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Greg was winding down on the sofa, most of the ice melted in his glass and most of the energy from the day drained away, leaving him a bit of a drowsy puddle staring through the television. He'd have to get to bed eventually, but he was replaying the events of the day in his head, worrying if he'd distributed points properly, if he was being too nice or too cruel this series. The first day of filming in the studio was always a bit difficult, getting the feel for the dynamics with the new cast and how The Taskmaster would handle them, and how the Assistant would attempt to handle The Taskmaster.
Greg's phone buzzed. A message from Alex. Picnic fare, I think, to start.
He cocked his head, considering. He thought back to the response he'd planned when he'd first gotten home, still full of energy and needing to move around the flat. He typed out his reply: Good start. Bright pink. Birds
Alex's reply was immediate. Is it the birds that are pink?
Greg smirked. Alex knew better. Feels like cheating to answer
Guess we'll see tomorrow
Choose wisely!
🔮
Greg didn't even know a crystal ball emoji was an option. So he left it there, hauled himself up from the couch, gulped down the last bit of watery scotch, and dragged himself to bed.
The first record for the day was done. Points awarded, a winner declared, then the agony of pickups and all the other minutia at the end of a shoot. The audience was thanked and dismissed, then notes from the crew and laughter with the cast and everyone corralled into a barely furnished room for a bite to eat before the second record. All laughter and teasing — it was only the third episode but already a rivalry had formed between the obvious top two, and words of playful encouragement were there for an obvious loser destined to be the people's champion. Reminiscing about the on-location shoots, theories on what they would have done in retrospect, and demands of answers from Alex who, as always, assured them that there was no right answer. Sometimes, when pressed, he'd tell you what he'd expected would be the winning strategy that he and Tim had thought up in a pub somewhere if it was funny enough, but it was rarely funnier than what the harried contestants managed on the day, hopped up on adrenaline and too much caffeine, the feeling oddly similar to the energy in the greenroom between shoots.
Then they were herded into their dressing rooms to change for the second record. In some ways it was the cruelest part of the day, for Greg at least, as he had no need to change from his preposterous suit, and he was given a few minutes to lounge on his couch, adrenaline dissipating through his system enough to leave him feeling just a bit distant and floaty, knowing that he'd go through it all again. Back to hair and makeup, back in character, back on stage to warm up a new crowd by embarrassing Alex—
A knock at the door, a formality before Alex pushed his way inside with a smile. Greg watched as he dropped onto the sofa near him and toed off his shoes in a way that had become almost a ritual, somehow, all these years in. Greg dropped his phone to the cushion and uncrossed his legs, inching his foot closer to Alex's. "I see what you mean about picnic fare. Should've guessed. You and your melon."
Alex wiggled his toes inside the colorful socks, full green watermelons and pink triangular slices, some with cheeky bites taken out, black dots of seeds between on a yellow field. "You went a bit route one," Alex nodded and Greg kicked his feet out in front fo him, pale blue socks with ridiculously long hotdogs spread across, buns and condiments included. "Still. Good thematic match. Complimentary colors. Four points, I'd say?"
It had started with an observation early on, how off-stage Greg and Alex were almost as different as their characters of Taskmaster and Assistant, with somebody noting that Alex had a preposterous wardrobe more fit for a toddler than a television producer, while Greg's ridiculousness was confined mostly to his sock collection. Alex had taken it almost as a challenge, and the game had developed organically over the years, informal rules hardened into this cryptic dance of clues the night before and useless points awarded between episodes, an attempt to keep the momentum, stay in character. Keep up the flirtation.
For one series they'd tried matching socks, but it hadn't felt right. They weren't looking for a perfect match, just something complimentary, a pair that just fit, regardless of how jarring they might be at first glance. Hotdog and watermelon.
"Solid four," Greg agreed.
