Work Text:
It was the ultimate actors’ cliché, Connor thought, even as he was called from his dressing room to join the rest of the cast and crew on the stage.
There wasn’t much blood on the stage, but considering that there shouldn’t be any it was more than worrying enough. Even more worrying was quite how pale Chris was, having pressed one of the prop cushions to his head in an attempt to stem the bleeding.
“What happened?” Connor asked. Chris was his best friend in the company, they had joined the cast together and had quickly become a social media double act alongside their on-stage chemistry. That something had happened to him while Connor was sitting alone in his dressing room, even though Connor shouldn’t have been on stage for another ten minutes anyway, was intolerable. Chris looked slightly sheepish, despite the cushion and the blood and so Connor knew immediately that there was some culpability there.
“He tripped over the edge of the rug and smashed into the table top. Blood everywhere! I’m surprised you didn’t hear the audience gasp from down there! It was so dramatic!” Joshua Church exclaimed; he had blood on his hands as well and Connor realised that Joshua must have broken character to rush towards Chris. And Church was rigorous about not breaking the rules.
Let alone Connor hearing the audience, he was slightly concerned that the audience might be able to hear Joshua. But no one shushed him, too busy focusing, ineffectually, on Chris.
They’ve had on stage accidents before, and they haven’t been worthy of temporarily closing the show – they’ve called the stage doctor and the understudy and carried on. But, not today.
Gotswana had told them that they should have a doctor on call while he went to his son’s graduation, and Connor alongside everyone else had nodded and smiled and told Gotswana that they’d be fine for three shows without him – that they’d survived this far! – and that he should bring back photographs and they’d all share a bottle of fizzy elderflower.
They turned out to be wrong.
They weren’t good for three shows without him. They hadn’t even got through one.
Technically, the General was trained in first aid, but their director – nicknamed the General from before Connor’s time in the cast and Connor was too afraid to ask whether the nickname had any relation to his eyepatch, had been called away to another theatre for the evening. Woe betide that theatre company when the General found out what happened when he wasn’t on watch. In another life the General could have been terrifying, but Connor knew that he was on their side. It was always for the best to have management, as terrifying as they were, on your side.
At least it wasn’t opening night, Connor thought, but then the realisation kicked back in. For Chris and him, it was possibly worse than opening night. The script writer, rising star Nabulungi Hatimbi, fresh from her West End debut performance of her latest play, was in the audience. It would have been his first time meeting the author of one of the most phenomenal characters he had been given the privilege to act. And this would be her first impression of Connor McKinley, well, not her first impression but his previous scene had been short, non-speaking. He should have been coming on stage just about now for his opening monologue, not… well.
What a disaster they were making of her play.
Connor wrapped his pink dressing gown tighter around himself, tugging at the length of it. He shouldn’t be embarrassed, after all, this audience had just seen him only half an hour before in nothing but a pair of sequined boxer shorts and matching bowtie. Except, that audience hadn’t been watching him , they’d been watching Francis , but now it was Connor that the assistant director was gesturing towards the hastily pulled curtain.
He wasn’t quite sure how it fell to him. There were certainly more clothed members of the company.
“Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, but is there a doctor in the house?”
No one laughed. Connor couldn’t be sure if they would or not. They could have thought it was a joke, but, perhaps his face was too honest – that had been a criticism that his teacher had had of him in drama school, until he was completely in character he wasn’t very good at partitioning off his emotions.
Connor had spent most of his life hiding who he was, and once he’d learnt to accept it he launched into a career of pretending. Perhaps there was something wrong with him?
But he couldn’t pretend not to worry about Chris. Logically he knew that it was just a cut, head wounds bled a lot, but still. Seeing his friend sitting, bleeding, that was too much.
Perhaps the audience weren’t laughing because they’d seen Chris fall and smash his face live on stage before their very eyes, and they had seen Joshua break character and almost certainly dash towards him before the curtain had fallen.
They were probably in shock. Connor was possibly in shock.
The lighting crew brought up the lights in the house, so Connor could look out across the audience. There were so many of them. All of them had bought a ticket expecting to see a performance. Some of them may have even come to see him in particular. It was a strange job, that this was what he did with his life. And that was when he noticed the hand being raised in the orchestra seats.
“I’m a paramedic,” a voice called out, “can I be of any assistance?”
“Yes! Yes, please. Erm, usher if you could…?” Connor actually hadn’t thought through how to bring the doctor, or in this case, paramedic, from the audience and up onto the stage. There were no stairs at the front of the stage but the front of house staff had to know the easiest way of getting him from A to B, and Connor gratefully ducked back behind the curtain as he saw an usher step forward to the man, hand still raised.
