Chapter Text
“I still think this is a fucking shit idea,” Greg says as he stumbles out of the train. The weather in Scotland is as usual equally shit, even in mid-summer. Grey clouds hang over the entire city and naturally it starts to drizzle when Greg is making his ways over to the taxi stands. He could be in Spain now. Bright sun and an ocean to swim in. Instead, he is stuck in this shithole.
On the other end of the line his agent, Roisin, sighs. “Yes, as you have said many times before. But it will be good for your publicity. And you’ll get to help out some up-and-coming talents,” she rattles off her usual arguments, that they both know had no weight whatsoever in his decision to agree. You really need this, she doesn’t say. But it’s implied somewhere in the warning underdone between her friendly words.
Greg thought that he was done with this. Going to Edinburgh. Doing a festival show. That’s stuff the new and struggling artists have to do. Not him. He wrote several well received comedy shows for television! He doesn’t need to sleep in a crappy bed and breakfast and do depressing stand-up sets in front of twenty people! Well, that’s what he thought anyway. Apparently, his number of bookings and ticket sales don’t want to agree with him.
And now here he is in this city full of young people with potential and zest for action. An old, pathetic man, who’s left the prime of his life long behind him. Having to play the fucking clown for some idiotic circus event.
“Don’t fuck this up, Greg. Honestly. You said, you’d do it.” For once Roisin sounds terrifyingly candid. “And if you disappoint Alex, I think I’ll have to murder you with my bare hands.” He doesn’t doubt she could. Even through the phone.
He grumbles something unintelligibly. He can’t even remember why he said yes in the first place. It’s not his type of comedy. Some panel like show where people have to do silly games. Taskman or Taskmaster or something equally stupid it is called. Roisin probably tricked him into it by getting him drunk. He should fire her, he keeps thinking. He’s never gone through with it so far.
“Don’t be like that. Alex is nice. You’ll like him,” Roisin chides him.
He very much doubts it. Nice. That’s usually a word people use when they can’t find anything else decent to say about a person. Friendly is another one of them.
He pushes himself through the crowd, his suitcase hobbling depressingly behind him. The silhouette of the city looms before him, partly obscured by the low hanging clouds. Some might call it beautiful. It’s the sort of thing people would print on a postcard. But Greg isn’t one of those brainless tourists. He’s been here enough times to know it’s just as shitty as any other city. Perhaps even more so. The weather definitely is.
“Mr. Davies!” Someone shouts just behind him. From the corner of his eye Greg can make out a flash of pink. He turns and sees a man in a hideous jumper hurrying towards him. Probably a fan. Jesus, Greg needs to get out of here. He’s not in the mood to give autographs and answer stupid questions.
“Where is this guy supposed to meet me anyway?” He asks, trying to force down his irritation as the weird man calls out to him again. Can’t he see that Greg is phoning someone?
“Alex? He said he’d meet you at the station,” Rosin explains.
“Yeah, well he can hurry the fuck up then. I don’t want to-” He puts the phone down with a harried huff, as the idiot in a jumper pulls up beside him, a little out of breath. “Mr. Davies,” he repeats, as if Greg would need his name explained to him.
He’s an unremarkable bloke with greying hair and beard. The only thing far from unremarkable about him is the jumper Greg already got an eyeful of earlier. Up close the shade of pink is even more gruesome. And is that a singing carrot on it? They should make certain things illegal to wear.
“Sorry mate, but I really don’t have time now. I’m meeting someone,” Greg says in a way that is still somewhat polite but also definitely shows that he’s pissed off.
“Oh- oh- no,” the man shakes his head, then seems to change his mind and nods instead. The simple gesture alone makes Greg unreasonably angry. “You’re meeting with me. I think?” He grins nervously.
Greg gives him an unimpressed stare. “You think?” he echoes.
“Ah- no? I mean- I know? I’m Alex,” he nods again, obviously satisfied with his explanation. He extends his hand for Greg to shake, giving Greg a wonky smile. It shows off some quite impressive gaps in his teeth.
Greg has to suppress a groan. Of fucking course. He laughs. Fucking Roisin. Nice. More like bubbly idiot. He ignores Alex’s hand, instead deciding to readjust the straps of his backpack. “Charmed,” he says cooly. “Now where do we need to go then, Alex?” The name rolls off his tongue just like an insult would.
To his credit Alex takes his coldness like a professional. He frowns shortly but then quickly turns around. “Hm, yes right of course. This way.” He leads them out of the station, always stalking a few steps ahead. Greg gets the feeling that these are going to be very long 24 hours.
They hail a cab, because Greg refuses to get onto the overcrowded public transport. Naturally their cab gets stuck in traffic too. Bloody Scotland and their inability to build tunnels. The car smells like shit, the air is bad, and he is really starting to get a headache.
Over the whole ride, Alex tries to make small talk with him about some obscure shows playing at the festival. Greg only grunts in response. He’s not planning to go to any gigs. He doesn’t need to see edgy twenty somethings butcher the art of comedy. And he doesn’t want to sit through the better ones either just so he can be painfully reminded of his spectacular failure as a professional. If he can have it his way, he’s going to do this stupid taskhero show and be on the earliest train home. Hopefully he’ll be back on his sofa in time to watch the evening news.
Alex on the other hand seems to have half the bloody programme on his list. He talks enthusiastically about some young comic from Christchurch, who does a slapstick show about British history. Greg chooses to ignore him and stares out gloomily into the rainy streets. At least the weather mirrors his mood. After a while even Alex seems to understand that he doesn’t want to talk, and they spend the rest of the ride in silence.
“I think Roisin put you up in an Airbnb,” Alex says as he heaves Greg’s suitcase from the boot of the car. “Venue is a ten-minute walk that way,” he points down the street. “If you need help finding it, me and my mates from the-”
“Yeah, yeah I think I know how to work google maps,” Greg interrupts him curtly. He grabs the suitcase from Alex’s hands. He really wants a shower and some fresh clothes. And some fucking quiet.
Alex shuffles nervously on his feet. His hands are clasped in front of his body. He looks like an anxious meercat. “We’re going to the pub this evening, if you want to grab something to eat with us,” he offers sheepishly.
Honestly, Greg couldn’t imagine anything more horrible. A whole evening hanging out with Alex’s friends. Probably all weird artsy types just like him, if his clothing is anything to go by. Talking his ear off about some extravagant “comedy” he really ought to see.
He isn’t sure why Alex offered in the first place. Probably out of some weird sense of politeness. Greg can’t imagine he actually wants to have him there. Or maybe Roisin put him up to him. She’s always on about how Greg needs to get his arse outside. The idea alone makes him angry.
He doesn’t grace the question with an answer. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Alex,” he says brusquely, turns around and leaves.
When he enters his flat a few minutes later he immediately feels a little lighter. It’s a nice place. Bright and quiet. He sighs and plops himself down on the sofa. He’ll get through this somehow. After all it’s only one day. How hard can it be?