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| Title: Gale/Randy (Queer as Folk) WiP's Author: phobosgirl A/N: Ok, time to clean off the hard drive and put this muse in the grave. Please don't flame me too badly, but I think my G/R ficcy writing days are over. I will never say never because as soon as I do the muse tends to wake up and bite me on the ass, and it's just NOT a plesant feeling, but I believe that I won't be writing anymore G/R. These are the dregs of what remained. Most of them are sequels to stories that really didn't require any, some of it is just random beginnings. This was the possible sequel to Mementos, which can be found here. I'd had this one line chasing itself in my head for weeks and I'd wanted so much to use it. It wound up in this story, but the whole thing never came to fruition. Shame, too, because I love angst-y!Gale. “Something I can get for you, Gale?” You’d almost forgotten Patrick was still in the room. His question bounces in your mind for a while until finally you turn your attention from the door and wink at him. “No, there’s nothing here I want, now.” He nods, satisfied, and wanders into the racks of clothing. At the door, you look at the long hallway down which Randy disappeared, making up your mind. Finally, with a decisive nod of your head, you turn, hitting the exit door to your left with your shoulder, and step out into the cold evening. “Nope, nothing there I need, now.” You realize on your way out to your car how full of shit you are and how sick you've become of playing the role of the unrequited third wheel in this little triangle. That's what you've always been in his life, the one on the outside, because for as long as you've known him, there've been men he's turned to that weren't you. For a long time, that was ok, because you were pretty sure you weren't the kind of man anyone should turn to. You'd moved like a ghost through so many worlds, drifting in and out of too many lives, and he clearly needed security and someone who was whole, in his own right. You admired him so much for that but it wasn't ever something you'd thought yourself capable of. But people grow, you grew, and as you did, you began to realize that consistency of purpose wasn't a curse, and that you had become someone others could and wanted to depend on. It hadn't scared you anymore, the way it once did, and that's when you'd figured out that you were ready, but by that time, he'd met The Editor. You stop mid-step, turning your back on your vehicle, and take the long, unfaltering strides back in his direction that could change your life. You know rejection is probably the only outcome- rejection, humiliation and then the inevitable pain that will follow- but that's a measure of just how far you've come: you don't give a flying fuck. Because a fear of rejection is infinitely better than the lack of impetus, and you shake your head in wonder at how many years you've gotten those two things confused. The door opens with a loud clank that you never hear because your heart is hammering so hard in your ears that it pushes out everything else, including Patrick's surprised yelp when he bumps into you coming out costuming. You place a large, steady hand on his shoulder, flashing him a brief smile by way of apology, and move on down the hallway without slowing. Two sharp raps on his trailer door produce an invitation from inside, and when you step in and close the door behind you, you almost falter. "Still here?" He smiles, placing the last of his personal effects into a large box. All you can do is stare at him and, when he glances at you again, shrug your shoulders. A question lifts his eyebrow in an eerie imitation of you, and you suddenly realize that the impact you've both had on one another goes well beyond merely honing your respective creative talents. Something inside you warms at the thought. "I have things I need to say," you tell him, though you're still not sure exactly what those things are, yet. "Sounds serious," he jokes, his mind still on packing. When silence answers him, he turns again and looks at you, and you know he sees something in your face that still his hands and draws his attention. "You're the one thing." Your statement sounds flat even to your ears, and you're not at all surprised when he looks confused. "I am?" His smile is puzzled. "The thing I'd want to take." You can't seem to make much more sense than this and your mind spins, trying to find the words that will make him understand. "To L.A." You know those weren't the ones when his brow furrows. "Huh?" "You asked what I'd like to take with me," you clarify. "When we were in the costuming room, you asked." Bewilderment dominates his eyes, despite the small smile he's wearing. "You're what I'd like to take home with me." And before he can ask you again what the fuck you're talking about, you're kissing him, your hands wrapped possessively around his shoulders. You moan a quiet sound of need when your tongue touches his and get dizzy when he shivers. "Leave with me. Stay with me." He pulls away, his eyes closed, his brows furrowed, and he shakes his head. You can't take the chance that he's saying no, it's too much like the fear pooling in your stomach, so you step into him, overwhelming him with your size