He hoped he was actually a paramedic. It would be just his luck, Connor thought suddenly, if the man was actually a phoney, claiming to be medically trained in order to get access to the stage.
As he stepped back in the assistant director was mid-lecture, he probably hadn’t even expected to be forced to take control of such a situation today. The worst that normally happened was a bulb flickered out mid-show, and even that came under the duress of lighting. Connor thought that he was doing a good job under the circumstances.
“Right, there’s a civilian doctor -” “paramedic” “-paramedic, coming in from the audience. We’ve got ten minutes to get this show running again. Connor, you take Chris into the back office. The most any of you guys should say on social media is ‘the show must go on,’ we’ll wait for PR to have a word in the interval. I’ll have an announcement made. Ten minutes, folks.”
The back office, otherwise known as the costume cupboard, was a small anteroom to the larger walk-in costuming room, containing not much more than a chair and a first aid kit. That was probably why they were sent back there.
The AD followed them into the back office, and for a moment Connor was expecting a reprimand, not a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“Connor, you stay here, you’re shaking. You can’t act like this. Elman Zelder will go on as Francis for the remainder of Act One, and Michael Micheals will replace Chris. You get him looked at, and if you’re good to perform you can come out for Act Two. He’ll be going home. End of story. I’ll have the doctor sent through here.”
And with that he was gone, before Connor could even say ‘paramedic’.
“So, Connor, am I going to live?” Chris asked, his eyes wide, with blood trickling down his temple and a too-innocent smile.
“Don’t be such an ass, Chris,” it was as much as Connor ever swore, and it made Chris laugh, “you’re such a klutz and you’ve got blood all over Kimbe’s stage.”
It was easier being annoyed at him, or at least faking annoyance. Even Connor wasn’t quite clear which it was he was feeling. It was easiest to just keep going.
Chris shrugged, the colour coming back into his face, “I’ll buy her flowers in apology.”
Connor noticed, almost absentmindedly, that his hands were still shaking.
“Buy her coffee instead.”
“The flowers would be cheaper.”
“I know, that’s why you should buy her coffee.” Connor resisted the urge to click to emphasise his point. There could come a point of becoming too theatrical for one’s own good.
“Coffee? I could do with a cup of coffee,” came a new voice. Connor turned in the tiny room, having pushed Chris down into the only seat, and the man pulled back the curtain which divided the back office from the main costuming room.
It was the paramedic, of course, looking calm, concerned and very handsome. Connor couldn’t help but notice him looking handsome. He hadn’t had a chance to notice with the house lights up.
He wasn’t dressed as a paramedic, instead in a green sweater and jeans, but of course he wasn’t. He wasn’t at work. He’d come out to an evening at the theatre, they didn’t go around in those official dark uniforms all the time. That would be strange, albeit helpful in situations like this.
“Hi, I’m Kevin. I, well, we sort of met earlier. I know I’m not an actual doctor, but-”
Connor was kick started back into action, and spun back around to grab at the first aid kit to hand it to the medic.
“No, no please. Thank you. This is Chris Thomas and he hit his head, there’s quite a bit of blood.”
That was what everyone said on medical shows, they listed information and then, everyone got better.
“Yes,” Connor could see the hint of a smile on Kevin’s face, one which he tried to suppress. “I know, Connor, I saw it happen. And I read your names in the playbill. From what I saw you were both brilliant.”
Connor felt his ears flush and his face burn as Chris laughed again.
“Connor, I’m not an invalid, let the nice doctor look at me and let the show carry on. Look, there’s not really enough room for all of us in here, Connor, just step outside the curtain for a moment. Like I used to do when mom took Kathy to the paediatrician when I was little and I used to wait outside with colouring, stop fussing Connor.”
Chris could be a little nuisance when he wanted to be, and he was clearly feeling more himself.
There wasn’t really enough room for Connor to get out, and he had to squeeze past Kevin the paramedic in order to get out to the open air. The costuming director must have dressed the understudies in record time, as there were less clothes hanging than normal but Connor hadn’t heard anything while they’d been in the backroom. Perhaps he just wasn’t paying attention.
Idly he wondered how Kevin the paramedic had remembered his name, they were a relatively big cast.
He could hear the medical commands; look this way, look that way, does this hurt, does that hurt. But the words were starting to numb. The announcement for actors to take their places for the two minute warning. The show was going on. He was very cold in his dressing gown.
He was still shaking when Kevin the paramedic pulled the curtain back. Chris was smiling, the blood having been cleaned away from his head. Chris was smiling. And things seemed like they should be okay.
