Archive of Our Own ^beta

Oliver Putnam could be as imposing as anyone when the mood struck. He was a leader of multiple productions, and creative types needed a strong will to keep them on the right track to great performances.

True, he’d never been in any legal trouble - not counting his cease and desist order related to his script for “Hang ‘er High, ye Blackguards: A Judy G'aarland Pirate Fantasy.” He still thought Judy would have been able to stay in the harness for two-thirds of her time on stage, and the pirate culottes were not going to make her look fat. Real actors had the poise to dangle with dignity.

Speaking of dangling, he found himself handed down from the van and briefly hanging from the grip of two very stoic young men wearing an excessive amount of body armour to manhandle two men twice their age and one young woman.

“Careful there, sir,” one of them told him. “Icy on the pavement.”

“Thank you, young man,” Oliver said. “I am not wearing good shoes for this.”

Arguably, no shoes were good for being taken away by the police, but his loafers were really more for a lounge at home or a wander of the hallways to suggest a drink and a dip chaser.

Charles climbed down, his greater height forcing him to duck a little and lean on one of their escort’s shoulders. He bristled a little as he was given the same advice.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Mabel, watch your step. Can we uncuff the young woman and help her down, please?”

“I’m okay,” she said, hopping down without help.

“Okay,” he said, lifting his chin proudly.

They were led inside together, but separated almost immediately. Oliver and Charles were taken down one hallway and cuffed to a bench on uncomfortable display.

“Ugh.” Charles shuddered.

The drama was a little much, but Oliver did understand the actor’s attachment to drama. “You’re going to be fine,” he said. “So we can’t talk about the case, but I do want you to know I have your back.”

He tiptoed his way to angle to look at his friend, who was squinting at him in a very unflattering way for his crow’s feet.

“In what way?”

“In the shower,” Oliver told him. “I’ll have your back in the shower. I know I’m a pussycat most of the time, but I’ll tell you not always. Not always.”

Charles shuffled, his cuffed hands pulling a bit until he stopped moving. “I don’t think we’ll be showering together,” he said.

The poor man was in denial. Gently, so it didn’t startle him, Oliver nodded.

“They’ll book us, and take our fingerprints and photos - just like headshots!”

He hoped pointing out the familiar elements would make it all a little kinder. They weren’t going to be wonderful photos, but the camera wasn’t magic. One had to have a good grasp on reality in tough times. It was important not to take it too hard when the extra chins took their moment to shine.

“I won’t lie, Charles,” he said. “They’re going to do no favours for your hairline.”

“My hairline is fine!”

Forgiving the harsh words, he jiggled the bench to give the best shrug he could. “And don’t let them tell you otherwise. Another thing? There’s no one who hasn’t taken a photo with a glare down the nose like the landing lights of a major airport.”

Charles tried to wiggle their gap wider. “Can we not discuss my blotting needs right now, please? I think we have bigger things to consider,” he said.

Oh, the poor man had so many hangups from his time helplessly auditioning, hearing all the criticism about his body. Oliver knew the industry was merciless, and he pitied the young man Charles had been learning he wasn’t beautiful enough.

“Of course, I just didn’t want you to worry,” he said. “And the first shower I think is just the two of us and whoever else gets booked tonight. I won’t look, and I would never judge if I were to look.”

Charles sighed.

“We’ll stick together in there. I mean, there’s a delousing to get through, which is going to wreck havoc with my sinuses.”

Charles sighed louder.

“And the horizontal stripes around your middle are going to be tough to play off. But you have pretty good posture,” Oliver said happily. “You keep your core tight as you can and try to sit up straight.”

Charles’ next sigh turned into a moan.

“I will need you on the top bunk. My legs just don’t do well on the hustle up a ladder and I kick and kick when I finally get to sleep,” he said. “Some nights poor Winnie gives up on me and goes back to her own bed.”

The next sound was probably best described as a futile sob swallowed down bravely. Charles was really doing his best to rally, and Oliver knew he had to continue lending his strength.

“When it comes time for the, um, the facilities-” Oliver said quietly, “-I want you to know I’ve intuited your issues with digestion. It’s too late for some extra fibre, so I’ll just sing a while as you go, and you do what you need to. We’re friends, and I understand.”

There was a deep breath next to him, and Oliver respected the effort to be dignified.

“You go ahead and cry,” he said, tilting to try to see if Charles was taking his advice. “There’s no shame in an emotional release.”

“I am not crying,” Charles said, his lips barely moving.

“Well, later, after the shower, the delousing and the horizontal stripes, you might want to, and I want to make sure you know it’s okay. Or if you feel the need to have another form of release, that’s also a way of coping.”

Charles jerked upright, tugging on the bench and shaking both of them. He seemed to be panicking a little, and he cleared his throat loudly. “Please, can someone grill me under hot lamps and hit me with phone books until I give a false confession to a murder!? This is inhumane!”

“Hey, now! You’re a good man, and an innocent man, and justice serves us all!”

Detective Williams appeared from down the hallway, her drab clothing choices nothing compared to the daunting twist of her mouth.

“Mr. Putnam, normally I’d be fine with seeing some suffering taking its toll here, but it’s started to feel unfair you’re allowed to torture my collar. Can you please stop talking before your lawyer gets here? My officers are about to have an accidental discharge of a firearm to avoid more of your encouragement.”

He looked up with a steely gaze to match hers. “This man is my friend, thick or thin,” he said. “I mean, I suppose for him this is thin . . . But you don’t get to dial your metabolism up and down.”

She bit her lip. “My God, I’m locked in here with you.”

Oliver did appreciate her respect for his mental fortitude. “We’re not killers, Detective. And I’m going to prove it to you.”

“Please don’t,” Charles mumbled next to him.

“You have legal counsel on the way, try very hard not to incriminate the entirety of the Arconia.”

His body stretched to his full, proud height. “I make no promises, Detective!"