Archive of Our Own ^beta

Christopher Bean was dead to begin with. There was no doubt whatsoever about that. His little limbs had stilled, his lungs had frozen behind one last gasping breath, and his little heart had ceased its relentless beat.

Christopher Bean had died. The tragedy of his death- for it is always a tragedy when one so young exits this stage we call life- went unremarked upon by all who should have been called upon to notice: parents, teachers and most especially the boy himself. But there was no doubt whatsoever that Christopher Bean was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing that follows below will seem at all remarkable to you. 

Chris Bean was dead. Years later; he joined an amateur dramatics society.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m here; you can now begin!”

Chris hadn’t been worried. To be worried about Robert not being on time for rehearsal would imply that Robert was in the habit of being punctual for most rehearsals. Which he wasn’t. Chris was not going to miss acting with amateurs, who couldn’t even be bothered to show up on time.

The addition of Robert was, if anything, an inconvenience. His presence was loud and Chris’ head protested loudly. He regretted not bringing sunglasses to shield his eyes from the lights, but doing so would have meant admitting his head hurt and he was not going to give anyone the satisfaction. Besides, it was his own fault.

Chris rubbed the side of his head, hoping to shake the horrendous headache, “take a seat, Robert. We’re just waiting on Trevor-”

“Oh, isn’t he running a bit late,” said Robert, ever the hypocrite, making a show of looking at his watch.

“He’s not late, he’s just in the middle of an important phone call ,” Chris stressed the last three words, mindful of the students present who were helping out with the shows without being part of the Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society proper.

They’d had very few changes to the regular roster of members in the last five years, and following the revelations after Peter Pan five months ago, Chris was hoping that wouldn’t change.

“A phone call?!” Robert said, much louder than absolutely necessary.

Chris’ head pounded. A sweaty, dry pain that split into his eyes and the rotten taste of his mouth. God, his head was killing him. 

… there was an idea. If he died, then it’d at least give him a bit of respite from this relentless throbbing. And better yet, might stop it all together; death had a remarkably numbing effect on aches and pains- though it often introduced new ones.

But he couldn’t; there was too much to do today and Chris needed to be in the right frame of mind for it, not recently deceased.

Chris grit his teeth, “yes, a phone call.”

Chris raised his eyebrows meaningfully and tilted his head slightly towards the temporary backstage crew.

Robert’s eyes went wide with understanding, “oh yes, a Phone Call. A perfectly normal phone call that is absolutely vital for our rehearsal of…..”

Robert leant over Chris’ shoulder to gaze at the papers in front of him, body warm against Chris’ shoulder.

“... Nicholas Nickleby. ”

Chris didn’t sigh. It was a struggle. Robert was meant to be an actor for Christ’s sake; he shouldn’t be so obvious. But then, lack of subtlety was a big problem in Robert’s acting. It was certainly why Chris had given him less and less important roles over the years. Not that Chris had a boundless amount of other talent to choose from.

Robert picked up the decoy script, and clapped Chris heartily on the shoulder. Chris closed his eyes and swallowed down the nausea as the pounding in his head intensified. God let the paracetamol kick in soon. Please.

“Oh, and how’s the birthday boy this morning?” Robert asked, and Chris felt the warmth of Robert leave his side as his attention turned to Dennis.

Dennis looked as rough as Chris felt, although Chris couldn’t remember if Dennis had been drinking particularly hard last night. Then again, Chris only had vague blurry memories of the night himself. 

The warmth of Trevor against his body as they danced. Robert grumbling at him as he hauled Chris through the streets, Trevor steady at his side. Although in the light of sobriety, Robert’s complaints were probably not as unreasonable as it had seemed last night. Chris was fairly sure he’d been unnecessarily belligerent. 

Chris’ foggy memories suggested that Trevor and Robert were the reason he’d woken up in his bed and not on the floor of the Student Union having asphyxiated on his own vomit. Not that that would have been anything more than an embarrassing inconvenience. It wasn’t as though Chris was in any danger of staying dead after all. But it would have been awkward to explain if it’d happened outside his flat.

