Title: Home, Or Thereabouts
Author: phobosgirl (phobosgirl@hotmail.com)
Date: 12/20/05
Rating: PG
Authors notes: Feedback is more than welcome and can be sent to phobosgirl@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: This is only for fun. None of this is real nor should any implication be made based on this manuscript that I have any insider info on either of these two super-fine men.

Home, Or Thereabouts - Part 1

"I miss you."

There is a long, echo-y silence on the other end, and Randy wishes Gale didn't have him on speakerphone.

"And you didn't expect to, did you?" Randy isn't sure, but the tone of Gale's voice is almost offended, and suddenly he feels bad.

"No, I did. I knew I'd miss you. I just didn't…"

Gale waits, and Randy pictures him driving through the hills above Los Angles, taking the twists and curves in his new little car, his huge hands gripping the tiny steering wheel. No doubt the car is intimidated by him, by his size, and by his mastery of all things mechanical. And by the quiet, impelling force of his personality. The car is probably shaking in its shoes. Or maybe that's Randy.

"I didn't expect it to be this bad," Randy finishes lamely, and wonders for the seventh time in ten minutes why he called. The first three times he wondered, he was able to convince himself it was because he'd never called anyone's car before. Being a New Yorker who takes taxis and subways, Gale having a four-wheel, 6 cylinder, 45 thousand dollar, hands-free cell phone is indescribably amusing to him. The last four times he wondered, though, it was impossible to ignore the truth.

Gale doesn't say anything for a long time and then Randy hears him curse softly.

"Gale?"

"Sorry, some asshole just cut me off on a blind curve. I swear to fuck, it's like a raceway out here some days."

"Are you being safe?" Randy wonders about the prudence of talking on your sports car and navigating blind curves while assholes are playing Mario Andretti all around you, and feels suddenly contrite for calling Gale on his Spyder.

"Of course I am. I fucking love this car, Randy."

Randy sighs. "Of course you do."

He listens to Gale drive a little longer, thinking about how to bring the subject back to his feelings of loss without sounding self-involved, when Gale does it for him.

"Why is it worse than you expected?"

Randy closes his eyes and thanks a mostly absent god that, while Gale may seem like a stoner, he never misses a trick.

"Well, when Simon left-"

"Wait." Gale's voice is concerned, not so casual anymore, and Randy feels guilty because it's just what he was hoping for. So yeah, ok, there's a touch of drama queen in him. "Simon left?"

"Yeah," Randy pretends it doesn't sting to say it, knowing Gale knows better, "when he left, I-"

"Left, like on a business trip? Or to see his folks? Or some shit like that? Not left left, right?"

"No, yeah, he left me. Packed his bags, kissed my cheek and vamoosed, skeedadeled, blew town, made like a tree and-"

"Fuck, Randy, lemme find somewhere to pull over, hang on."

Randy waits and wipes halfheartedly at the tears rolling down his face. He stares through eyes gone blurry at the copy of The New York Times Arts section that sits crumpled on the table in front of him, and imagines Gale pulling his pretty little car over into a wide place in the road. He can almost see the spectacular view of LA below, the low haze of humidity and smog hanging heavy in the valley, and the way Gale is perfectly suited for that setting because he's always been above the falseness and brittle beauty of Hollywood.

The electronic air wafting through the phone into his ear stills and quiets, and Randy knows that Gale has turned off the purring engine of his new baby. He hears Gale shifting a little, and wonders what he's doing, but before he can ask, Gale speaks again.

"Talk."

"What's to say?" Randy asks, but he knows it's a rhetoric question. There are volumes to say- about loss and regrets and missed opportunities and decisions borne of confusion. It could take years. He's pretty sure they don't have years, that they've used the years they had, that he wasted them. And that's what brings him back to missing Gale. Missing all of it.

Somehow, in the space between them where the miles stretch away and the months that have passed since they said goodbye feel like lifetimes, Gale knows all of it. But he's polite enough not to push too hard.

"So what will you do, now," he asks quietly. Randy shakes his head. He doesn't have a clue, but he suspects it will look a lot like pretending for a while that he isn't dying.

"Go back to work," he decides. "Just get up tomorrow, and go back to work, and things will get better."

"They will," Gale assures him, and while they both know it's true, they also know that it could be days and days and days in the coming. "Do you want me to be there?"

"No." Randy answers immediately, meaning yes. He prays that Gale's intuition is taking a little catnap. No such luck.

"I'll fly out tonight." Gale isn't asking, this time.

"No, don't. There's nothing you can do. Besides, I need to find a roommate, and if you're sitting on my couch getting stoned, it might be off-putting to potentials, you know?" Randy is going for laughs, and Gale lets him slide.

"Or it could be a big selling point," he counters. They both chuckle and strangely, Randy does feel a little better. He lets it settle around him, creating a cushion of safety that he can nestle into for a few more minutes. It isn't a surprise to him that this feeling is so familiar- security has always emanated from Gale's skin, inviting Randy to make himself at home. Randy knows it isn't there for everyone. Sometimes it even eludes Gale, himself, but Randy has always been offered refuge within Gale's gentle friendship, so he disappears inside it, now.

The lull in conversation allows Randy to pull himself together. The tears have stopped, for now, and the thought of having to find a roommate reminds him to use his Times for more than a crying towel.

"I have to go, Gale." He really doesn't want to, but reality calls to him.

"I know."

"Thank you." He knows Gale is frowning right now, and if he were there, he would be waving off any notion that thanks are necessary. "I'll be ok."

"I know," Gale answers, again. "And I miss you, too. Call soon, okay?"

Randy promises, and after he hangs up, he turns to the task of finding the one soul out of 8 million that he thinks he can share his home with. He wonders if it will turn out, finally, to be an impossibility.

Randy: Ok, we're on a plane. Now what?
Gale: I dunno.
Randy: Waddaya mean, you don't know??
Gale: msjudi never thought this far…