Work Text:
“Fucking– shit.”
Alex glanced up from his phone at the familiar sound of Greg swearing, even though they were in a very unfamiliar location, namely backstage at Glastonbury. They’d each been provided with a tiny dressing area, really just an area cordoned off with fabric curtains, to get changed ahead of the Taskmaster live event, and evidently the fabric walls weren’t enough to muffle Greg’s cursing.
Not that the walls at Pinewood did much better.
Still, always the efficient assistant, Alex stood, tucking his phone back in his pocket, and went to see what was the matter with Greg. He hesitated, unsure how he was meant to knock when there was no door. “Greg?” he called.
“Fuck!”
Alex took it as permission to poke his head in, raising both eyebrows when he saw Greg sitting on a tiny chair that looked liable to break out from underneath him, fussing with his shoe. “What are you doing?”
Greg glanced up at him, instantly looking– embarrassed, which was even more unusual than their setting. “Oh,” he said, looking down at the black shoe in his lap. “Er. Nothing.”
He made as if to hide the shoe behind his back, or something equally stupid, all things considered, but the movement just made Alex focus on the unfortunately recognisable white bit he could see sticking out of the shoe. “Are those—”
Alex didn’t even get the question out before Greg scowled up at him. “Yes, all right,” he huffed. “I thought I’d try your stupid fucking method with the sanitary towels, all right? Should’ve known it was absolute shit, like everything you do—”
Alex knew Greg far too well to even feign offence. “But you don’t get blisters,” he pointed out instead, because he was fairly certain if Greg was prone to blisters, he’d’ve heard about it, likely at length, at some point over the past decade, like he had with Greg’s multitude of other complaints.
Not that Alex minded, of course. For the most part.
Greg’s scowl deepened. “I do in new shoes,” he said as if that was somehow Alex’s fault, and Alex blinked at him.
“Why did you bring new shoes, then?”
“Because you told me to!”
That at least sparked a memory in the back of Alex’s mind, and it took quite a bit for him to not roll his eyes. “I told you to bring shoes you wouldn’t mind getting mucky—” he started, much in the tone he used with his children when they were being particularly obstinate, which was probably why Greg’s scowl turned downright murderous.
“Well, I’m not bringing my nice shoes to get mucky, am I.”
Alex gave him a look. “So you brought brand new shoes instead?” he asked sceptically.
It wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever heard, but it definitely ranked.
“Don’t even start with me,” Greg said waspishly, glaring down at the shoe in his lap as if it had personally offended him. “Just because you’re happy trotting around in 20 quid plastic slip-ons—”
Alex pulled a face. “Well, not that happy,” he said brightly. “Hence the sanitary towels.” When Greg switched his glare to him, Alex sighed and held his hand out. “Here, give it to me.”
Greg hesitated for only a moment before passing his shoe over. “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, the damned thing just won’t go in.”
Alex held the shoe up to eye level, the problem fairly readily apparent, and he tried very hard not to laugh. “Ah. Well. It’s probably because the wings are getting stuck on the top of the shoe.”
To his credit, Greg looked a little sheepish at that. “Right.”
Alex carefully unstuck the offending sanitary towel, the wings unsticking from the shoe to instead get stuck to the bottom of the pad. “Why’d you buy the ones with wings?” he asked, glancing up at Greg.
Greg flushed and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “If you must know, I panicked.”
“Oh?”
Greg nodded. “Yeah,” he said sourly, “because the clerk came up to ask me if I needed help and then asked if I was buying them for my granddaughter.”
Alex didn’t even try to hide his laughter, honking into his hand as he barely managed, “Oh no.”
A smile twitched at the corners of Greg’s mouth. “Oh yes,” he agreed. “So I grabbed the first pack I could see and evidently they’ve got wings.”
He shrugged and Alex glanced down at the sanitary towel again. “Fine,” he said, because he really couldn’t argue with Greg’s explanation, “but then why did you peel the backing off the wings part?”
Greg shrugged again. “Dunno, thought it might help them stick.”
There was a certain logic to it, if Alex was being generous, and he shook his head, wadding the now ruined sanitary towel up and lobbing toward the tiny bin. “Right, well, it’s certainly helping them stick to the wrong part of the shoe,” he said, just to wind Greg up even more. “Give me another, I’ll do it.”
He held his hand up but Greg just frowned up at him. “Another what?”
“Another sanitary towel,” Alex said, as if it was obvious, as it very well should have been.
Greg shook his head. “I didn’t bring the whole pack.”
“Why not?”
Greg raised both eyebrows. “Why didn’t I bring an entire pack of sanitary towels to fucking Glastonbury?” he said, incredulous. “What would I have done with an entire pack of sanitary towels?”
Alex considered it for a moment. “Could’ve given them out, I suppose,” he said. “Great way to meet that wife you claim to be looking for.”
Greg rolled his eyes so hard it almost looked painful. “Oh, yeah, real winning pickup line there, mate,” he scoffed. “In line for the porta-loo offering sanitary towels to women a third of my fucking age and then assuring them that I don’t have them because I’m a creep but because I put them in my fucking shoes.”