Chris should probably thank the pair of them profusely for saving him from that particular indignity. But that would require acknowledging that last night happened at all. Pretending that Chris hadn’t gotten completely, unprofessionally plastered at Dennis’ birthday party was the only way Chris could maintain even a semblance of his dignity and authority.

He’d need to do better in the future. Such excess may be unremarkable in a university environment, but Chris was moving up in his career.

Finally.

Chris wondered who’d become the director after him. Annie, maybe? She could do with a bit more experience acting, but she was one of the more levelheaded of Chris’ actors and had become a lot more assertive over the past few years. Sandra had the confidence to succeed, but would struggle to see past her own performance. Robert? Chris felt like that would just be asking for trouble, but then it wouldn’t be his problem anymore. An outsider? He didn’t like the idea of a stranger stepping into his role. Then again, it wouldn’t be his role for much longer. He was relinquishing it. Moving onto better and brighter things. Just like he deserved.

Just like he wanted.

A stranger for director would be a bad idea though; in regards to keeping their undying state a secret. 

Chris would never be able to fully forgive himself for not realising that the rest of the society- that his actors and his Trevor- didn’t heal as fast as he did. How many times had he been negligent and made them perform on slow-healing injuries. Even worse- he’d been so negligent that they’d died. Annie hadn’t had a pulse. Her pulse had stopped that night and Chris would have carried on not realising that she had died if Annie hadn’t noticed.

What else had he missed?

He’d looked back at all the signs he’d failed to notice that he healed abnormally fast in comparison. But for the life of him he couldn’t pinpoint a time he’d been different with any certainty. Bruises had seemed to last longer when he was a child, but if he’d thought about it at all before last Christmas he’d put it down to a child’s perception of time. Unpleasant things always seemed to last forever when you were young, of course him being hurt would seem stretched out, warped in his memories. Maybe it had taken just as long as it seemed. Maybe it hadn’t, and it was the warped perception of a child. There was no way of knowing for certain when injuries had stopped lingering. When it was he had died.

But he did know when the others had died. That information was seared into his brain, for everyone except Sandra now. He couldn’t let anything slip by him again, he may only be the director for seven more months, but for the time remaining he was still the director and they were his responsibility.

But who they chose next wasn’t his concern. He was moving on; moving up. A Christmas Carol would be his last performance with this group of amateurs.

He should tell them, share the good news. They’d be pleased on his behalf he knew. And the ill concealed jealousy on Robert’s face should be exceedingly entertaining.

But there was no point in telling anyone until they were all here, Trevor was still on the phone, concealed somewhere out of earshot and working on securing their entry into the BBC.

“Chris, can you come and have a look at these stage directions?” Annie asked, with a great deal more subtlety than Robert had ever managed.

Chris nodded, his headache bursting into shards of painful colour, and followed Annie away from the rest of the group.

“Costume list for you-know-what came through,” whispered Annie handing Chris some paper.

Chris flicked through, “this is… more extensive than I was expecting.”

“Yeah, well they’ve got a lot more actors, haven’t they?” Annie said.

Chris hummed an agreement. He’d need to go through the script and split the parts, and figure out timings for costume changes. They’d need more background characters- ‘extras’- than they usually did if it was a stage performance. But it should be doable. 

When the parts were handed out Robert was going to be disappointed. He’d been angling to be Scrooge. Chris had considered giving it to him; he’d not had a particularly large part in Peter Pan , although he had screwed up the leading part quite spectacularly last month, so Chris had been torn. But now Chris’ future depended on being Scrooge. Robert was just going to have to cope with being the Ghost of Christmas-Yet-to-Come. It was still fair; Robert would have other chances at the lead role, this was Chris’ last performance. His most important performance.

This performance would launch Chris’ career. Chris had stopped believing any performance with the society would affect his career (except perhaps, negatively) not long after his directorial debut. But now, everything would change.

He couldn’t wait.

“I’ll have a look and work something out,” Chris said, “thank you, Annie.”

