Riona (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rionaleonhart) wrote2026-01-12 12:50 pm
rionaleonhart) wrote2026-01-12 12:50 pm
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Fanfiction: Broken Hearts and Broken Bones (The Goes Wrong Show, Robert/Chris)
I love this stupid show so much. It's a shame that I've run out of episodes; it brings me so much joy. Still, at least there's fanfiction! (And rewatching. I've now seen the episode '90 Degrees' four times in the course of approximately a month, on account of showing it to everyone I know.)
There's something very nostalgic about how loud and ridiculous Robert is; writing him brings me back to writing Jeremy Clarkson, back in my Top Gear days. They're both a lot of fun to write!
Thank you toapiphile, who helped to inspire this fic; I wrote a couple of lines as a joke in response to one of his comments, and then I just kept going!
Title: Broken Hearts and Broken Bones
Fandom: The Goes Wrong Show
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Robert/Chris
Wordcount: 2,300
Summary: Robert attempts to seduce Chris. His techniques leave a little to be desired.
“Come along,” Chris orders, herding his cast towards the stage. “We’re running a little behind time, but if we can get quickly into our starting positions – someone will need to escort Dennis – what in God’s name...?”
The entire set is strewn with flower petals. Strewn with might not be the right phrase; a more apt description might be buried under. Enormous drifts of rose petals cover the stage, obscuring crucial props and most likely clogging the mechanisms of several rather delicate pieces of machinery.
Sandra lets out a small exclamation of delight, which is not the appropriate emotion in these circumstances.
“Ah!” Robert exclaims, throwing his arms wide. “A romantic gesture, no doubt. Perhaps our director has a secret admirer?”
“Shut up, Robert.” Chris folds his arms. “Whatever sort of gesture this might be, it’s a tremendous inconvenience. We’re going to have to clear all of this up.”
“And when you say we,” Trevor says, “you mean...?”
“Yes, Trevor, if you could get started, please.” Chris pauses for a moment, surveying the scene. “Well, we really can’t delay any further, so...”
-
“Good evening, and welcome to Play of the Week.” Chris beams at the audience. “Today’s play takes place on a space station after a freak, ah, confetti machine explosion. You may spot the station staff clearing up the confetti in the background of scenes; please be assured that this is all part of building the atmosphere.”
The performing conditions are what one might call ‘suboptimal’. Jonathan somehow becomes buried in flower petals and struggles to dig himself out. Vanessa inhales at the wrong moment and spends most of the second act hacking up rose petals backstage. There are a couple of minor fires. But they do make it to the curtain, at least, rendering this performance more successful than approximately fifty percent of their efforts.
-
There’s a knock on the door of Chris’s dressing room while he’s packing up. He always appreciates being given an opportunity to gather his things after a performance; so many venues just chase you out onto the street, which is frankly very rude.
He opens the door. It’s Robert, thankfully, rather than an angry member of theatre staff.
“Chris,” Robert says. “May I have a word?”
Chris gestures him inside. Probably another demand for the lead in the next play. There’s a good chance they’ll both end up shouting at each other, but he can handle that.
Robert struts around the room, his hands clasped behind him, inspecting assorted slightly singed costume pieces and the encouraging notes Chris left for himself on the mirror. At last he turns to face Chris.
“It’s occurred to me,” Robert says, “that my past relationship with your mother may have left you with certain concerns.”
What? This isn’t what Chris had braced himself for. This is a subject Chris prefers to keep locked at the very back of his mind, although it does occasionally creep out to haunt him when he’s trying to sleep.
“Well,” Chris says. “Well, you could say that, but... do we need to discuss it?”
“Yes, Chris, this is important. Here you go.” He hands Chris a large roll of paper.
Chris, on the point of unrolling it, hesitates. “It’s not a photograph, is it?”
“What? No. Do you think I’m some sort of pornographer? Any photographs I might have of your mother are strictly for private use.”
Hastily, mainly to give himself something other than that statement to focus on, Chris unrolls the sheet of paper. It’s some sort of diagram, covered in stick figures and lines and annotations that, despite being written entirely in capital letters, somehow manage to be near-illegible. “What is this?”
“I’ve drawn up this chart to demonstrate that, although my brief romance with your mother may have led you to view me as a father figure, I am not, in fact, your father.” Robert tucks his hands importantly into his pockets. “Therefore, it’s not actually a problem if we sleep together.”
