I am so sorry for leaving all you guys in the lurch.

Basically, it's very hard to talk about. I would much rather wind you a long tale of mystery and woe, accumulating in the eventual discovery of everything and then we can all go and watch some HIGNFY, but it's actually boring and a bit protracted.

Sufficed to say, I fucked up and deleted my account out of spite.

And I've come internet-crawling back. Hoping you guys may still remember me and won't get all mad.

However, this stuff is STILL severely problematic, to the point where I cannot come on full time for at least another month. Maybe longer. I just reactivated my account because LJ sent me a lovely note saying 'RESTART THIS DAMN ACCOUNT OR LOSE ALL FIC FOREVER' and I, well. Caved.

I'm sorry, guys. So sorry. But how do I usually apologise...?

Title: A Web of Decit (spoilers for last episode)
Author: NavBar! Remember me? *Waves*
Fandom: HIGNFY
Pairing: Various. All HIGNFY.
Notes: Er, drug abuse and affairs, anyone? Well, that part is indicative to HIGNFY anyway...

Armstrong

Alexander hates Have I Got News for You. Despises it. It's torture, expert torture. Well planned out water-boarding from a God that hates him. Sure, he loves the work. It's a lot easier to contribute to a script instead of having to start one from scratch, even if you are doing it on your own. It's not the work that he minds. It's the implementation that hurts.

Alexander had realised the sad truth months ago. He could never say no to Paul.

Maybe he liked being hurt? Maybe he enjoyed cheating on his wife - the thrill, the escapism. Paul was a good, solid vice from which there was no recovery service. Alexander knew he was hurting her. He couldn't just wave a magical wand and make her happy. They had been arguing for months. Shouting, yelling. Alexander had walked out one night when he was inches from hitting her.

Just the thought made him feel nauseous. He was trapped in a loveless marriage. It wasn't her fault as much as it was his own. Alexander had married because he thought you had to. He had shoved the feelings that, yes, there was a good chance that he liked men to one side, putting it in the box of 'things not to think about for a happy, British home'.

Fat lot of good that had done.

Alexander knew she knew he was cheating. She didn't wait up anymore at night. She washed his shirts with no comment, although they had twice the amount of aftershave on as usual. He wondered if she knew it was with a man. Maybe she thought he had a younger, slimmer, blonder girl. Or maybe she had worked it out. Would she have guessed it was Paul? No, he thought, probably not. He would have assumed it was Ben, or something.

Ben had guessed. Spot on, after a round of heavy drinking. Casually, politely and devastatingly vacant he had asked.

'Are you screwing around?'

No, Alexander had replied, and left it at that.

The affair was sex. Nothing more, nothing less. Paul wasn't a man to cuddle. They both needed a warm body to lie beside... and that was it. Plenty of times Alexander had slept in at Paul's modest flat, only to be woken up with some scrawled note indicating where the coffee was and how to lock up. Alexander supposed Paul didn't want to be reminded of what he was doing. Maybe he had been hurt or something.

No. Don't look for comfort. He won't give it to you. It's just sex, nothing more.

They always hooked up after a recording. It was an affair of convenience. After they had finished filming, they would end up in each other's dressing rooms, fisting into crumpled shirts and jackets as they struggled to stay sane enough to get back to Paul's apartment before screwing in the cabbie's back seat. God, it was addictive. Poisonous.

Deadly.

Deadly to Alexander's marriage, at least. But who needed marriage? Who needed anything apart from casual sex? Wasn't that how the animals did it?

Alexander sat forward in his seat and smiled at the camera, hoping that the operator would get his best side. Or, at least, make his ears look smaller.

Keep smiling, even if you're crying inside...

Hislop

Ian knew Paul too well to think nothing was going on. He was distracted and off his game. Ian studied him as he would a politician. His gags were brisk and without their usual spark. Reginald was topping every extension Paul made to a gag. Why was that happening? Why wasn't Paul on top - as he usually was?

Ian shook his head as Alexander took another cue. He was over analysing. He tended to do that. Reginald was a fantastic comedian, and he ran with the jokes because he was good, not because Paul was off. Ian tried to look at Paul's eyes across the set, but the glare of the lights was making it semi-impossible.

You care too much, you know.

Ian felt sick. He frowned, trying to keep up with what was going on in the show but at the same time desperate to work out what it was that was niggling at his brain. Something about Paul's composure. He was bright eyed, yes. Smiling. By all accounts, happy. But there was something there... something behind the eyes.

His mind clicked. Ian swallowed.

Oh. God, no.

Paul's laugh went on a little too long, he was sharp, but not Paul sharp. He took his cues fast - he was hyper. He wouldn't sit still. He was happy - all the time. Before and after recordings. Never drained. Always euphoric. Always... stimulated.