He’d need to glance over this again once the throbbing in his head had abated. It needed his attention, it needed to be perfect. This was his last performance. His new start.

Chris shuddered at the thought of acting with people who didn’t just get back up after a set collapse, or a prop breakage. People who didn’t heal like he did. But it would be fine, he reminded himself sternly. He wouldn’t be the director so they’d be fine.  He needed to grow up, stop worrying and move on. This was a university society; it was only meant to be temporary.

Annie grinned, conspiratorially, “it’s a bit exciting, isn't it? I don’t know how we’re gonna beat this next year.” 

This was it, the moment Chris could slip his good news into the conversation. He opened his mouth to respond, took a steadying breath in, and hesitated- waiting for the right words to come.

“Yes, about that-”

“Sorry about that,” Trevor entered the room, “important call.”

Chris scanned his face looking for signs that he’d been successful. He didn’t seem disappointed or frustrated, and Trevor wasn’t an actor like the rest of them. Chris’ gaze dropped lower, drawn inevitably to Trevor’s neck. Trevor’s intact neck. Not broken, not at an awful odd angle that Chris couldn’t purge from his head. He was fine. He was alive. He’d always be alive. No thanks to Chris.

Trevor leant in close as he passed Chris, breathing words into his ear, “I’ve sorted it, I’ll tell you later, mate.”

Chris didn’t react to the murmur. 

“No bother, we were just about to begin,” Chris clapped his hands together twice, grabbing everyone’s attention, “if everyone could find a seat, we’ve got a busy evening planned.”

And an even busier after-meeting, once they were down to the core group, when they began to properly plan their studio hijack.

There was the bustle of chairs being dragged into place.

“What were you gonna say, Chris?” Annie asked, picking up a chair.

“It doesn’t matter.”

There’d be time to tell them later. It would probably be best if the initial rehearsals went as complication free as possible.

It’d been a month, and Chris really needed to tell the others about the advert. And he would, just as soon as he’d finished this scene.

“Our contact is an old one, made when we were both poor,” Sandra said, gazing soulfully into Max’s eyes.

“I can change,” Max said, grinning stupidly back at Sandra.

“You are changed-”

“Max,” Chris couldn’t let him continue like this, “stop grinning- she’s breaking off your engagement, act sad.”

“Oh, oh right,” Max stopped smiling.

“Right,” said Chris, hoping they would finish this scene sometime today, “from the top.”

Sandra gazed at Max sadly, “I’m sorry Ebenezer. We cannot be together any longer.”

“Why, my love?” at the word ‘love’ Max broke into an inappropriate grin.

For Christ’s sake. Chris was beginning to regret his casting choices, clearly Max and Sandra were not well suited to play each other’s love interests. This is why intragroup relationships just complicated things.

“Fuck,” said Trevor.

Energy shot through Chris at the tone, instantly on alert for whatever new disaster had taken place.

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing?” said Trevor. The words didn’t sound very sure.

“Trevor,” Chris was keeping very calm, “What. Has. Happened?”

“Just give me a- no! Shit!”

There was a sudden whirring noise above- 

“Look out,” Max’s voice.

-and then a heavy crash from behind Chris.

Sandra screamed. Chris spun round, barely aware of the sound of footsteps as everything seemed oddly quiet. Sound was muted, cushioned as his heart beat in his ears and he tried to make sense of the scene in front of him.

Oh. 

Oh God.

Max, or his body, was under a lighting rig. It had struck him on the back, where he’d clearly been trying to push Sandra out the way. He was still. Still in a way that was wrong on Max. Still in a way that was wrong with the amount of blood coating the stage, splattered on the metal, on Sandra.

“Max, Max,” Sandra sobbed.

“Sandra, Sandra, look at me,” Chris said urgently, crouching next to her, “Max is going to be fine, you know he’ll be fine.”

Chris could hear the commotion as the rest arrived, but Sandra was what mattered. Not all of the blood was from Max.

“He-he-he’s gone,” Sandra said, choking through the blood in her mouth. Her blood.