and an embrace that lifts him to his toes. You slide your thigh between his knees, hitch him up against you, and kiss him again. If you were Brian, no doubt the tactic would have worked, but you're Gale, so entirely different from the character you've played for so many years. You don't have Brian's confidence. And Randy doesn't have Justin's starry-eyed adoration. This was going to be the 3rd and final part to Home, Or Thereabouts "Gale." Randy doesn't know where to start to thank his friend for riding in on a white horse and trying to save him, so he doesn't even try. He swallows hard. "I can't believe you're here." His voice is soft, moved, and when Gale cups his cheek briefly before dropping his hand again just as quickly and shrugs in that quiet, bashful way he has of looking at the floor and blushing, Randy isn't entirely sure that Gale's gesture won't maybe make him tear up a little. He makes up his mind to go the other way, though. "I'll pack." He pushes past Gale, leaving the taller man grinning behind him. "And then I'll shower. I don't want to arrive in Toronto with nothing to wear but 4 pairs of underwear and a Snoopy pajama top." Gale snorts as he follows. "I pack better than that." He can lie, too. Two hours later, as their plane leaves the jetway heading north, Gale cracks open another little bottle of vodka and offers Randy a silent salute. He nudges Randy awake just before the plane touches down, marveling at Randy's ability to fall asleep on such a short flight. He figures that Randy probably hasn't gotten much sleep in the last six days, and his heart twists in the same empathetic way it did when Randy first called him and told him that he'd broken up with Simon. Bleary blue eyes search his face, sad and quiet, and Randy slips his hand into Gale's. Then Gale knows that bringing them here, back to Toronto, was the right thing to do. He's still not sure why, or what they will accomplish here, but being back settles under his skin, feeling warm and familiar. When Randy turns his head to watch out the window as the plane meets the tarmac, he squeezes Gale's hand and Gale knows that Randy feels it, too- that sense of rightness. This was the sequel to Hello, Goodbye, I Love You "I'm a complete doofus!" he declared loudly, and you could tell that he was shouting to be heard over airport traffic as he made his way though LAX. You laughed with him. "Why?" "Because I never did say goodbye!" "You're right," you chuckled, "you are a doofus. This isn’t goodbye!" He was right, it wasn't goodbye. There were DVD signings, movie openings, a Tony award I got to sit at the back of the house and watch him accept, and on at least one very wild occasion, a cast reunion party where we'd wound up drunk and sitting on the steps of our favorite Toronto used book store at 3 A.M., singing old David Bowie tunes until we heard sirens in the distance and ran, laughing, into a nearby alleyway. I never kissed him again, and he never asked why. A few more years passed in this easy, uncomplicated way. Turning forty knocked into me pretty hard and took my breath away for a while, but a few long phone calls with him, during which we got mutually tanked, helped. My relationships bled one into the other, as they had always done, but I wasn't unhappy. I worked often to put food on the table, diving into each project and loving all of them. LA was still a moderately amusing freak show; I suspected that my patience with it would thin someday, but for now, I was satisfied. I really wasn't trying to think too far ahead. When Sharon called late one evening to tell me that his mother had passed away and that he and the editor had called it quits, all in the space of less than six weeks, there was only one thing for me to do. I hopped a plane the next morning, was navigating New York's city streets by that afternoon, and showed up on his doorstep with a bottle of Jack before the sun set. I was ashamed of myself for having lost contact with him for so long, and as I waited for him to answer my knock to his door, I chastised myself, making a silent promise that I wouldn't be so careless in the future. I knew the very moment he looked through the peephole and spied me by the excited "ohmigod!" that came from the other side of the door. Three thrown deadbolts later, he was on me, his legs wrapped around my waist, his arms clinging to my neck. I staggered under the force of his body slamming into mine, laughing and hugging him tightly. "I guess you're glad to see me." "Ohmigod!" he squealed in my ear, bouncing within the confines of my arms. I laughed again and carried him into his entry hall, kicking the door shut behind me. The next two pieces were possible sequels to Finale. It ended thusly: "Gale-" But my exhaustion took over all at once and I couldn't hear another word. "I have to go." "Wait, please." "Later. Another time, ok?" I rubbed my eyes. "Look, I'm not upset, I'm just tired. I feel like I could sleep a week. We'll talk in a few days." He looked doubtful and as I turned away from him to go inside, I saw vague resentment creep into his eyes. first attempt: I didn't think about the moment in the parking lot at the studio a few years ago when he looked at me and smiled, watching as I fiddled under the hood of his stalled car. I