Ian couldn't believe he had missed the signs... again! Ian scowled, but tried to regain composure. Paul Merton, the man that pushed that knife so far up and into Angus' rib cage was... He couldn't even think the words. It was insane. Paul would never take drugs - right? He was always so full of energy that it was as if his blood naturally contained Ecstasy.

Maybe Ian was just over reacting. His years of training at his magazine to expect the worst filtering into the show. It wouldn't have been the first time. But, still... every bone in Ian's body was telling him he had got it right. It was just so unlike Paul. Ian could remember how he had reacted after Angus' revelations had become public.

Merton had become very shut off. As if Angus' problems were somehow a family situation, instead of a moment to revel in and enjoy. Ian had expected Paul to be glad for an opportunity to insult, attack and rip into Angus. And, eventually, he had joined in. Perhaps with more viciousness than Ian had expected, but then again Angus had cheated on his wife. It was to be expected, right?

An overheard conversation swam into Ian's mind.

'How could you do it?'

'What? Look, I wouldn't have slept with her if I knew she was going to tell the papers, would I? Jesus Christ, as low opinion as you have of me, my intelligence is slightly higher than that.'

'I meant, how could you sleep with someone else?'

'What?'

'I thought...'

'Look, Paul. Monogamy is not my strong suit. I thought you knew that. I'm sorry it's blown up in my face, but don't expect me to apologise for having an affair. You know how stupid that sounds from you?'

'Fuck you, Deayton. I don't need this.'

'Yeah you do. You love it. Because you can't have -'

'Shut up.

'Or what?'

'SHUT UP!'

'I know it, Paul. And I can accept that. Why can't you?'

'... You are going to regret that for the rest of your life.'

'What?'

'I am going to rip you to shreds out there. And I'm going to enjoy every. Fucking. Minute. Enjoy your whores, because it's all you're ever going to have.'

Ian had caught it accidently, a conversation yelled in a busy corridor. It hadn't made any sense at the time, but now... if Paul didn't care about the drugs, then he must just have cared about...

Shit.

Ian gritted his teeth.

And you call yourself an investigative journalist...

Merton

Paul slammed back into his seat after the most energetic exercise he had had in years. The audience loved it. He drank their laughter deeply, especially enjoying the giggles he was getting from Alexander. Paul shot him a look. Alexander looked away, swallowing. Paul smiled further. He was planning on getting a lot more than just giggling from Alexander tonight.

His glance spread to Ian, who was looking at him carefully. Paul tried a little wave, and an exhausted forehead wipe, even though he was hardly feeling it at all. Ian kept looking. It was unnerving. Paul fiddled with his cuffs, checking he hadn't broken buttons or something. But Ian wasn't staring at his suit. He was staring at Paul's eyes.

Paul's breath hitched.

He knows.

He saw Ian's eyes relax, and his teeth clench.

Oh, damn. Now he knows I know he knows.

Paul needed to get out of here - fast. With Alexander, if that was at all possible now. Although he might be too tired for anything energetic tonight. Paul mentally calculated how much he had left underneath his bed. It should be enough, right?

Paul shook his head, his heart racing. How could he be thinking about drugs now, when Ian was finally on track? Jesus - what would he do? Would he out him to the producers? The BBC? The whole world? Damn that crap magazine of his and its modest circulation. Paul rubbed his face, trying to rub away the burn which Ian was layering onto them.

Ian didn't look away. Alexander took his last retake, and they were done. As quickly as he could, Paul left his seat, ignoring everything apart from his goals.

Get to the dressing room. Get to your jacket. Get your money. Get a taxi. Take Alexander home, fuck him, and then stay inside until you figure this out. But what does Ian think of me? God, he must hate me... I can't believe I fucked up so ba-

'Paul.'

Oh, God. Ignore it. Ignore it. You're not thirty two anymore. It's not the same situation. Dressing room. Jacket. Money. Taxi. Fuck. Inside.

'Paul.'

Dressing... room? Money and then... something... right?

'Paul!'

Paul swung around quickly, meeting a confused Alexander.

'Why are you moving so fast?' he asked, slightly slower than Paul would have assumed.

'Am I? Oh, sorry. I'm just excited,' Paul flashed a smile.

'Excited?' Alexander asked, confused.

Shit, shit, shit. This wasn't how you seduced someone. Outside secondary school, at least. Some small part of Paul was yelling 'abort plan!'

Paul decided to listen to it. He swallowed, his mouth dry, and wrung his hands together, getting suddenly aware of how close Ian could be to ruining his life. 

Or how much you've screwed up with him.

'Listen, about tonight,' Paul looked nervously over Alexander's shoulder. Alexander just looked perplexed. 'I have to cancel. Things to do and, erm.'

'Oh,' Alexander looked a little disappointed. Paul quirked an eyebrow. That was... odd.

'I'm just not up for it,' Paul continued. 'I guess I exerted myself a little too much.'