And yet.
“Connor, look at me, you’re having a panic attack. Just, breathe with me, okay?” Connor found himself sitting back in a chair, it must have been the recently vacated chair that Chris had had his treatment in.
There was only one chair. That was why they were in that room. Chris had a band-aid over the cut. That’s all it was, a cut, but Connor was focusing on Kevin’s words.
“Breathe with me, in and out, in and out.” His head was pushed down towards his knees, and Kevin’s hands were warm and strong on his bare thighs. Gosh, Connor thought as he came back to himself, his hands were very warm. And then his face flushed all over again.
This dressing gown was incredibly short.
He had gone out in front of a full house wearing it, he was sitting with his legs apart in front of Kevin the paramedic in it. Oh my.
“Oh gosh, I’m sorry. Making this all about me. Don’t be silly, I’ll be fine in a moment.”
Kevin didn’t move from his position kneeling at Connor’s side.
“Nothing about this is silly, Connor, Chris. This has been a traumatic and unusual situation for anyone to be in.”
“Connor. Look, I’m fine. And you’re fine, and the show in fine. Even Kevin here is fine, you can calm down now.” Connor knew that Chris wouldn’t lie to him. Not when he was feeling like this, they knew each other too well for that. They each knew what the other had been through, and Connor felt a pang of residual guilt for not somehow avoiding the situation entirely. Connor could never be entirely sure how comfortable Chris was around doctors and medical staff.
But Chris was smiling, alternating between rubbing at the edge of the band-aid on his forehead and breathing along with Kevin’s instructions. Giving Connor another person to ground himself on. There was Kevin with his warm, strong hands and then there was Chris present above him.
It was ridiculous really, it had been Chris who had been injured, and yet here was Connor receiving medical attention for something as inconsequential as a panic attack. He had had them before, not with any great regularity, but they were something that he could work around.
He just needed a distraction, something to kick him out of his own mind for a moment. Chris, whether out of attention or boredom, provided.
“I hope you’d been enjoying the show Kevin, before my scantily clad colleague dragged you out of the audience and backstage.”
If Connor hadn’t known better he’d have said that Kevin flushed at that, but he was a professional – a paramedic, used to tough situations and real emergencies, not the fussings of a stressed actor who was unlikely to be back on stage that day. The likelihood of the AD letting him take on Act Two after that little meltdown was second to none, and he was hardly in the right headspace to try and be someone else. He wasn’t even sure he was entirely himself at the moment.
But the question jogged something in Connor’s brain, and before Kevin the paramedic could even react he was talking. Rushed, but breathing steady.
“Oh sorry, you’ve missed so much of the show. We have to reimburse your ticket, and gosh, and how much will the company owe you for your services?”
Kevin looked, quite frankly, appalled, and Connor wondered for one terrible minute if he’d just created a massive faux pas, of course paramedics wouldn’t handle money themselves, they’d have an agency… or something.
“It’s nothing, please don’t pay me,” Kevin said, voice tight. “You needed medical assistance, and I was here, and I’m just pleased that I was. The show wouldn’t have been the same without you anyway.”
And Connor must have been hearing the implications of that wrong, but Kevin, still kneeling by his side, carried on.
“My best friend’s girlfriend got us the tickets, I’ve not lost any money, I think she’s involved in the production somehow. Nabulungi Hatimbi, do you know her?”
Connor felt the blood drain from his face again. It was turning out to be quite a traffic light face day. He’d probably gone slightly green when he’d seen the blood all over the stage.
“Oh, is that face a good thing or not?”
And Connor didn't want to start gushing about Nabulungi in front of a perfect stranger who actually knows her. But this had been an emotional day, and Nabulungi’s characterisation was just so perfect.
“Good? She’s perfect . The things that she can do with words and characterisation, and I was so hyped to act her role in front of her, it’s all I’ve been thinking about for weeks,” Connor drew a breath, and the implicit ‘and now I can’t’ which could have finished that sentence went unsaid, “and she’s just such a brilliant author.”
“You sound just like Arnold!” And Kevin sounded genuinely delighted. Connor could only assume that that was a good comparison to make.
“Oh, Arnold,” he continued, “Hang on, can I use my phone back here?”
Chris nodded, smiling that same smile which accompanied pranking the official twitter account despite the turn of conversation, and Kevin pushed himself out of his squatting position – and boy, had he managed to hold it for a long time - pulled out his phone and rattled off a text.
“They’ll be wondering what’s happening, Nabulungi wouldn’t come back stage would she?”