Alex honked another laugh. “It’d work on me,” he assured Greg, who just shook his head and laughed.
“Of course it would, you fucking twerp,” he sighed affectionately. “If only you were my target demographic.”
“Could be.”
The words popped out of Alex’s mouth before he could stop them, before he could think through their implications in any sort of meaningful way. Which, to be fair, was part and parcel to most of his friendship with Greg, but as Greg’s eyes found his, he was suddenly acutely aware that they were standing far too close together in a tiny little dressing area, and it didn’t leave much room for him to put between himself and the joke.
And it had been a joke.
Hadn’t it?
Greg raised both eyebrows, his expression uncharacteristically unreadable. “What, a forty-six year old, straight, married father of three?” he asked coolly.
Alex scrunched his nose up before nodding, trying to ignore the way his heart was beating double-time in his chest. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said dismissively before giving Greg a toothy grin that he hoped defused any lingering tension. “Too young for you.”
Just as he’d hoped, Greg barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Fuck off,” he said, and Alex’s grin widened.
“Yes, Greg.”
Greg sighed before holding his hand out for his shoe, which Alex handed back to him. “Well, if the fucking sanitary towels aren’t going to work, looks like that’s my feet fucked,” he said bracingly.
Alex frowned slightly, determined as always to find a workable solution. “No one says you have to wear the shoes,” he pointed out.
“Shall I go barefoot, then?” Greg asked, amused. “That’ll really get the internet perverts going, me getting my feet out at Glasto.”
Alex just shook his head. “Ha ha,” he said dryly. “I meant you could just wear your Crocs.”
Greg arched an eyebrow. “You want me to wear bright fucking green Crocs as the Taskmaster?” he asked, equal parts amused and scandalised at the idea.
Alex shrugged. “Don’t see why not,” he said, before adding, just because he knew it’d make Greg laugh, “Especially since Patrick’s not here to wring your neck.”
Sure enough, Greg chuckled at likely the memory of his many rows with Patrick over the socks he routinely forgot to change between recordings, let alone such unholy footwear as a pair of Crocs. His laugh faded and he glanced from the Crocs up to Alex. “And you’d be fine being seen with me wearing them?”
Alex gave him a look. “I think you’re probably asking the wrong person that,” he said flatly, looking pointedly down at his own shiny gold trainers.
The image would’ve been more effective if he was still wearing his Tony the Tiger shirt from earlier, but luckily, Greg seemed to take his meaning regardless. “Fair play, yeah.”
Alex grinned at him. “You in your Crocs, me in my gold shoes—”
“Singing a song together,” Greg added, nodding slowly.
“What a pair we’ll make.”
Greg’s eyes met his. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Quite the pair, in the end.”
Something about the way he said it made the breath catch in Alex’s throat, and he suddenly felt as though there wasn’t enough room in the dressing area. He cleared his throat before telling Greg, his voice slightly strange to his own ears, “Right, well, I’ll, er, I’ll leave you to it, then.”
“All right, yeah,” Greg said easily, as if he wasn’t remotely affected, and Alex turned to escape, to let himself out of the situation he’d once again put himself in.
But something stopped him, and if anyone asked, he’d never have been able to explain it. “I know I said it before, but—”
Greg glanced up at him as he slid one of his Crocs back on. “Yeah?”
“I’m really glad that it’s you I get to do this with.”
Greg’s expression softened. “Even in my green Crocs?” he asked, something that didn’t quite reach teasing in his tone.
Alex nodded. “Especially in your green Crocs.”
Greg half-smiled and shook his head. “That your type, then?” he asked, firmly teasing now. “Morbidly obese geriatrics in green Crocs?”
Alex grinned at him. “Mm, yes please.”
Greg laughed loudly and stood. “God, you’re weird,” he sighed fondly. “Well, it’s a shame about the middle-aged, married father thing, because I may be coming around on twerps in gold trainers.”
Again he didn’t quite reach teasing, and neither did Alex as he replied, a little too soft and a little too sincere, “Still time for the rest.”
Greg looked down at him, his lips curving into a smile as familiar to Alex as breathing. “Another ten years, you think?”
Alex just shrugged. “If that’s as long as it takes.”
For one long moment, they stayed like that, both too close and too far apart. Then Greg took a half-step backward, and Alex exhaled shakily, his lungs burning and his chest tight. “I’ll see you out there, silly boy,” Greg told him, and Alex nodded.
“Yes, Greg.”
It was so familiar as to no longer be painful, this thing they did– this thing they didn’t do, and as Alex made a hasty escape, as he pressed shaking hands to his trousers, he had to admit there was a certain, twisted comfort in it.
Besides, Alex reflected as he stood on stage in front of thousands of people only a few short minutes later, holding Greg’s hand as they sang together, they were right about one thing, at least.
They did make quite the pair.
And as for the rest– there was still plenty of time.
Even if it took another ten years.