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It’s a miracle you made it to the flat. You pray to god that Alex isn’t home — maybe even that nobody is home, as that would be better. Not for you, certainly, but for them. And really, they shouldn’t have to deal with you, trembling to pieces like a dog in a thunderstorm. And yet.
You’d managed to get the shaking down to a minimum, finding small ways to fidget to diffuse the sparks that shoot through every finger and toe. It will be enough, you think. It has to be.
It has to be — so you can finish this series and somehow continue to associate with the two of them.
You realize you’ve been at the flat door for awhile — your heart seizing at the soft monotone of Alex’s asinine inquiries overlaid with the hearty velvet guffaws of Greg’s enjoyment.
They had asked you to come for dinner — had seemed perhaps overly eager for your company — but it would be so simple to turn around. Simple as anything to walk back toward the tube and head back to your empty flat. Simple as cracking an egg into one’s mouth or stacking beer mats or —
Your fist is still poised to knock when the door swings open.
“I could hear you thinking out there,” Greg scowls, leaning against the doorframe as if casually berating the postman. “Were you ever going to knock or were you waiting for a task to slide out from under the door?”
The corner of his mouth gives him away quickly, creeping inexorably toward his cheek until both are round and tinged pink.
“Get in here, silly thing, the kettle is on and Alex is reorganizing his sock collection.”
Only one of these things is true, if the whistle of the kettle and lack of socks in the living room is any indication, but your sense of what is and what isn’t is shaky at best at the moment.
Greg’s large hands land on your shoulders like the snug restraints of a carnival ride, flexing in one short massage before he comes around to get a look at you.
“I do hope you were a good little lab rat and aced all your tasks today,” he manages to purr and growl simultaneously. “You know how cross I get when I see promise squandered.”
He lifts an effortless eyebrow, awaiting your reflexive chuckle at his recitation of Ivo’s phrase, but it doesn’t come. The eyebrow deflates, dragging the rest of Greg’s face down with it.
“Are you alright, darling?” One of his massive hands lands feather light on your cheek and it nearly sends you to your knees. “Did Alex run you ragged today, poor thing? Be honest — I can’t be lenient with him, it just makes him more insufferable.”
To your mortification you feel your eyes glaze over, Greg swimming like a road sign in the rain. Your hands are shaking in earnest again, clenching and unclenching at your sides like restless pistons.
“I…I….”
Greg puts his other hand to your other cheek, cradling your face with a gentleness only giants can achieve.
“Now, tell the Taskmaster what’s wrong, eh?”
His attempt at levity is what sends you hurtling over the edge, gasping in a hollow breath while your knees try to buckle.
“I’m — s—“ sorry, you try to choke out around a wave of hearty sobs, so fucking sorry. And you know he’s going to ask —
“Love — what’s happened? Why are you sorry?”
And it’s unbearable to try to define all the things — all the ways in which you are sorry. Apologetic for being here — on the show, in this flat, in their lives.
“Hey, hey,” Greg hushes, pulling your shaking body into his own, a shelter of blood and bone and brutal gentility. “It’s alright, darling, it’s alright, whatever it is, yeah?” His huge forearms box you in, draw you tight against his warm chest as his hands smooth over your shoulder blades and down your spine.
“Shh,” he hushes, stooping to tuck your head under his chin. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You’re safe, it’s alright.” He nuzzles at your temple, his warm breath soft and sweet in your ear like a big cat’s chuffing.
“Come on,” he eventually murmurs. “Come sit with me, yeah?” He draws back just enough to lace his fingers through yours to walk you to the expansive sectional sofa. He drops into the corner, his grip firm as he tries to coax you down with him. But you shake your head.
“I shouldn’t — I can’t —“ you stutter. I shouldn’t be here. I can’t do this.
“Breathe, love. Breathe for me.” He leans forward, laying his free hand on top of your linked ones. He prompts you with a deep breath of his own and your lungs seize to catch up. You let out what you managed to draw in alongside him, resisting the gasp that wants to draw all that anguish back in.
”That’s it, very good. You’re doing so well.”