The idea of meeting Nabulungi Hatimbi while he was wearing this flimsy dressing gown was enough to give Connor nightmares.
“Nah, they’ll be leaving us be I would assume,” Chris said almost but not quite absentmindedly. “I’m guessing we’re about twenty minutes from the intermission now, hopefully our understudies are doing a good job, so they’ll be keeping backstage traffic low. AD’ll be leaving us alone back here until the intermission, he knows that Connor and I can look after each other, especially under medical supervision.”
Chris grinned at Kevin, who appeared to pale a little in response. Which was a strange reaction to have to Chris’s rambles. At least Chris had cut off Connor’s own horrified thoughts about Nabulungi Hatimbi bursting into the dressing room and demanding to know who had rendered her play unplayable. In the farfetched scenario that Connor had been halfway to creating - and which may make an appearance as a nightmare the next time an audition created stress dreams – it had been him having a panic attack live on stage which had caused the commotion.
“Okay, well, I should probably go since you both seem to be doing okay now. I can’t take up any more of your time. You’re both very busy people. Chris, I recommend that you don’t go back on stage at least for the next few days. I don’t know much about stage makeup, but I can’t imagine that it’s too good for cuts and you should make sure to rest, and Connor, you’re wonderful. I mean, you’re fine. You’re good. You can go. I’m just going to see myself out.”
Kevin the paramedic pushed his way back through the curtain, and disappeared back into the labyrinth of backstage.
“What’s the betting that we’ll find him when they finally unearth that lost box of programmes from last season?” Chris joked, but he had to repeat the punchline twice until Connor pulled himself out of his own head.
That had been quite a verbal mishap from Kevin the paramedic, pulling him out of one fantasy and into another. Connor didn’t even know his surname. There was only so much facebook could do.
He wasn’t going to go back on stage that day. There was too much in his head. Act Two belonged to Elman.
They were wanted for the final bows, the AD told them during the intermission. They could theoretically go home, but PR thought it would be best if they made an appearance at the end of the show. Especially Connor, who hadn’t technically needed to be replaced at short notice – although looking back, if he’d had a panic attack live on stage that may have been the end of his leading role career – just to show willing engagement with their audience.
After the bows they got their own round of applause as they were gestured onto the stage. Chris was handed a mic and he settled back onto stage with an easy charm.
“I know they say break a leg, but I only managed to bruise and cut my forehead, doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. Thanks to Michael and Elman for covering me and Connor on such short notice! And thanks to the kind paramedic who answered the call of a doctor in the house, can’t thank you enough pal!”
There was definitely a flash of a camera, but Connor didn’t really care. Until he remembered the dressing gown. He was never going to wear that thing again.
Of course he was lying, and he was wearing it when a bunch of flowers arrived in his dressing room.
He had e-mailed Nabulungi Hatimbi the day after the accident, his heart in his mouth and beating at the ends of his fingers, as he explained who he was, what had happened and whether he could have an e-mail address for her boyfriend’s best friend, ‘Kevin the paramedic’ in order to send him a replacement ticket, for his troubles, of course. Not for anything else, that would be absurd, and immoral and sneaky. Just to thank him.
Nabulungi had replied asking for his phone number, and Connor had come out of a forty minute conversation with a larger phone bill than usual, a promise of a first look at her latest script, a new friend and an address.
He’d sent the ticket, his gratitude and a phone number. Which was risky, but Connor thrived on risk – that was a lie that Connor couldn’t even tell himself, but it felt good to do something proactive for his love life – and if it didn’t work out, well, he wouldn’t see Kevin the paramedic again.
And then someone delivered a bunch of flowers; pink roses and green carnations, hardly subtle, even Connor’s doubting heart struggled to give them any other meaning than the obvious, and a box of schmackary's cookies. There was a card too.
Connor beamed.
“How come I don’t get flowers?” Chris asked as he popped his head around the door, “They said you’d got flowers, and I said that they had to be from that paramedic you were so sweet on you started hyperventilating, and I was right!”
Chris was right, the card confirmed it. Written in a steady hand, what utter rot it was about doctor’s handwriting anyway. Kevin hadn’t needed the replacement ticket, he’d written, he would have done the same for anyone. A person’s health was more important than an evening out for him. But he was pleased that Connor had got in touch anyway, because he wanted to see him again. He was looking forward to the show and perhaps he could meet him afterwards and that the enclosed cookies were for Chris on the recommendation of Nabulungi, but that the flowers were most certainly for Connor.
“He sent you schmackary's.”
“Sweet.”
Yes, Connor thought, thinking of Kevin the paramedic sitting out in the audience waiting for Act Two to start, it was very sweet.