“Annie,” Chris called, without looking away. Sandra was hurt, badly. Dying. Annie was the first aider. She could help. And she was Sandra’s closest friend in the group, the best person to support her as she… passed.

Oh God.

Chris didn’t want to touch her. Didn’t want to make it worse. He needed to stay calm for her, “not forever, give him a few minutes and he’ll be back, grinning through scenes again.” 

Sandra laughed. The blood in her mouth bubbled and she choked, convulsing. Chris didn’t know what to do. Why didn’t he know? What sort of director was he if- But Annie was there, moving to Sandra and rolling her over. Sandra coughed and choked and then shuddered into awful stillness.

Chris watched Annie place two fingers on Sandra’s neck and leant over her mouth, listening for breathing.

“Chris. Should I do CPR?” Annie asked.

Sandra had never died before. She’d started healing from bruises and burns faster six months ago, like the rest of them, so she should come back. But Chris couldn’t shake the fear that she wouldn’t. That she’d be the exception, and would stay gone. She was the last of them to die. The final failure in Chris’ coffin. What if she stayed dead? 

“Do it,” Chris said.

“One, two, three, four, five-”

Chris watched Annie’s movements, memorising, preparing to take over. Should they call an ambulance? But if Sandra came back…

“-ten, eleven, twelve-”

“Steady, steady,” Trevor’s voice.

“Nearly there.”

“It’s heavy.”

“-twenty, twenty-one-”

The lightning rig hit the floor, Max was no longer pressed underneath it. Chris glanced at the body in Jonathan’s arms. Still dead.

“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine-”

And Chris saw Trevor, pale and guilty. But not bloody. Not like Sandra, not like Max. He’d said it was nothing. This wasn’t nothing. This could have killed someone. It had killed someone. It had killed both of them.

Chris’ ears were ringing, he could no longer hear Annie’s counting. He could smell the blood- Sandra and Max’s blood- and his own blood was pounding and he was on his feet and in Trevor’s space, one bloody hand twisted in Trevor’s t-shirt tight enough that he could feel his fingers creak.

“What the hell were you doing?” the words tore out his throat. He couldn’t hear them over the dizzy pounding of his ears.

Trevor opened his mouth, looking lost and pale and shocky. No words came out. Chris wanted to reassure him, to remove the horrified look from his face. Chris wanted to shake him, until the reason he’d done what he’d done- the reason Sandra and Max were dead- fell out. He wanted Trevor to take the last few minutes back, to give them a proper warning. He wanted to never see Trevor’s face again. He wanted Trevor to be unaffected, to tell Chris that this was nothing and that it was going to be okay. 

“Chris,” said Annie from behind him.

She wasn’t counting.

Chris’ legs felt like they could barely hold his weight, like he’d just freed them from the crushing weight of a wardrobe and the blood was just rushing back. He was too light, ill connected to his body and if it wasn’t for the grip he still had on Trevor he wasn’t sure he’d still be upright.

The fury fled in exhaustion as behind him, Sandra breathed once more.

“Hold on,” said Sandra, checking around her to see if anyone would overhear.

She was in the clear to ask,  “and you’ll remember the ring?”

From the other end of the phone her Auntie sighed almost indulgently, “yes dear, I’ll remember the ring.”

“Thank you,” said Sandra, glancing across the room to where Max was going through lines with Jonathan. 

“You’re welcome,” said Auntie Diana. Sandra could hear muffled voices on her end of the phone, “sorry, love, they’re ready for me- I’ll see you on Sunday, goodbye.”

“Bye,” said Sandra. 

And then the line went dead. Across the room Max had a proud smile on his face as he watched Jonathan laugh at whatever Max had just said.

It made Sandra’s heart feel warm watching them. God she loved him. She wanted to marry him. It was getting more and more difficult to not blurt out the question, but it had to be perfect. She only had a month left, a month more before she could casually say ‘this is why I’m marrying you’ when Max pulled a face like that.

It had only been a year, but it felt right. It felt real . She couldn’t find the right words, but everything seemed easy when she was with Max. He made it so easy to love him, and she’d never been surer about anything than about wanting to spend forever with him. 