didn't think about how I'd almost kissed him, then, and how much I regretted later that I hadn't. I didn't think about the time I took him home in a cab when we were both too drunk to drive ourselves, and the hot things he whispered in my ear when I was tucking him into his bed. I didn't think about how many times I'd let my tongue linger too long on his flesh, or my fingers stroke with too much purpose, or my breath catch too sharply during an onscreen embrace. A week later, I just left for Los Angels, as I'd always planned to do. There weren't any phone calls, no last minute visits. He's not stupid; he knew things were fucked as well as I did. Why bother with sorry-assed goodbyes when there were lives to be lived and careers to be tended to? Predictably, my relationship imploded after only a few months in the states, and she left, angry and convinced it was all my fault. It was. I couldn't seem to forget that stupid lapse of judgment back in Toronto when I'd inexplicably pushed my tongue between his teeth, and I was growing increasingly pissed off at myself for that. I bailed out of the L.A. premier party, preferring to stay in New York working, but a week after that, he was pounding on my hotel room door. "Get your fucking coat on, we're going out." No 'hello.' No 'how ya doing?' No 'Nice leaving town without kissing me again, dickhead.' He turned away from me, heading down the hallway to the elevators, and I seriously considered just closing the door on his angry, retreating back and going to bed. It had been a while since I'd pulled the covers over my head and pretended that the rest of the world didn't exist, and I was nearly convinced that I was long overdue for a heavy session of denial therapy. But then I realized that, coming from somewhere in my toes and maneuvering its way upward, an excited tingle was making my pulse race. I snatched a jacket off the end of the bed and followed after him. Once in the elevator, his anger bounced off the walls of the small enclosure and intimidated me more than was strictly warranted. "How did you know I was in New York?" I asked quietly. "You told everyone where you were, asshole. Everyone but me." Sudden anger flared in my chest. "How's the editor?" I sneered. "He has a fucking name, use it now and then, ok?" second attempt: I went home to L.A., tired, missing Toronto, missing her, but glad to be home. Acting, the kind I do, anyway, has turned me into more of a gypsy than I ever was before, and I wouldn't have thought that was possible. I've always moved from one location to the next, tucking cities away under my belt like small conquests, and counted myself lucky to have landed anywhere for more than a week at a time. I slept almost non-stop for nearly two weeks, getting up to feed myself when necessary, shower, fetch another beer, and change the channel. It felt good to do nothing for a while, to coast by knowing that my rent and my next meal were paid for and no one was depending on me. Almost no one, anyway. I hadn't called him. For the first few days after our last encounter, I drifted along on the certainty that no call was necessary. I let the haze of exhaustion and the lethargy of a well-deserved break settle into my bones and my brain in a pleasantly insulating stupor. This was going to be the last part of the Slice Of Life series I did, chronicling a G/R relationship from the beginning to their first wedding anniversary. This was the anniversary installation. "Happy Anniversary." Randy slid into his arms and kissed him before he could answer. The taste of toothpaste and the smell of morning coffee in the large kitchen felt so much like home that being domesticated didn't seem all that terrible. It was pretty fucking great, in fact. "Happy Anniversary," Gale mumbled into Ran's mouth, squeezing him hard for a moment before releasing him. Randy smiled up at him and stepped away to the coffee pot, snagging it off the warmer and taking it to the kitchen table. "What's that?" Gale eyed a foil-wrapped lump sitting on the counter. It was covered in frost and already melting in a puddle on the counter. He prayed it wasn't dinner. "Cake." Randy poured steaming black liquid into their mugs and sat down, his attention already on a fat bagel sitting on a plate in front of him like a huge carb bomb. Gale was relieved. Not dinner, then. And being cake, he wouldn't be expected to ingest whatever freezer-burned mess was contained within the foil. "Wedding cake." Randy announced, unconcerned. He was halfway to his seat next to Randy's when he stopped in his tracks, barely smothering a groan of disappointment before it slipped out and assured him of a week on the couch. "You don't believe those old superstitions, do you?" Randy eyed him suspiciously over the rim of his mug. "I mean," Gale scrambled to explain, "we don't need that to have good luck, we've already got the best luck." He flashed a bright smile. And here's a whole lot of false start stand-alone stuff: The little fucker had been flirting with me all night and my reaction was no different than it had been all the other times he'd flirted with me- heart pounding too hard, mouth dry, angry, burning, excited feeling in the pit of my stomach. What I don't get is why, when everyone else was milling around saying