“I can promise I have never viewed you as a – if we what?”
“That business with my sister was fairly distasteful,” Robert says, “but I’ve looked into that as well, just in case. If you’d married her, we’d be brothers-in-law, but it still wouldn’t be considered incestuous if we slept together. Can you believe that? It’d be adultery, I suppose, which is also frowned upon, but—”
“What are you talking about?” Chris demands. What on Earth is happening? “I’m not marrying your sister, and why – what are you – why were you looking into this at all?”
“Well,” Robert says, “personal interest, I suppose.”
“Perso—”
Chris cuts himself off, abruptly. He has an extremely bad feeling about this.
“Robert,” he says, “are you the one who covered our set in rose petals?”
“Ah!” Robert exclaims, clutching his chest in his personal favourite technique for conveying shock. “My romantic gesture, laid bare for all to see! It’s true; ’twas I who went to such great effort to catch the eye of my beloved.”
Chris would love to ask exactly how many times he’s rehearsed those lines, but there are greater concerns here. “And your ‘beloved’ would be...?”
Robert drops his hand, the drama of his expression flashing instantly to incredulity. “You, Chris, obviously. I’m courting you.”
Chris takes a moment to digest that. It is not especially digestible.
“Courting,” he says, faintly.
“Yes, Chris, keep up. Am I succeeding? Have you been seduced?”
It occurs to Chris too late, as he looks the person in front of him slowly up and down, that this might be taken as an expression of interest. The person in front of him, no matter how long he looks, continues to be Robert Grove.
“No,” Chris says. “No, I – I really don’t think I have.”
A few strange seconds pass. Is Robert serious about this? What could be going through his head in this instant? He looks the same as ever.
“Disappointing, Chris,” Robert says, eventually. “A reflection of your lack of judgement in casting decisions. I’ll fix it.”
“You’ll – you’ll fix...? You’ll fix what?”
Robert strides out of the room without another word.
-
“Where the hell is everyone?”
“Detained, I’m afraid,” Robert says. “Unavoidably, one must assume.”
“Detained?” Chris paces the rehearsal room, restless. Not only is this disastrous for their rehearsal plans, but it leaves him alone with Robert, a situation he’s been taking great pains to avoid. “This is ridiculous; what’s keeping them? I specifically waited until all the injuries from our last performance could heal.”
“We’ll have to start the rehearsal without them,” Robert says, with a shrug.
He’s seemed normal enough since that one disconcerting conversation, or normal by Robert standards, but the prospect still makes Chris hesitate. “Just the two of us? There hardly seems much point.”
“That’s no attitude, Chris. You’ve said it yourself: every rehearsal is one lawsuit fewer.”
That is true. That is very much true. Once, frustrated and discouraged, Chris had drastically cut the rehearsal schedule, assuming the play would be a disaster either way. The resultant performance had concussed half the audience and destroyed the theatre in which they were booked, along with several others in the local vicinity.
“We might as well give it a quick runthrough,” Chris concedes.
-
It’s calming, in a way, performing with Robert. There’s some confusion over how they’re dividing up the roles between them, but Robert, for all his faults, is generally a competent actor. Things are running more smoothly than Chris is used to. Perhaps they should consider putting on a two-man play once in a while.
Chris has been worrying over nothing, probably. That whole seduction business can’t have been serious.
“Now,” Robert says, “to the love scene.”
He backs Chris easily against the wall of the rehearsal room. Chris winces his eyes shut for a moment; when his back hits anything, there’s always a moment when he half-expects it to collapse.
An instant later, something kicks in, a sense that something isn’t right. “Hold on. Are you playing my role?”
“Well, someone’s got to play Sandra’s.”
“Someone’s got to play Chris’s role as well,” Chris points out.
“Yes,” Robert says. “Me. That’s what I’m doing.”
“Given that Sandra isn’t here,” Chris says, “and Chris is, wouldn’t it make more sense—”
“We haven’t long, my dear,” Robert murmurs, dropping his voice perhaps two entire decibels.
Oh, damn, they’re into the scene already. Chris delivers Sandra’s line almost without thought. “They could hear us.”
“I’ve thought of this a long time, you know.” Robert strokes Chris’s cheek. “Despite your controlling nature and astonishingly irritating personality.”
Not the line.