You keep shivering and shaking and sipping air through your nose, all the while Greg looks up at you with a kindness you never fail to wonder at.
”Can you tell me what’s wrong, darling?,” he murmurs, running his thumb along your knuckles. “Take your time.”
How to explain….How to explain that the tasks were exciting and clever and silly — exactly what you’d hoped for if you somehow managed to live your wildest dreams and stumble onto the show. How to explain that, eventually, all of your little sloppy, stuttering missteps had begun to add up. That all of Alex’s “all the information is on the task”s and “did you read the full task?”s and “I can’t tell you that”s were adding up quickly, piling on top of you until even the “chase Alex” task felt like mandatory playtime at the Chuckle Factory. Alex’s goofy, gap-toothed smile and big cerulean eyes had looked back over his shoulder as he galloped across the yard and right then you realized this was all some sort of huge, cosmic mistake.
“I’m — terrible.” You choke, torn between scrubbing at your eyes or your nose. “I’m just awful.“ Greg’s eyebrows draw together, but he lets you continue. “I’m not — meant to be here. On the show — I’m not even bad, I’m just — stupid.”
And isn’t that just the crux of the thing — the thing you’d been running from all your life only to crash into it on the way. You’re simply not clever enough — not for school, not for your parents and certainly not Taskmaster. You’re not clever enough to be on a stage with people paying a pretty penny for tickets just to watch you bumble around like a house fly with a microphone. You’re just not that remarkable.
A sob rips through you as fresh hot tears spill over your cheeks. “I know I’m disappointing Alex and that you’ll — when you see —“
“Darling,” Greg starts, the softest warning ever bestowed, but you continue on.
“Why can’t I do anything right? I’m bad at everything else, I don’t know why I thought this would be any different. Alex is so clever, you’re both so —you should’ve never had me on the show.” You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut against the onslaught of Greg’s disappointment. There’s a pause before Greg calls out just loud enough to travel through the flat.
“Alex, love? Can you come in here please?”
You shake your head at Greg, a sudden need to flee sizzling up through your synapses.
“N-no please —“
”It’s just Alex, sweetheart. Itty bitty Alex Horne.”
The furry man with the tooth gap like the Grand Canyon peeks around the kitchen corner, three mugs balanced in his hands. But his smile quickly fades, eyebrows drawing together as he hustles to the living room.
“Oh! Hi! I didn’t know you were here! How lovely. After being trapped in the house with me all day, I thought you might not —“
You spin your head back around, but it’s clearly too late as you hear him deposit the mugs on the coffee table and let out a regretful hmmm.
”Is something — what’s wrong?”
You refuse to turn and fall into those endless eyes of his and so keep your gaze glued to Greg’s socked feet. They’re the ones with the little ducks on them.
He gives the barest suggestion of a tug and you let it bring you forward, down to curl up in Greg’s lap. It allows you to bury your head in his neck and hide away from the ceaseless curiosity of Alex Horne.
”Alex, tell me how our good little contestant did today.”
You hear yourself let out a pitiful whine, shaking your head against his skin.
“We’re not supposed to — to talk about the tasks.”
Greg smiles, brows quirking over his frames. “I think we can make an exception just this once, yeah?”
You hear another hmm at your back, the cushions shifting as Alex scoots close enough to touch.
”They did great! Fantastic, really. They did this one thing with custard that I thought was particularly clever —“
You feel the shaking start up in your limbs again, Greg’s palm sweeping over your back to soothe it.
”Is that so?”
”Mhm,” Alex confirms, and you swear you can feel his eager nodding like a bobble head on a dashboard. “Today was easily some of the most fun I’ve had doing tasks this series. I don’t want to seem biased but — “
Out of the corner of your eye you watch his finger inch across the cushion like a worm before it waves meekly at you.
“They really are so clever, aren’t they?”
”Mmmm,” Alex mumbles as if speaking around a mouthful of marmite. “Don’t tell the other contestants I told you this, but they had the fastest time on one of the tasks and solved another in such a unique way — none of the others even considered it. We might need to disqualify them, actually — they might be a mutant. Or a spy. A mutant spy infiltrating British game shows.”