She was going to grow old with him ( if they got old, which presumably they did because Chris had grown up). She’d grown past the stage of wanting to be boyfriend and girlfriend. She wanted to introduce him as her fiancé and later her husband. A grown-up relationship. The start of the rest of her life; she couldn’t stay in uni forever.

She hadn’t felt this way with Jonathan. She loved him dearly, but she’d never wanted to tie her life to him. It'd been fun, and then it had been over just as they’d started to settle into something more serious. 

Max was different, every corny bit of romance dialogue she’d ever had to recite made sense if she thought of Max as she said it. Although Chris had yet to comment on her improvement in rehearsals.

Max noticed her looking, and his smile got impossibly bigger. His eyes seemed to light up, and she felt like she was the most important and beautiful thing he’d ever seen. She loved him.

She couldn’t wait to ask him, to share that Max was hers forever with the rest of CPDS. With their audience. It seemed only right since they’d had such a large audience to the beginning of her and Max’s relationship, that they shared this important step with the world too.

Max waved her over, Sandra smiled back and went to him. 

“My Aunt will be there,” Sandra told Chris as she passed him.

“Oh good,” said Chris, looking up from where he and Trevor appeared to be pouring over a building schematic, “I can discuss the details after I finish this, could you have a quick run through of the Belle scene with Max until then, please?”

Chris had never exactly been a hands-off director, but this level of micromanaging was getting a bit ridiculous. You’d think that he’d be less concerned now they didn’t have to worry about getting hurt- not that Chris had ever seemed overly bothered about injuries before.

He needed to take a step back; he looked exhausted, and it was getting on Sandra’s nerves. She knew it wasn’t easy since the last time they’d done a televised show two of them had died, but the rest of them were coping. And at least this time they’d know that any accidental death wouldn’t be permanent.

That didn’t make dying pleasant though. Sandra had only died once, six months ago, and she’d known as it was happening that she’d be fine. She hadn’t been prepared for how much it would hurt though, for how frightened she’d be. She tried not to think about it, and was still as careful with her life as she had been before last Christmas. She wasn’t keen on repeating it. Unlike some people; she was sensible. Chris was spectacularly bad at not dying, but in fairness Sandra supposed he didn’t have a lot of practice. He’d died at least five times by Sandra’s count in the last eleven months now she knew what to look for. She wished he wouldn’t, if nothing else because it was ten times more difficult to get anything done when Chris was dazed from a recent resurrection.

“Can do,” said Sandra, making her way past where Dennis was running through lines with Annie and Robert towards Max. From the sounds of it they’d reached a section of script where Dennis didn’t have much to say, so it was going pretty smoothly.

“Don’t be cross, Uncle. Say you’ll come and dine with us tomorrow,” Annie looked pleadingly at Robert.

Robert shook his head and held up a hand to stop her. 

“No Francis, I shall spend Christmas alone,” Robert placed an odd dramatic emphasis on the word alone, before moving his head to clutch at his heart, “kindly keep Christmas in your own way and let me keep it in mine!”

“Keep it? But you don’t keep it!”

Robert threw both his arms up in the air, stance wide, “let me leave it alone, then!”

“No, you can’t play him like that, that’s too loud,” Chris had clearly reached the end of his tether.

Robert was instantly defensive, “he’s irritated, I’m being irritated.”

Chris’ criticism had to particularly sting. It had looked like Scrooge would be Robert’s part for a fair bit of the early planning process, which would have been fair enough since he’d had such a small role for their last television appearance. But he’d had months now to come to terms with Chris being Scrooge instead.

“Yes, he’s irritated, but that needs to be portrayed subtly. Scrooge needs to be in control. He might snap, but not in an over dramatic way.”

Robert poked a finger into Chris’ chest, “overdramatic?! I’ll show you over dramatic!”

Robert reached down and grabbed the pair of poles that Trevor had yet to paint green, he threw one at Chris in a gentle lob.

“Ow,” Chris said, catching the pole automatically with one hand and the other came up to rub at his head where the pole had struck.