goodnight and preparing to leave, I tugged his sleeve and held him back and asked him in a whispered voice to stay, a sharp coppery taste flooding my mouth when he nodded knowingly and smiled in a way that made me want to smack him around. And then maybe kiss him. But mostly just smack him around. Because this just wasn't funny anymore. (The working title of this was "The Party's Over") Some of it got morphed into other ideas that wound up in later stories. The weird thing is, it feels as if I've posted this before. If I have (and I went back into my archives and looked but didn't find it) then forgive me and feel free to skip over it. I didn’t even know he was behind me until he leaned over my shoulder and whispered into my ear. “It’s been an entire year, our contracts are up, the premiers and this fucking DVD signing are over and your room is right down the hall from mine. There’s nothing to stop us, now. Randy, I swear, if I’m not balls deep in your ass in the next ten minutes, I’m going to make a spectacle of both of us, right here in front of the fans and the cameras and everyone.” I knew he was kidding and I turned around to share the joke with him but what I saw in his expression stopped me like a splash of cold water to the face. His hazel eyes were glowing, his jaw was set in a firm line that brooked no argument and when he licked his lips I damn near swooned. I shook my head, feeling dazed, not comprehending. “I’m not fucking kidding,” he muttered, leaning in close to my ear. I could tell as his breath washed over me that he was stone cold sober. “We’ve waited too long already, don’t you think?” He quirked one eyebrow in a distinctly Brian Kinney manner and the night suddenly took on a weird dream-like quality that didn’t abate until he had me pressed up against the elevator wall on our way to the hotel’s 23rd floor. “Wait,” I said finally, as his hand slid down the front of my slacks. “Gale, Christ, what the fuck are you doing?” His hand stilled but his eyes danced across my face, caressing my lips, my cheeks, my eyes, my neck. It was as if he was touching me with every look. “Do you hate it?” he breathed to me, “Should I stop? Haven’t you ever wanted me to touch your cock and lick your lips and fuck you senseless?” He was making me dizzy, but I was spared from answering when the elevator doors slid open at our floor. He grasped my hand and, like a leaf pulled along behind a speeding car, I trailed helplessly after him as he lead me to his suite, unlocked the door with an aggressive swipe of plastic, and yanked me inside. As in the elevator, he pressed me up against the wall and began to devour my mouth like a man starved. Once again, trying to make some sense of what was happening, I pulled away, studying him carefully for any sign of hesitation. He was so beautiful, so close- and so willing. I had to know how serious he was about this. But before I could formulate a question, he leaned in and gave me a peck on the lips that would almost have been chaste, had his hand not already been down the back of my pants, cupping my ass. “Don’t over-think this, Randy, please,” he whispered to me. “If you want me as much as I want you, just follow me to the bedroom, ok?” He untangled himself from me and, without a backward glance to see if I would take him up on his offer, he strode into the bedroom, pulling off his shirt and leaving it on the floor behind him like a silken promise. I felt strangely bereft without the crush of his body against mine. It was as if I had formed the habit of needing him near me in just the few short minutes I’d had him. Taking his advice, I stopped thinking. Long years of neglect drew me into the bedroom, where I found him removing his jeans and tossing them to the floor in a heap. His legs were still as muscular and defined as when we'd rolled on set sheets in front of the glaring eye of a camera. I'd never tell him how many times I'd jacked off thinking about having those legs wrapped around my waist. Last but not least: I may be gay, but even I could see that this one was exceptionally gorgeous. They were all gorgeous, though; I'd never seen him with a woman who wasn't. That’s not what made my stomach clench. She gazed at him like he was the sun and the moon and all the stars combined in one shaggy, usually wasted package, but again, they all looked at him in the same way. I wasn’t bothered by that, either. It was the way he looked at her that finally scared the shit out of me. There had been a lot of women on Gale’s arm over the years, and while he never flaunted them, or treated them like trophies, he’d also never really gotten attached to any of them for more than a few months at a time. Who could blame him? Young, moderately famous, financially stable and drop-fucking-dead beautiful, he was playing the field, and because he was so damned nice about it, he never earned the hound dog status that Hal sought with such fanaticism. What no one really knew, even though they all suspected, was that for those first two years he was mine, and if I'd had my way, three years ago, he still would be. And there they are, ALL the G/R unfinished fics on my hard drive. May the spirit of this muse rest in peace, and may Gale and Randy (and Sherrie… I'm sorry, sweetie, I love you!) forgive me! |