Greg huffs a laugh against your ear making you shiver.
“So —“ Greg continues. “Would you say they’re a delight to have in class?”
”Certainly!” Alex squeaks, aiming for enthusiasm and landing firmly in mania.
“And you don’t regret having them on the show?”
That stops Alex for a moment, a pause echoing from his side of the couch. “Course not — why would I?”
Greg doesn’t answer and neither do you. Alex is clever — too clever — he’ll put the pieces together easy enough.
And you know he does because suddenly he is wedging himself into the corner, somehow fitting himself snugly between you and the crease of the cushions as if he could disappear into them. Those eyes like solar systems gaze into yours, unmistakably sad. “Do you think I don’t want you on the show?”
You don’t look away, but the tears spill over anyway.
Alex’s brows encroach toward one another as he lifts a thumb to run under your eye. He cocks his head, leaning it against the pillow to peer at you from a new angle.
”I’m not —“ you try, your voice coming out garbled and pathetic. “I’m not as clever as you. Or anyone.”
Alex squints in that way he does when he’s genuinely surprised by something. It’s the look of complete bafflement that anyone could think such a thing, let alone say it out loud. Usually it’s reserved for Greg’s opening banter segments, but up this close it feels raw and unfamiliar and unbearable.
“That’s not true,” he declares, firmly and bluntly. “I wouldn’t have asked you to come on if I didn’t think you were clever. And funny. And lovely.”
Greg shifts beneath you just slightly. “That’s three things, Alex. Two more, please.”
”And ummmm,” Alex pretends to think, screwing his eyes up. “You smell nice.”
Greg’s laughter shakes you and you snort.
”And,” Alex sucks in a deep breath before letting out in one long stream: “Ilikebeingaroundyoubecauseyou’regenuinelykindandlovingandIlovehangingoutwithyouespeciallyonmysillytvshowevenifyouhavetochasemesometimes.”+
He takes another theatrical breath back in before cracking the smallest smile, his lip disappearing into his sloping mustache.
Greg rumbles beneath you like a dormant volcano. ”Does that count as one, do we think?”
Alex hmms confidently, nodding until his forehead is resting against yours.
“Now this is very serious,” Alex murmurs, poking your nose with his fingertip. “You have to do your very best to win because then I get to bring you back for Champion of Champions and that means we all get paid to hang out some more and you can chase me all you want.”
You feel your lips creep up into a small smile which prompts one of his big toothy ones that makes your heart rattle inside its bony cage.
“He’s right, you know,” Greg sighs, as if it costs him to do so. “You’re clever and kind and funny and one of the smartest people I know.”
”Smart!” Alex barks, the vowel open and drawn out in a cartoonish way. “I knew I had forgotten something.”
You all giggle for a moment before the room is quiet again, Greg’s palms still soft on your upper arms and back and Alex’s scruff rasping against your cheek. Alex has taken to fiddling with your fingers, testing how far back they’ll bend and if you can hold up your first three fingers and grunting when you can.
“I think it’s time to bring back an oldie but a goodie, Alex.”
Alex hums a question.
”Give Greg and Alex a special cuddle.”
”Alex’s brows shoot up, his cheeks rosy and warm where they’re pressed to your face. “Yes, please! No cake in the armpits though — to this day my underarms still smell like chocolate buttercream.”
Greg guffaws under you and you can’t help but ride along, charmed as Alex reaches for a blanket behind him on the couch and throws it over the three of you. You feel Alex groping for the remote, digging at the cushions like an oversized squirrel in a way that makes Greg sigh. He eventually settles, wrapping an arm across your middle and snuggling further into the cavern between you and Greg’s shoulder.
You expect to hear one of the various Taskmaster themes or maybe the footie replay trickling out through the telly speakers, but instead you recognize the quiet piano of “Thank You For Being a Friend”. Alex sings softly and terribly to himself, drumming his fingers on your shoulder. By the end of the theme, the three of you are belting along, a cacophony of haphazard notes that crescendos into a final belt and then an uncontainable flood of giggles that nearly sends your little pile sprawling to the floor.