“En Garde!” Robert said in his most dramatic voice, waving his pole threateningly towards Chris.

Oh for God's sake, not again. Chris and Robert had always been competitive, but this past year had gotten out of control. Everything now needed to be a competition and they were no longer limiting themselves to bickering. Shoving that degenerated into wrestling, although admittedly Chris was never keen to start a test of strength against Robert- but he gave as good as he got. August had been a month-long competition in tripping each other up, and neither of them would concede an inch. It was like working with a pair of children; there was something almost playful about the violence. Trading bruises that would fade within hours where they used to exchange words.

“No, no, for Christ’s sake Robert. I don’t have time!” Despite his protests Chris didn’t back away. He never did.

“Are you giving up Chris? Because you know I would win,” Robert was advancing steadily.

“No you wouldn’t,” Chris raised his own pole and blocked Robert’s with a ringing clang.

“Prove it!”

And they were off. A month until their TV performance and they were wasting it on childish games. Wasting everyone’s time. Because everyone had stopped to watch. Sandra smiled as Max joined her for a better view. He took her hand.

Robert grunted as Chris’ pole struck his upper arm. Chris took a step back.

“How are you?” Sandra asked Max, choosing to ignore Chris’ yelp and Robert’s triumphant shout.

“I’m good, and you? How was your Aunt?” Max asked.

Sandra tuned out the sounds of Chris accusing Robert of cheating and further clanging blows and focused on not thinking about the engagement ring. It wouldn’t do to spoil the surprise. 

“She’s busy, but doing well, and she’ll be there for the show.”

“Fantastic,” said Max, shooting her a wide grin, before turning his attention back to the fight.

Sandra watched Max’s face. With everyone watching Chris and Robert, no one would be watching her. What would Max’s face look like as she pulled out the ring? Would he be as excited as she was at the prospect of forever? At the idea of being taken more seriously, a fiancé rather than a theatre fling. A grown up relationship.

Christmas couldn’t come soon enough.

There was a loud crack, and a choked off sound of pain that Sandra immediately recognised as Chris’. And Max winced in empathetic concern.

Sandra turned back to the two would-be duellists as a pole hit the ground. They had stopped, frozen in position. Chris clutching his wrist and Robert, pole pointed down, looking guilty.

“Chris, I didn’t mean…. I thought you were going to dodge,” Sandra heard Robert say as she approached. 

“It’s fine,” Chris sounded like he was speaking through gritted teeth, “this wasn’t exactly an unforeseeable outcome, I knew the risks. I told you this was a bad idea, but I can,” he hissed, “deal with the consequences.”

“Keep it still, Chris,” Annie said sharply, from behind Sandra.

Sandra felt herself wince when she saw Chris’ wrist properly. Dark purpling bruises painted over the wrongness of the alignment of Chris’ wrist. It wasn’t quite at an angle, but it wasn’t far off. It looked bad. And the contrast between the vivid bruises and Chris’ now pain paled skin made it look even worse.

“Max,” Sandra whispered, “get him a chair.”

This was the first time one of his and Robert’s games had ended in a more serious injury than mild bruising. It had only been a matter of time, she supposed.

“Here you go, Chris,” Max said, with forced cheer, helping Chris onto the chair.

Annie knelt at Chris’ side, “lets see.”

Robert looked pale too. So pale that Sandra was hit with the worry that Robert was going to faint. She should have gotten him a chair too. She made her way over and took his pole.

Sandra heard Chris hiss in a breath before his breathing quickened in pain, almost whimpering if it wasn’t Chris. Annie was holding his wrist.

“Usually with this sort of injury I’d take you to a hospital. But that’d probably raise some awkward questions when it’s gone in a week or two,” Annie said, “so I’m just going to try and make a splint to keep it still. Can someone bring me the script? Oh, and that tape there, Trevor. Ta.”

“Come on,” Sandra whispered to Robert as Annie wrapped a script around Chris’ wrist, “you need to sit down.”