"I'd like to give a bonus point for the innuendo, but I'm not sure if I'm reading it properly,"
Greg let out a surprised guffaw. "Read it however you like, Alex." He leaned over to the far end of the sofa. "I'll be impressed if you can squeeze any innuendo out of the next round." And he unfurled a pair of socks, aggressively pink with a variety of different colored parrots.
"Aah," Alex smiled, "I may have come prepared with my own subtle innuendo." He pulled a pair of socks from his jacket pocket. A paler pink with a pattern of black cats, jaguars, perhaps?
Greg cocked his head. "Not what I expected given the prompt. Is it a jungle theme you're after? The innuendo is perhaps a bit too subtle for my rattled brain."
Alex leaned down to peel off the first of his watermelon socks. "I've been trying to find a pair with pumas on them, but they seem to be thin on the ground."
Greg chuckled, working on his own socks. "You're right, that's a strained metaphor. Are you using my own catchphrase against me, suggesting that you'd be on my parrots like a puma-adjacent big cat?"
"Something like that." Alex pulled his non-puma socks up nice and tight, watching as Greg did the same with his birds.
"If you're not careful, Alex, I might think you were coming onto me. Then we'd see who's on who like a puma."
"Mmm." Alex's eyes went wide, trying to hide a smile behind his beard. Greg didn't bother trying to hide anything. He nudged Alex's knee with his own, then kicked his feet out in front of him again, urging Alex to do the same, and they regarded their socks for the second taping.
"Not the best effort, I'm afraid," Greg sighed. "Colors are maybe too similar. Theme is a bit heavy-handed and flipped the wrong way round. The Taskmaster would never let his Little Alex Horne think he was that much of a predator."
"We could swap?" Alex suggested as they dropped their feet to the floor.
"Absolutely not," Greg laughed.
Alex went into his other jacket pocket. "I cheated a bit, actually. Brought a backup. In case it was the birds that were pink." He pulled out a second pair, a brilliant variegated green with what was obviously meant to be kitschy lawn flamingos.
"Save those, I've got a great pair to go with them," Greg said. "We'll stick with the cats. I was going to say three points, but I think with the revelation that you gave yourself a window to cheat, I'll drop it down to two."
"Oh," Alex pouted.
"I might give some bonus points if you can find a way to earn the pumas, though."
Alex gave his cheekiest smile, and Greg was awash in a new wave of adrenaline, giggling into his hand and suddenly aware that the challenge would not go unanswered, and Alex was going to do something extremely foolish before the end of the night. Before Greg could open his mouth to try to reign him in, a member of the crew pounded on the door demanding he get into a makeup chair and to bring Alex with him. So they stepped into their shoes and made their way up the hall.
Greg had been expecting Alex's puma-worthy stunt in the warmup, maybe finally standing up for himself and refusing to do a silly dance for the audience, or somehow dragging Greg into his humiliation, but Alex showed no sign of backbone, much to the delight of the crowd. If anything he was more obsequious than usual during filming, causing Greg to be even crueler to him and making them both break more than then gallery was necessarily thrilled about.
So he chalked it up to Alex either forgetting or purposefully letting Greg stew in his own juices. The cast saw the audience off and thanked the crew and bickered amongst themselves. On their way through the halls to get ready to head home, three contestants consoled Greg about how many points he'd given for the prize task while a fourth vowed she'd seek revenge when he least suspected it and the last silently scowled at him until Greg had broken down in giggles on his way up the stairs. He tucked himself away in his dressing room, listening to laughter and squeals from the hallway as he haphazardly wiped the makeup from his face and stepped out of his ridiculous suit and into worn jeans and a jumper.
As he was tying up his trainers over the silly parrot socks, a knock sounded at the door. Nobody announced themselves, so he barked out a grumpy, Taskmastery, "Yes?" No answer. He finished with the laces and got up with a grunt, ready to give a nervous member of the crew the fright of their life. He threw the door open and had only the briefest moment to register that it was Alex who was pushing him into the room, both hands on Greg's chest until he was backed against the opposite wall, Alex leaning his weight into him to keep him pinned there.
