Chapter Text
Act 1
The Ordinary World
The ping of his phone was both deeply aggravating, and a welcomed interruption from Greg's frustratingly fruitless stare at a blinking cursor. With a cracking smack, he slams the laptop closed and huffs – trying to convince himself that it's interruptions like this, not his own lack of inspiration, that's preventing him from writing the next episode. He can almost believe it.
Laying lengthwise on the couch, socks, jeans and yesterday’s Brooklyn t-shirt – or was it from the day before – Greg’s neck aches, his wrists ache, and his arse is flatter than a steamrolled pancake. Wrestling the sofa and mostly losing, he sits up and checks his messages on his flung phone.
Huh. It's from his agent.
“a horn asking about your schedule. u still incomunicado? script done??”
Well, fuck and bother. Also, what? A horn? The fuck is his agent talking about a horn for— Oohh. Suddenly Greg realises – not a horn – ‘A. Horne’. Which is only a partial answer. Why would Alex want to know his schedule? They weren’t due for filming for at least a month, and usually Alex would just ask him directly if something came up.
Or at least, he used to. Greg hummed, running his hand through his now-messy white hair, as he thought back on his weeks of writing isolation. It had been a while since they’d talked.
But this script! Goddamn this script. Nothing was working – the characters were just… there. Flat. Unmotivated. Not doing anything. He kept trying to make them do things, and they’d shuffle from plot point to plot point like they were sleepwalking through his hard-won narratives. This blank page wasn’t his first blank page – this was at least his twelfth draft – but pressing Ctrl+A and backspace had none of the viscerally satisfying crunch-and-throw that balled up pieces of paper had. Another week of this, though, and he might see how well he can ball up and throw a fucking laptop.
His phone – held too tightly in his huge grasp as he imagines yeeting his laptop into the bin – buzzes and bleeps again, lighting up with another message.
“told a. will call tmrw for a checkin at 10am. pick up greg”
Shit. Feeling like he’s forgotten to do the homework – and by ‘forget’, he means he panicked and procrastinated as a form of self-soothing sabotage – Greg throws his phone against the sofa in disgust. Unfortunately, the cushions are far bouncier than he expects, and the phone hits them on a corner, sending the slab of glowing black glass flying back towards his face. He flinches, arms up around his head, and yells. It misses, but the phone zips past him, over the coffee table and the rug, unerringly finding the narrow strip of hardwood beyond and landing with a terrifyingly solid thwack. Greg’s heart plummets.
“Shit.”
With a creak and a groan that he pretends is the sofa’s springs, Greg shuffles over in his socked feet to evaluate the damage. Gingerly, he picks up the phone, and turns it to see the screen. Undamaged. He sighs with relief – shoulders slumping – and then the intercom buzzes and he flinches so hard the phone goes flying out of his hand again.
Call to Adventure
“Shit! Fuck— Fucking— God damn it!”
He scrambles to grab the flying device. He hits it at least three times as he flounders and swears and all but plays keepie-uppy with his tumbling, apparently suicidal, phone before he precariously catches it between his pinkie and ring finger of his left hand. Before it can slip away from his now sweating hands, he grabs it in his right hand and shoves it hard into his jeans pocket.
God, it’s always something.
So he’s in a fine mood when he walks over to the door, just in time to catch the intercom buzzing loudly in his face, before he can press the button to find out who the hell is bothering him.
“Who the f— Who is it?” he asks.
“Oh! It’s— Ah. Sorry,” comes the crackly, fuzzy response.
“Alex?” Greg asks, baffled. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Hmm.” Alex hums so loudly, the microphone picks it up and his worry comes out of the speaker all crunchy and crap. “Your schedule said you were writing, but I hoped… Never mind.”
Greg looks down with a frown, patting his jeans pocket where his phone is still recovering from its death-defying gymnastics. He thumbs the intercom button. “Have you been standing outside my house while you contacted my agent?”