Robert plants his hands against the wall, on either side of Chris. “Whatever mental defect might be leading me to find you attractive, I’ve decided to pursue it. The question is whether you can overcome whatever defect is causing you to turn me down.”
Not the line, not the line, not the line. Shit!
Chris places both hands on Robert’s chest, holding him carefully at arm’s length. It abruptly feels very weird to be touching him, especially pinned against the wall like this. He ducks out under Robert’s arm.
“What are you doing?” Robert asks. “We’ve barely started the scene.”
“Robert,” Chris says, “please tell me you didn’t orchestrate this two-person rehearsal.”
“The nerve!” Robert exclaims. “As if I would sabotage the noble art of theatre in such a way.”
“Where,” Chris says, slowly and deliberately, “are the others?”
Robert clears his throat. “Word may have got about that the rehearsal was cancelled.”
Chris presses both hands to his temples. Closes his eyes for a moment. Why is this the life he’s found himself leading?
“What’s your goal here, Robert?” he asks at last, letting his hands fall. “Are you trying to sleep with the director in the hope of getting better roles?”
“How dare you?” Robert demands. A pause. “Not a bad point, though. Would you give me better roles if I slept with you?”
Oddly enough, it’s not the first time he’s been asked that. Sandra made some overtures, perplexingly, back when she was the only actress in the troupe and already played every female lead by default. He still can’t fathom what she was hoping for. “Of course not!”
“Well, then, no,” Robert says. “Although, if you happened to feel like rewarding me for my performance, I’m sure it wouldn’t go amiss.”
“I’ll give you better roles if you stop trying to sleep with me,” Chris says. He holds out his palm, as sarcastically as he can manage. “How about that?”
Robert reaches out to shake his hand. “You have yourself a deal.”
“What?” Chris jerks his hand away. “Why are you agreeing so quickly?”
“What do you mean, why am I agreeing? You just offered me centre stage.”
“I said better,” Chris says. “I didn’t specify – look, I’m asking why you’re agreeing so quickly. It’s almost like your goal all along was to get this sort of deal. It’s almost like you’re not actually attracted to me at all.”
“You’re paranoid, Chris. I’d fuck you very happily. It’s just that prime casting is equally attractive.”
“Equally attractive? Sounds like it’s more attractive, with the speed you—” The words really hit Chris halfway through, I’d fuck you very happily, and his voice sort of chokes off midsentence.
Robert shrugs. “All right, more attractive, then. What does it matter to you? You’ve made it clear enough that you’re not interested in my advances.”
“I just think you could show a little more dedication.” Chris folds his arms. “At least show some reluctance, for God’s sake. This person you’re supposedly interested in is asking you to leave them alone. Surely that should hurt you.”
“Are you directing me, Chris?” Robert asks. “Are you directing me on how to deal with my own attraction?”
“Well, apparently you can’t manage it yourself!”
“All right; it hurts me. Oh, woe is me, et cetera. With great reluctance, I shall cast my feelings aside for the greater good of the theatre-going public. I’ll expect the lead role in the next play.”
Chris lets out a burst of outraged, bitter laughter. “I can’t believe I actually thought you wanted me.”
“I can’t believe I had any interest in you, if it’s any consolation,” Robert says. “It’s just as well you were unmoved by my seduction. Good news for both of us: it’s now at an end.”
“No,” Chris says. The word bursts out of him, an explosion, uncontrollable. “Carry on. Show me you meant it.”
Robert raises his eyebrows. “Absolutely not. The casting is the better deal. I’ll take that, thank you very much.”
“Then—” What is he doing? What is he saying? “Then kiss me. I’m telling you to do it, so it doesn’t count as you trying to seduce me. Kiss me.”
There’s an instant of total silence.
“No,” Robert says.
“No? What, so—” He’s startled by the emotion that rises in his throat, a kind of outraged emptiness, a furious vindication that verges strangely close on disappointment. “So I was right. You’re not actually interested in me at all.”
“Not with that delivery,” Robert says. “Tell me to kiss you again. Make me believe that you mean it.”
“I do mean it!”
“Make me believe it. You’re an actor, aren’t you?”
“Kiss me!” Chris demands. “Kiss me, you bastard!”
Robert sweeps Chris off his feet and into his arms.
It lands Chris in the hospital with two fractured vertebrae, but, all things considered, it’s not one of the worst kisses he’s had.