Shock turned to a nervous giggle, and when he saw the smile creeping in around Alex's eyes while he tried to keep a straight face, Greg let out a howl of laughter. "Is this you thinking you're a puma, Alex?" he teased.
"Not yet," Alex said with a frown.
"Oh, no?" He quirked an eyebrow, taunting him, daring him. So in one motion, Alex stood on his toes and slid his hands up to Greg's shoulders for leverage, and kissed him. A bit route one, but Greg wasn't quite prepared to give out points, and instead settled his hands on Alex's waist to steady him as he smiled against his lips.
Alex, in full puma mode, was nothing if not persistent, a hand sliding into Greg's hair and their bodies pressed together, but Greg wasn't going to make it too easy. He relented after a moment, allowing his lips to be coaxed apart, and Alex waited a beat, two, too many, before sliding his tongue in for one quick sweep against Greg's before he retreated again, always the tease. Then he dropped down to his heels, gave Greg a pat on the shoulder, and turned to leave through the open door, calling, "See you tomorrow!" over his shoulder as he turned down the hallway, leaving Greg blinking at the empty doorway.
When Greg got home he puttered around a bit, opened up a beer, turned the television to something he could ignore, and found the correct pair of socks for the next day's filming. Halfway through the second beer, he pulled out his phone to text Alex. Camping equipment.
It took a couple of minutes to get a response. Is it caravans?
Greg smirked at the screen. Why would you guess that?
Goes with the flamingos you said you liked so much
Fine. Yes. Caravans.
There was a pause, and Greg assumed Alex was picking something out from his own extensive collection. Alex's reply wasn't what he'd expected. Did you buy them especially because of the show? Inspired by my caravan?
Greg rolled his eyes. Of course I did. Why else would anybody buy socks with caravans on them?
Somebody must have reasons or they wouldn't sell them? And then, seconds later, back to the game: Pigeons
Greg frowned at the screen for a moment, then groped for the remote and muted the television, the news report long forgotten. He pressed the button to call Alex.
"Hello, Greg," he said brightly before the first ring had finished.
"Seems to me, given today's theme," Greg said firmly and without preamble, "you might be offering yourself up to another figure of speech. Are you hoping I've got some cats of my own?"
He could almost hear Alex's smile in the brief silence. "Do what you like with my pigeons, Greg."
"You're a ridiculous man, Horne," Greg huffed.
"Thank you," Alex said in that way that made Greg want to throw things at him. "Thought you might like the power balance restored."
"So you're asking me to be a cat amongst your pigeons? Stir up some trouble for you?"
"Well, I can only do so much stirring."
Greg reached for his beer and then thought better of it. "I've got a serious question for you." Alex hummed. "Is anything ever not a game to you?"
Alex paused for only a moment. "Well. Things should be fun, shouldn't they. Are you not having fun?"
"More than I should be, probably," Greg said with a chuckle, earning one from Alex as well.
"Can I look forward to your cats, then, tomorrow?"
"Feels like cheating."
"So yes?" Alex asked hopefully.
"Yes of course!" Greg grunted with a laugh. "Oh, and you can have your fucking bonus points for your puma move."
"Thank you, Greg." He could hear Alex's simpering smirk.
"You're right to thank me for them, too," Greg said, slipping back into Taskmaster tones, "don't go thinking you'll win my favor that way, we both know you're more pigeon than puma."
"When it comes to you anyway," Alex agreed.
Greg frowned to himself. "I refuse to even contemplate who you're puma-ing over." Alex hummed noncommittally. "Get some sleep, my little shrew, I look forward to setting my cats loose amongst your pigeons tomorrow."
"Oh, me too," Alex said with a smile in his voice. "G'night, Greg."
"Good night, Alex." Call ended, Greg drained the last of his beer and wandered down the hall to find cat socks for the next day's taping.