Meme writing #3

[taratemima]

For nilchance

Danny/Tim hurt-comfort?

Standard disclaimer: I'm making it all up. Sorry, no sex, just swearing and implied past relationship.



I walk in, and Danny's lying on the floor. He's not moving. He's in his bare feet, shorts, and a t-shirt. I think, oh God, he's dead, I overworked him, it's my fault. Then I see he's grimacing and step back. OK, not dead.

Two scores for my movies and more for others and I never really talked to him, asked if he is really OK with the pace. I'd go over, listen to score bits, I'd tell him--or flail around in my usual manner--if I like it, and he'd kick me out to fix a sagging middle or polish the drum pattern. Oh God, I never looked to see--well, he always looks like he's half-dead, but I never asked if he was OK.

Then I realize I'm being useless standing around and kneel down. No blood, so relieved, and he's grunting and putting his hands down on the floor. He's trying to get up. Shit, do I keep him still or do I help him up? How do I make a stretcher again? Why can't I remember my Boy Scout stuff when I really need it?

Deciding that isn't helping, I get my phone out of my jacket pocket and dial 911, but not before almost dialing 999. Not in London anymore. I give his name, address, and try to tell the nice dispatcher that he's not dead, that he might have fallen.

"Ow, fuck, I can't move," I hear him below me.

I stop talking on the phone. "Danny, Danny, I'm calling the ambulance, don't worry."

He squints. "Burton how did you--oh, yeah, you got a key." I can almost see him turn red.

"Should I get Bridget? Is she around?"

"She's out with the baby--Christ, I forgot I had the kitchen floor refinished. I was just going up to get a drink. Take a break." I see a bottle of water on the counter, drops of more water dripping down. I wonder how long that has been out.

I snap back to reality. "Oh uh, yeah hello?" I make sure the ambulance knows how to get to his house. I'm told to stay calm and check if he can move without pain. I nod and thank them profusely.

I get off the phone and look at him. "OK, can you move anything?"

He cranes his head up. "Well, my neck isn't broken," he says. He lifts up himself a few inches before falling back down. "I hurt like hell, but I can move some things." He wiggles his toes to demonstrate.

"My head kills though. It's not like back in Boingo, I pop back in a dislocated shoulder and go." He smiles. "I'm becoming like you, Tim. I just hope I don't work myself into a major illness."

"Not funny. I didn't like walking in and seeing you flat on your back."

"Why, didn't want me out of my cage?"

"You're as big a bitch flat on your ass as you are--oh fuck, forget it. No, no, it's not that." I rub my face. "It's not that."

"You really were scared."

"Well, yeah?"

He looks up at me, steadily and with eyes that shouldn't be this dark. "Why?"

"Real dumb question and I'm supposed to be the airhead. You're my friend, you're someone who almost shares my brain, and I don't care if we had stopped sleeping together years and years ago or if you never write another score for me again. I don't--I want you to be OK.”

I get the water bottle on the counter and hand it to Danny. I had more to say. "You must've thought I'm using you."

He opens the bottle and shakes his head. "If I didn't fuck off after Nightmare, then I must like it. You were, and are, the most in-tune, pardon the pun, I've been with someone I worked, and until Bridget, someone I--ow, my jaw." He rubs his cheek and sips down his water regardless.

I touch his shoulder. "Yeah. Yeah." If it was years ago, and he wasn't in pain, that would have been the start to screwing on the studio floor. I don't do that anymore--because I have a kid, we get along better as friends, and Helena doesn't share. Yeah, she knows. She doesn't insist on heterosexuality, just monogamy.

It doesn't mean that I don't want to protect him. It doesn't mean that even as a balding old man (speaking as a graying old man who got an unexpected double chin), I still feel something for him, somewhere in the gut.

Danny looks at me, like he doesn't know what to do. Or maybe like he's grateful. Then, he moves his free hand toward mine and holds it. We look at each other, reassuring each other the only way we can.

The ambulance crew comes in, and we let go. I watch him look around as the attendants lift him on the stretcher. As soon as they leave, I get into my car. I call Bridget to let her know what happened and where he's going. I then start to follow the ambulance.

I'm crap at first aid, but I'm learning emotional aid. It's never too late to learn.