There's something very nostalgic about how loud and ridiculous Robert is; writing him brings me back to writing Jeremy Clarkson, back in my Top Gear days. They're both a lot of fun to write!
Thank you to
apiphile, who helped to inspire this fic; I wrote a couple of lines as a joke in response to one of his comments, and then I just kept going!Title: Broken Hearts and Broken Bones
Fandom: The Goes Wrong Show
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Robert/Chris
Wordcount: 2,300
Summary: Robert attempts to seduce Chris. His techniques leave a little to be desired.
“Come along,” Chris orders, herding his cast towards the stage. “We’re running a little behind time, but if we can get quickly into our starting positions – someone will need to escort Dennis – what in God’s name...?”
The entire set is strewn with flower petals. Strewn with might not be the right phrase; a more apt description might be buried under. Enormous drifts of rose petals cover the stage, obscuring crucial props and most likely clogging the mechanisms of several rather delicate pieces of machinery.
Sandra lets out a small exclamation of delight, which is not the appropriate emotion in these circumstances.
“Ah!” Robert exclaims, throwing his arms wide. “A romantic gesture, no doubt. Perhaps our director has a secret admirer?”
“Shut up, Robert.” Chris folds his arms. “Whatever sort of gesture this might be, it’s a tremendous inconvenience. We’re going to have to clear all of this up.”
“And when you say we,” Trevor says, “you mean...?”
“Yes, Trevor, if you could get started, please.” Chris pauses for a moment, surveying the scene. “Well, we really can’t delay any further, so...”
“Good evening, and welcome to Play of the Week.” Chris beams at the audience. “Today’s play takes place on a space station after a freak, ah, confetti machine explosion. You may spot the station staff clearing up the confetti in the background of scenes; please be assured that this is all part of building the atmosphere.”
The performing conditions are what one might call ‘suboptimal’. Jonathan somehow becomes buried in flower petals and struggles to dig himself out. Vanessa inhales at the wrong moment and spends most of the second act hacking up rose petals backstage. There are a couple of minor fires. But they do make it to the curtain, at least, rendering this performance more successful than approximately fifty percent of their efforts.
There’s a knock on the door of Chris’s dressing room while he’s packing up. He always appreciates being given an opportunity to gather his things after a performance; so many venues just chase you out onto the street, which is frankly very rude.
He opens the door. It’s Robert, thankfully, rather than an angry member of theatre staff.
“Chris,” Robert says. “May I have a word?”
Chris gestures him inside. Probably another demand for the lead in the next play. There’s a good chance they’ll both end up shouting at each other, but he can handle that.
Robert struts around the room, his hands clasped behind him, inspecting assorted slightly singed costume pieces and the encouraging notes Chris left for himself on the mirror. At last he turns to face Chris.
“It’s occurred to me,” Robert says, “that my past relationship with your mother may have left you with certain concerns.”
What? This isn’t what Chris had braced himself for. This is a subject Chris prefers to keep locked at the very back of his mind, although it does occasionally creep out to haunt him when he’s trying to sleep.
“Well,” Chris says. “Well, you could say that, but... do we need to discuss it?”
“Yes, Chris, this is important. Here you go.” He hands Chris a large roll of paper.
Chris, on the point of unrolling it, hesitates. “It’s not a photograph, is it?”
“What? No. Do you think I’m some sort of pornographer? Any photographs I might have of your mother are strictly for private use.”
Hastily, mainly to give himself something other than that statement to focus on, Chris unrolls the sheet of paper. It’s some sort of diagram, covered in stick figures and lines and annotations that, despite being written entirely in capital letters, somehow manage to be near-illegible. “What is this?”
“I’ve drawn up this chart to demonstrate that, although my brief romance with your mother may have led you to view me as a father figure, I am not, in fact, your father.” Robert tucks his hands importantly into his pockets. “Therefore, it’s not actually a problem if we sleep together.”
“I can promise I have never viewed you as a – if we what?”
“That business with my sister was fairly distasteful,” Robert says, “but I’ve looked into that as well, just in case. If you’d married her, we’d be brothers-in-law, but it still wouldn’t be considered incestuous if we slept together. Can you believe that? It’d be adultery, I suppose, which is also frowned upon, but—”
“What are you talking about?” Chris demands. What on Earth is happening? “I’m not marrying your sister, and why – what are you – why were you looking into this at all?”
“Well,” Robert says, “personal interest, I suppose.”