“No.” Alex’s response comes through clear – the most confident he’s sounded so far. “Technically I was sitting outside your house, in my car, though I suspect that’s not the pertinent part of the—”
Releasing the speaker button only long enough to wipe a hand down his face, Greg mutters, “Fuck sake” to his empty flat.
“—Alex. Why are you— You know what? Just come up to the flat. I’m sure you have some weird explanation for—”
“Actually, I thought you might come down?” Alex asked in his most hopeful, pleading tone. The one he used on camera for his Little Alex Horne persona. Suspicious.
“...Why?”
“WeneedtogoonaquestforPatatas.”
Refusal of the Call
Greg's eyes go wide. “I’m sorry…” Greg says, not at all sorry. “...What?”
His phone starts ringing. It's Alex. Greg answers it.
Warbling and crackling and exactly a fraction of a beat out of sync, Greg hears Alex's breathy, rushed voice in both ears.
“I know it sounds ridiculous but I've just been thinking about the video we did about the Taskmaster’s cat and how he's down to his last life and it doesn't seem fair and you're always busy and I'm always busy and just this one time we could maybe do something for— for the cat but I know it's just a toy and it'd— it would be like a quest. Or something.” Alex runs out of breath.
Greg leans away from his front door far enough to see the afternoon light streaming through the living room windows. It's the middle of the day.
“Alex, are you drunk?”
A frustrated huff. “No, I just—”
“—Is this some kind of YouTube content thing? You don't usually get me involved in—”
“—No! I hoped— Never mind. I'm— I'm sorry.” Alex sighs. “It's a joke. Just— Just another one of my silly jokes! Ha ha.” Alex's voice is brittle, and the humour feels forced. “I'll let you get back to your writing. Sorry, Greg.”
Alex hangs up, and the intercom clicks off, simultaneously.
Greg frowns. This is very unlike Alex. Not the weird humour – that's almost too on brand – but Alex giving up on a joke, or an idea, or something. Even being at Greg's flat without an explicit invitation is really out of character for the man. And now he's outside talking about a task involving a stuffed toy, off the clock?
Meeting the Mentor
Greg calls Rachel.
“Gregory? What's wrong?” She picks up after three rings. There's noise in the background, as usual. “Is Alex with you?”
Greg will have to reflect on why Rachel immediately assumes there’s something wrong, later. “He's— He's outside my flat. Just turned up spouting some nonsense about a cat? And a mission?”
“A quest. Pay attention, Greg.” The phone goes muffled and Rachel tells off someone in the background, sternly informing what must be one of the boys that they need a smart pair of trousers for special occasions and to stop whinging. Then she speaks into the phone again – Greg has been too surprised to respond anyway. “Look – I don't know what's going on in his brain at the best of times, and I'm not sure he does either, but Alex has been fretting about this for weeks. Something about Patatas being on his last life.”
“It's just a toy, Rach!”
“Of course it is. Everyone knows that. But also, maybe it's not just about the toy, Greg.” Rachel sounds like she's made her point. But then, she demands – “And since when have you declined to ‘yes, and’ my husband?”
“Well…”
“Didn't you, in fact, state you'd bury a body if he asked you to?” Rachel asks, really rubbing it in.
“Fuck. No one told me the cat was dead!” Greg half yells down the phone, pacing in the hallway and flinging his other arm in the air.
“Greg.”
“So, what – is this some kind of midlife crisis? A mental break?”
“Alex just reached out and told you he needed your help, Greg.”
“Oh shit.” Greg’s chest tightens as the guilt washes over him. Alex asked him for help, and he laughed at him. Shit. Doesn't matter what it was – Rachel was right about that – Greg prided himself on being ride or die, and he’d left Alex hanging. Shit. “Rach, I need to go.”
“In more ways than one. Goodbye, Gregory.”
“Bye!”
Greg calls Alex, and while it rings, he grabs a grey hoodie and tries desperately to shove his feet into his new trainers without face-planting into the door.