She pulled Robert away and he stumbled after her, attention fully on Chris and Annie, as she led him to the nearest seat-like object. Robert half collapsed onto a Really Useful Box full of old props, which groaned under his weight.

“He’ll be fine,” Sandra said, more to feel vaguely useful than anything else. She wasn’t even sure that Robert was listening.

Max was though. 

“He will, he’s Chris,” Max said, taking Sandra’s hand. Just like he had five minutes ago. Just like he had so many times over the past eleven months. Just like he would so many times in the rest of their life together, just as soon as he’d said yes.

Sandra squeezed his hand back.

She couldn’t wait for Christmas.

The hiss of the spray painting quietened.

From the corner of his vision, Trevor pulled down his mask.

“Does that look like metal to you Chris?”

Chris took his finger off the button of his own can and glanced over at Trevor’s work.

He pulled down his own mask, “no, it looks green. Why does it look green?”

Trevor had already turned the bottle around, “fuck, someone’s put the wrong lid on these; this one’s green.”

Trevor glanced over Marley’s chains again and shrugged, “we could have mossy chains?”

“It’s much too bright a colour for that,” Chris said; it’d look ridiculous as part of Marley’s costume.

“Right,” said Trevor, who clearly hadn’t expected a different answer, “where is the grey?”

As Trevor searched through the remaining bottles of spray paint for a more suitable colour, Chris focused back on his own task.

He’d tell him about his big break once they were finished with this. It’d be best to tell Trevor first, and then he’d find time to tell the others.

Trevor would be pleased for him. Chris was pleased. He was.

Chris could hear a spray paint can being shaken behind him, as Trevor had presumably located the right colour.

It wasn’t followed by the hiss of paint.

“Is this empty?” Trevor sounded resignedly done with the day.

Chris sympathised.

Hssssssssss

“Ah fuck!” Trevor’s voice, sharp with pain accompanied the hiss of the spray paint.

Chris whirled around, gaze immediately going to Trevor’s neck. It was unbroken. Chris had a brief sight of Trevor, grey sprayed across his eyes, before Trevor clutched at them, blocking them from view.

“Annie,” Chris called, moving to Trevor, “we need first aid, please. No Trevor, just let me see.”

Chris coaxed Trevor’s arms away to examine the damage. Had the idiot been looking down the nozzle to see if it was blocked? 

Chris could hear Annie approaching; a first aider to control the situation, not that there was any danger of permanent damage. But even when she’d sorted Trevor out; it wasn’t the right time to confess his achievement. He’d tell them later.

And Chris was planning to tell them, he was. 

“What should I put you down for, Mr Scrooge?”

“Nothing!”

“You wish to be anonymous?”

“No Max. Just use your normal voice, not the Cockney accent.”

“Why not, it’s getting better.”

“It could hardly have gotten worse. No Cockney accent. And no Geordie or Scouse either- and that’s final!”

He would tell them, just when he was less busy.

“Chris, what are you doing about the Ghost of Christmas Present’s arrival?”

“What? He enters while Scrooge is in bed.”

“It’s just very underwhelming. It needs some more pizazz.”

“No it doesn’t, Robert.”

“I’ve got a friend who’ll give us a good discount on some fireworks.”

“We don’t need fireworks. The professionals weren’t planning on using fireworks.”

“Well ours would be better then! And how do you know, anyway?”

“Trevor said-”

“Oh! If Trevor said! Because Trevor has never gotten anything wrong.”

“If you’re not going to be helpful, Robert, then- Ow!”

He would have told them if things didn’t keep coming up.

“Chris, where should I put the thank you notes?”

“Sorry, the thank you notes?”

“For the actors we’re replacing, to say thanks for giving us their role?”

“Max, they’re not giving us their roles; we’re taking them. We don’t need to thank them.”

“It’d be polite.”

“No!”

“Ok…. What about an apology note?”

Chris’ nose felt heavy. Well, Scrooge’s nose felt heavy on Chris’ face. Usually Chris would enjoy the sensation; a way to get into character, a definition between Character and Actor. But he wasn’t thinking about Scrooge right now. He should be; right now all that should be on his mind was giving a good performance. Slipping into the role of Scrooge like the professional actor he’d very shortly be.

