more richard dean anderson/michael shanks rps

[cimorene]

the challenge was mine this time.

michael shanks worked through five seasons of stargate before he walked in season six due to creative differences with the writers. what happened when rick, co-star and executive producer, asked him to come back?

naina's response

and my

it was, not to mince words or anything, a shitty day. it was raining when he woke up and it kept raining and stopped and started again all day. at ten am rick was sitting at the table with the lights off, eating sour cream and onion potato chip crumbs out of a bag he hadn't quite finished off the night before, drinking coffee so hot it hurt his mouth. he felt like the sludge in the kitchen sink when the garbage disposal is broken. finally he dragged himself into and out of a shower and drove to the grocery store. it had stopped raining--for five minutes, probably no more. the street was dark and wet, the water was rushing in the gutters, and the trees kept dripping raindrops, slow and sad, sprinkling over the street and the sidewalk. and it was the third day since he had called michael.

it was impossible to just ask michael to come back to the show. but he couldn't say 'come back for me' when he hadn't said anything like it all year--had never said anything like it ever, not when michael left rick's house after dinner, not when michael left the show. but now it was the official mandate of the suits he had to ask. and even though he agreed they really did need michael, what the show needed seemed really ridiculously unimportant next to what he needed. they had needed michael all along. whose decision was it? michael's. all along.

and he still didn't know exactly why michael had left. he really only knew that it wasn't just his artistic quibbles with the writers that had driven michael to go; he'd never given that explanation well. for all the times rick had thought it he'd never said, 'now, why are you really leaving?' for all the times he'd thought it, he'd never grabbed michael's arms, looked him in the eye, and said, 'what is this about?'

so rick had thought about this a lot. he'd gone through a lot of mornings feeling like sludge, shit, death warmed over, pondscum, and stinky, limp suits of empty clothes. he'd thought a lot about how he and michael had really always had two conversations going on at a time. the spoken and the unspoken. the 'hey, buddy' and the smile. the hug and the look in michael's eyes. but somewhere rick had lost the thread or dropped the ball or something, because where he had been the future had looked like a lot more 'hey buddy,' a lot of calling michael at odd hours, a lot of michael showing up unannounced in rick's kitchen on saturday morning with a bag full of beer and apples, a lot of smiling. but from where michael had been standing it had apparently looked different. he hadn't been able to look at michael and read track two, the unspoken, when michael had said he was going. for the first time. he'd been clueless, from then until now.

and now there was a message on his answering machine, just michael returning his call finally. 'rick. it's michael, and this is about... twelve thirty. give me a call.' an awkward little pause. 'okay.' click. buzz.

rick stood there for a minute, looking at the phone, without putting his hand on it. he wanted to know what it meant that michael had taken three days to answer--and he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer. but he picked up the handset and dialed before he could think any more about it.

'hello?' said michael.

'yeah, michael,' rick said. 'ah, sorry i missed the call. just stepped out to get some groceries.'

'oh, no problem,' said michael readily.

'so. how's things?'

'oh, good, you know.'

it was like they were both waiting for the conversation to happen without them. for fuck's sake. 'soooo,' rick said briskly, 'are you going to be coming back to us?'

and michael just said, 'sure.' he didn't hesitate.

sure? that was it? it was like he'd been pulling too hard at a rope and someone let go of the other end. rick didn't fall on his ass, though. 'wow,' he said, ''sure.' just like that? well, that's great--that's great, michael. great.' what was he--a broken record? 'great.'

michael said, very softly and thoughtfully, 'yeah.'

'uh. do you want to...'

he could hear michael's shit-eating grin, 'explain that?'

'yeah?'

'maybe you should have asked me sooner,' said michael innocently.

rick snorted in disbelief. 'that's all you were waiting for, huh? sort of a year-long "what's the magic word?"?'

'oh, no, honey,' he replied in his southern belle imitation, 'it's all in the delivery.' and he mimicked rick: 'are you going to be coming back to us?'

for a second, rick couldn't talk. dammit, he'd rehearsed for hours and then he'd rushed into saying it. thirteen months of not saying 'what's the goddamned real reason' and 'how could you leave me like that' and 'i need you'! spoiled because he couldn't say 'us' with a straight face. 'well,' he muttered, 'the other producers. we all agreed.'

'come on,' michael interrupted. 'what were you really going to say?'

rick opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again and closed it again. 'i'm going to have to get back to you on that one,' he said in a curiously calm voice, considering he sort of felt like he was drowning--drowning in the stale air coming from the heating vent next to the phone. it smelled like burnt dust.

'i bet it's weird,' said michael, in a voice absolutely as calm. 'talking for "the other producers" when we haven't spoken in a month.'

fucker. he knew what rick had almost said. what he'd wanted to say. 'to me,' rick said irritably.

there was a short hiss as michael took a breath all at once and a long one as he slowly let it out. a little silence swelled between them like a waterdrop dangling from the end of a twig. 'like i said,' he said mildly, and had to pause again. there was the sound of another deep breath; this one wavered as michael expelled it. 'like i said--you really--really--should have asked me that--' his voice was only a croak and he gave a little cough and said huskily, 'asked me that before.'

rick had been holding his breath so long it hurt. 'are you saying--'

'saying--?'

'fuck.' this was way down on rick's list of conversations to have on the goddamned fucking phone. he took a deep breath, to calm himself; he wondered if it sounded to michael the way michael's sounded to him.

maybe it did, because michael said so gently, in such a low, urgent voice, 'rick.'

rick closed his eyes and pressed his hand to his forehead. 'get your ass over here.'