The Set

Author's note:

An aberration and much-needed diversion from post-finale Ryan-angst. Character names have been used for obvious reasons – think outside the square!
Have absolutely no idea where this is going, or whether it will continue, but I'm enjoying the ride.
Set mid Season 3.

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Ryan stared at the script and scowled. Two shirtless scenes, one chaste kiss, a fist thump, a dramatic exit and nine lines. Thirty-two words, to be exact. Throw in a handful of glares, a couple of thoughtful glances, a head lowering or two, and that was the sum of his part. He sighed. It seemed the longer he acted, the less he said, which was kind of stupid when you thought about it.

'Hey!' Seth interrupted, plonking himself beside his buddy. He waggled a sheaf of papers. 'Have you read this one? Apparently you and I go on a road trip, get lost in the desert, make out under the stars and then you kill me in a fit of regret. Kinda Brokeback meets Othello, but without any of the subtleties.'

'Why do you read that stuff?' Ryan sighed. He hated reading fan fiction. Some of it was good, most of it god-awful and all of it reminded him of everything he could be but wasn't.

Seth shrugged. 'Beats reading the script. You know what they say: one man's fantasy is another man's entertainment.' He glanced at Ryan. 'What's eating you today?'

Ryan tossed the script to the ground. He was tempted to stomp on it, but in plain view of everyone, didn't dare. 'The usual,' he muttered.

'You wanna know what I think?' Seth asked finally, as they sat and stared across the lot. Ryan didn't, but Seth ploughed on regardless. 'Ya gotta change your image, man. Ever since wardrobe did the dirty on you and took away your leathers and cut your hair, you haven't been the same. C'mon, Ryan! Seize the day! Go up to Josh and say, "Give me back my clothes!"' He chortled, but Ryan couldn't see the humour.

The problem was, Seth was right. He'd returned from filming over the summer hiatus to find, like Sampson, he'd been done over, weakened, a shell of the character he'd been. The angst was but a shadow that dogged him faithfully, toothless and benign, and he was forced to flit between scenes like an extra; an afterthought of writers intent on changing the direction of the show. He sighed again.

Seth cast around for something positive, but all he could come up with was: 'You've still got the best trailer.'

'Aren't I the lucky one!' Ryan remarked sarcastically

'Watch out!' Seth hissed, sotto voce. 'Here comes trouble.'

Ryan glanced up. Marissa glided past, impossibly stunning in nothing but a tee-shirt and sweatpants that threatened to slip from her prominent hips and expose the long, long legs that carried her above any crowd. Wishful thinking, Ryan thought sourly. Sadie hurried along beside her, in jeans and a too-small shirt with buttons that strained across ample breasts. As though reading his dirty thoughts, both girls glanced over and Sadie waved a finger warningly. 'Remember Ryan, no tongues!' she called. She and Marissa exchanged looks and giggled.

He scowled and raised his hand, almost giving her the finger before flipping it into a stiff wave. Bitch! No tongues, no kissing on the neck, no nuzzling the ears, and absolutely not, under circumstances, was there to be any hint of breast fondling. Damn it.

'Leave all that for the bad guys,' Josh said when Ryan had complained way back in the first season.

'I thought I was supposed to be the bad guy,' Ryan had argued.

'God no!' Josh had exclaimed in horror. 'You're merely the unfortunate victim of circumstance, trying to better himself.'

More like the victim of castration, Ryan now thought bitterly.

'That's gotta hurt,' Seth commiserated, watching them saunter away, glad Summer wasn't around to dig him in the ribs.

Yeah, it hurt, Ryan acknowledged. Particularly since Volchok, who drifted in Marissa's wake like pond scum, his lascivious eyes directed at her lovely bottom, had clearly been written in to seduce her with rough sex. Some guys had all the luck.

'Fancy some chilli fries?' Seth asked brightly, after they disappeared. Seth always sought comfort in food.

'Nope,' Ryan decided. 'Garlic.' He returned Seth's high-five as they wandered off in search of compensation.

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Everyone fidgeted at the table. There should have been some excitement generated by the impending read-through, but as the cast thumbed through their scripts muttering dispiritedly, it was plain that all was not well.

'I'm drinking again?' asked Kirsten miserably. 'I thought that arc finished long ago.'

'At least if you cut yourself you wouldn't bleed a hundred-proof,' retorted Marissa, counting the number of hip flasks she had to empty this episode.

'How many times can you legally marry?' questioned Julie. 'I've single-handedly done more damage to women's independence than centuries of middle-eastern religion.'

'What about me?' exclaimed Sadie. 'Ryan ditches me, not once but twice, and I still don't get to slap him.' She waved away the scent of garlic wafting across the table and glared at Ryan.

Sandy snapped, 'Consider yourself lucky. I've gone from champion of the underdog to cut-throat mogul in three episodes and I'm saddled with an ungrateful wife, a dithering, pot-smoking son and a supposedly troubled ward who's just this much shy of being sainted.' He held a thumb and forefinger in the air, the bewilderment in his voice unconcealed.

Seth acknowledged him with a wave. 'Love you too, Dad.'

'Not as much as you love me, apparently,' quipped Summer, who had, as always, been distracted by Sandy's eyebrows. She watched, fascinated, as they bobbed up and down with every word and she longed to stroke them. 'Hope you've been brushing up on those Karma Sutra positions, Cohen.'

'Don't mock,' reprimanded Taylor. 'It was all for a good cause.'

Not mine, thought Ryan, miserably.

Volchok, who hadn't bothered to study the script, and had been staring at Marissa's breasts and dreaming of tomorrow's scene, smirked at Ryan, who this time did raise his finger.

The door opened and a team of writers trooped in, their scripts held up as though to ward off the glares fired at them by the waiting cast. There were the usual apologies, which no-one liked to make and no-one else believed, before scripts were opened, papers shuffled and pencils sharpened. A not-so-discreet cough from the head writer got everyone's attention and, with no discernible enthusiasm, the cast began to read.

Ryan's thirty-two words were slashed to twenty-seven.

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