'We could go out?' Alexander offered, and then bit back after the words escaped his lips. 'I mean, as work friends. Not as anything...'

'Look,' Paul said, desperately wanting to leave. 'I don't know what you think this is, but I'm not going to be in it if you're just going to follow me around like some love-sick puppy.'

Alexander looked as if he had been slapped. Paul knew he should take the time to shut up and go, but something inside him was desperate to get this out in the open. Was he enjoying it? Maybe, a little.

'You're a fuck, a good one, but just a fuck. If you want something more than that, go screw some other bloke, okay? Because I don't need your shit.'

Alexander scowled into Paul's eyes. Paul didn't need Alexander's contempt. He felt his face twitch.

'Fuck you,' Alexander scowled. 'You complete... utter, utter bastard.'

Paul saw Ian coming, his face terrifyingly complacent and determined. Paul swore openly, and Alexander started, looking over his shoulder to Ian.

'Oh, you scared of your boyfriend?' Alexander spat, catching Paul's eye.

Paul twitched, not being able to stop. 'I'm not fucking Ian,' he scowled.

'Why not?' Alexander paused for effect, a toothy smile. 'I mean, you fucked Deayton.'

Paul's fist connected with Alexander's jaw before he even felt it move. The surrounding crew took an intake of breath. Ian ran up to the pair, Alexander out cold on the floor. Paul fell to the ground, his heart rutting at his ribcage, but could only think one thing as Ian stared at him with horror and cold contempt.

I wanted him to love me. Why would he love me now?

No one

It was hard for Ian to talk to Paul after that. But he managed to, eventually. The producers had found out everything. They had to know, after all Paul had punched a respectable man for seemingly no reason. But the producers were smart, and liked their income. They managed to work out a deal. Paul would get clean in time for the next series, and no one would have to know. The studio's own little secret.

Ian wanted to run the story. Not because he didn't like Paul - but because of the injustice of the whole thing. How could they sit there at their desks, berating MPs over their expenses lies, when they had their own cover up nicely packed away? It was dishonest.

But he didn't run it. He sat on the story. He said Paul was ill when they wondered why he hadn't done the last two episodes, he ignored any Private Eye hack who mentioned putting forward a story about a fight someone had had in a corridor at the BBC. Ian did everything he was supposed to do to be a good friend to Paul.

But Ian wanted answers. And he got them, when he opened the door three weeks later and Paul let himself in.

'We had an affair,' Paul explained, speaking more to the cup of tea Ian had provided rather than his fellow Captain. 'I knew it was wrong, but I was so lonely. And I didn't know he was into so much - we hardly ever talked outside the... and then when it all came out I was so angry. So frustrated that I was just another cheap lay to him. Another conquest. It was degrading.'

Ian bit on his tongue, refraining from pointing out the entire concept of affairs were degrading - that's why they were so painful. He allowed Paul to continue.

'I hated him so much after that. That's why I attacked him so much. I wanted him to hurt, to be buried with the shame. I wanted to stick him in the ground and spit on his grave.' Paul put his head in his hands. 'But it didn't work.'

'Hating him didn't work?' Ian asked, softly.

'No, everything. Everything didn't work. I started losing it, Ian. Losing my wit, I was blunt instead of sharp. Then I remembered how much money I have stored up and thought that I could afford it. Afford a little... kick.'

'Kick.'

'I know. I know. But I needed it, Ian.'

Ian would never believe that, but let Paul continue on.

'And then Alexander and me got drunk and h... high, and we started... look, I'm just sorry.'

'Sorry?' Ian asked. 'Why are you apologising to me? You should be apologising to Alexander's wife or something, surely?' 

'I broke your trust,' Paul said, quietly.

Ian swallowed, remembering another conversation from such a long time ago.

'... drugs, alcohol and sex, Merton. That's how careers are ruined in political journalism. As soon as you do something wrong, you're no longer on the sidelines looking in. You're in the mud pit with all which you are supposed to be against, and no one looks right anymore in that situation. Stay away from those three vices, and you'll be fine. And you won't break my trust.'

'Thanks, Ian, but I don't really need your advice.'

'Hmm? Then why did you ask?'

'I didn't! I think you're drunk.'

'Well... well, so are you.'

'Okay, then.'

'Ian, you said stay away from sex, right? In y'list?'

'Mmm?'

'What if I... really wanted to kiss you, right now.'

'...I'm married, Paul.'

'Would you kiss me back, though?'

'...I...'

'Would you?'

Ian looked into Paul's eyes and knew how Paul could have got so lost. He had been so close to being lost himself.  Slowly, and carefully, he took Paul's hand and looked into his eyes.

'You didn't break my trust. And I'm here for you. I'm sorry.'

Ian let go of everything for a second, and just existed for a moment. And finally, slowly, and achingly, Ian lent in and got the kiss which could have solved everything, stopped everything, eighteen years ago.