? Just take advantage of Dennis’ goodwill.”
Vaguely, he was aware he was being unfair, that Robert dupping Vanessa and living with Dennis were a world apart. He knew that he was pleased that Robert had accepted the help he needed from Dennis that he wouldn’t from Chris. He knew that Robert could be proud and was not good at accepting help when he actually needed it.
He knew he would regret this comment.
But now, Chris was just viciously pleased to see Robert flinch, to see the shame and hurt on his face. To see that the comment had hit home and hurt.
Good.
“Chris I-”
The energy drained from Chris leaving him a pathetic, empty husk of a coward. His shoulder hurt. He wanted to go home and hide until everything started to make sense again. But they had a show to prepare for. He had a mess to clean up.
“Just tell me you still have the money.” Chris could hear the weariness in his own voice, he’d need to watch for that in his meetings.
“Most of it, why?”
“Being able to return it might make it easier to persuade the BBC not to press formal charges.” It wasn’t a guarantee, but it was better than nothing.
He had a duty to Robert. Robert’s actions were disgraceful but Chris didn’t want him imprisoned for them. By all rights he should be, but if there was anyone who’d get off scot-free; it was Robert.
However, Chris had no intention of letting Robert escape without any consequences; as soon as he was less terminally exhausted he was going to brainstorm every acting exercise Robert hates, every backstage task he finds dull and every role he’d despise. Robert was going to regret stealing from them in the coming months.
“Really?”
“I promise nothing.” Chris turned towards the door, ignoring the twisting, sickening unease of not being able to see Robert.
“Is that it then, Chris? You’re just walking away?” There was a note of anger in Robert’s voice, but Chris didn’t have the energy to decipher it further.
“I’m tired. I have meetings. I don’t know what it is you want from me anymore, Robert.”
Chris reached with his left arm, his good arm, to the door handle.
“Chris,” Robert said, his voice subdued, “I’m sorry.”
Chris didn’t turn around to see his face.
Robert was sorry. There was no dramatics about his statement, no excuses. It was sincere in the way Robert rarely got, a soft vulnerability that he usually covered with boisterousness. He meant it.
And Chris would need to accept that apology. That’s what they did. Accidents happened, things went wrong and they moved past them. They’d all forgiven him for his attempted abandonment, even though they shouldn’t have. He should forgive Robert this. It was an accident. It wasn’t a big deal.
He would forgive Robert, just not today, not yet. He was too tired, in too much pain and too selfish.
“I know,” he said, still looking determinedly at the door.
And Chris opened the door.