But instead he found himself watching the others. Watching Sandra pace as she talked into her phone. Watching Max pretending to be a dragon with the hot puffs of his breath in the cold winter air. Watching Lucy chatting with Annie. Was that Dennis reciting his lines?

It was an odd moment for introspection, standing outside a BBC studio's fire exit trying to look like they weren’t planning on breaking into a building they were very much banned from. But then the past several months had just flown by; leaving very little chance for Chris to stop and think about anything but his own ambitions. No chance to think about this. About the little things.

He was going to miss this. He was going to miss them. And they didn’t even know that this was his last performance with the Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society. He had thought about telling them, about sharing his good news. And they’d have been pleased on his behalf; he knew they would. A few of them would even be pleasingly envious. It could have been a celebration. But he hadn’t been able to mention it. He hadn’t found the time, or made the effort to tell them that Chris wanted to leave (and he did, he did). He just couldn’t find the words.

There hadn’t been a perfect moment to say it. Honestly, at first missing a few opportunities where he could have said “I’ve been offered an advert…” hadn’t seemed like a big deal. He had plenty of time to tell them. He’d had months and months. He didn’t now. He had minutes at most. Each month that had passed without him confiding in someone pressed the silence, pressed this terrible secret deeper in him. He’d said nothing and now time was running out: it was his last performance with them all and they didn’t know.

Chris really should have told them sooner. The latest he should have told them was definitely well before now. Well before they’d committed to this crime play. But if he had, would they have still gone through with it, knowing that Chris would benefit- that Chris would leave. (And did he even want them knowingly walking into his last play with them?) 

Chris couldn’t deny that there was a certain appeal to pretending that this was not his last performance. That didn’t stop him feeling like the worst sort of coward.

And he was a coward. Was he going to remain a coward till the end? He was running out of time. He couldn’t just disappear without a word. They had been five years of his life after all.

He couldn’t say anything now, not minutes before the performance after months of silence while Trevor wasn’t even here. That would be more selfish, he’d committed to his silence now, at least until the end of the play. He’d tell them then. Once he’d dealt with the police he’d tell them.

He’d tell them the good news. 

And it was good news. It was. This was everything that Chris had wanted. A chance to be a proper professional. A chance to be taken seriously. He’d always been working towards this and all that hard work, the literal sweat and blood (and apparently deaths), was about to pay off. Joining a drama society had been the first step. Becoming director was the second. And then Chris had stopped. He’d just stagnated. It was time to move on. It was time to grow up.

Chris’ phone buzzed. Trevor.

“Alright,” he called everyone to attention, “Trevor is on his way, does everyone remember the plan?”

He looked over them all as they nodded, feeling a burst of nostalgia for all the years they’d spent together. And then he made himself focus on the plan, on the performance. Everything depended on tonight. He was going to be an excellent Scrooge.

Robert passed him his wire and harness, and Chris mentally went through the route they’d need to take to get into position for subduing Jacobi. Robert would be a very useful partner in that endeavour; Chris knew from experience how good Robert was at manhandling. This would work, it’d go well; they’d be a success and then Chris could move on.

The fire exit opened and Trevor looked out.

“Quickly, get in,” said Trevor, “we don’t have long.”

Chris didn’t have time for any more doubts. It was showtime.

And so the show starts. Chris refuses to relinquish his role unless he is completely incapacitated, and Robert understands that he’d need to kill Chris to get him out of the way. But Chris Bean didn’t die. He changed the path he was on, staying with his actors, his friends above pursuing the idol of his own success.

Chris was as good as his word. He vowed to become as good a director, and as good a friend as he had it in him to be. Better, even! And with a group as uniquely talented as the Cornley Polytechnic Dramatic Society in every kind of misadventure, mishap and misfortune imaginable that was no small penance. But Chris had time, and infinite chances. He could not die; they could not die, there could be no mistake so great that they couldn’t try again.

Chris Bean was dead to begin with. And then he woke up, ready to try again.