“Perso—”
Chris cuts himself off, abruptly. He has an extremely bad feeling about this.
“Robert,” he says, “are you the one who covered our set in rose petals?”
“Ah!” Robert exclaims, clutching his chest in his personal favourite technique for conveying shock. “My romantic gesture, laid bare for all to see! It’s true; ’twas I who went to such great effort to catch the eye of my beloved.”
Chris would love to ask exactly how many times he’s rehearsed those lines, but there are greater concerns here. “And your ‘beloved’ would be...?”
Robert drops his hand, the drama of his expression flashing instantly to incredulity. “You, Chris, obviously. I’m courting you.”
Chris takes a moment to digest that. It is not especially digestible.
“Courting,” he says, faintly.
“Yes, Chris, keep up. Am I succeeding? Have you been seduced?”
It occurs to Chris too late, as he looks the person in front of him slowly up and down, that this might be taken as an expression of interest. The person in front of him, no matter how long he looks, continues to be Robert Grove.
“No,” Chris says. “No, I – I really don’t think I have.”
A few strange seconds pass. Is Robert serious about this? What could be going through his head in this instant? He looks the same as ever.
“Disappointing, Chris,” Robert says, eventually. “A reflection of your lack of judgement in casting decisions. I’ll fix it.”
“You’ll – you’ll fix...? You’ll fix what?”
Robert strides out of the room without another word.
“Where the hell is everyone?”
“Detained, I’m afraid,” Robert says. “Unavoidably, one must assume.”
“Detained?” Chris paces the rehearsal room, restless. Not only is this disastrous for their rehearsal plans, but it leaves him alone with Robert, a situation he’s been taking great pains to avoid. “This is ridiculous; what’s keeping them? I specifically waited until all the injuries from our last performance could heal.”
“We’ll have to start the rehearsal without them,” Robert says, with a shrug.
He’s seemed normal enough since that one disconcerting conversation, or normal by Robert standards, but the prospect still makes Chris hesitate. “Just the two of us? There hardly seems much point.”
“That’s no attitude, Chris. You’ve said it yourself: every rehearsal is one lawsuit fewer.”
That is true. That is very much true. Once, frustrated and discouraged, Chris had drastically cut the rehearsal schedule, assuming the play would be a disaster either way. The resultant performance had concussed half the audience and destroyed the theatre in which they were booked, along with several others in the local vicinity.
“We might as well give it a quick runthrough,” Chris concedes.
It’s calming, in a way, performing with Robert. There’s some confusion over how they’re dividing up the roles between them, but Robert, for all his faults, is generally a competent actor. Things are running more smoothly than Chris is used to. Perhaps they should consider putting on a two-man play once in a while.
Chris has been worrying over nothing, probably. That whole seduction business can’t have been serious.
“Now,” Robert says, “to the love scene.”
He backs Chris easily against the wall of the rehearsal room. Chris winces his eyes shut for a moment; when his back hits anything, there’s always a moment when he half-expects it to collapse.
An instant later, something kicks in, a sense that something isn’t right. “Hold on. Are you playing my role?”
“Well, someone’s got to play Sandra’s.”
“Someone’s got to play Chris’s role as well,” Chris points out.
“Yes,” Robert says. “Me. That’s what I’m doing.”
“Given that Sandra isn’t here,” Chris says, “and Chris is, wouldn’t it make more sense—”
“We haven’t long, my dear,” Robert murmurs, dropping his voice perhaps two entire decibels.
Oh, damn, they’re into the scene already. Chris delivers Sandra’s line almost without thought. “They could hear us.”
“I’ve thought of this a long time, you know.” Robert strokes Chris’s cheek. “Despite your controlling nature and astonishingly irritating personality.”
Not the line.
Robert plants his hands against the wall, on either side of Chris. “Whatever mental defect might be leading me to find you attractive, I’ve decided to pursue it. The question is whether you can overcome whatever defect is causing you to turn me down.”
Not the line, not the line, not the line. Shit!
Chris places both hands on Robert’s chest, holding him carefully at arm’s length. It abruptly feels very weird to be touching him, especially pinned against the wall like this. He ducks out under Robert’s arm.
“What are you doing?” Robert asks. “We’ve barely started the scene.”
“Robert,” Chris says, “please tell me you didn’t orchestrate this two-person rehearsal.”
“The nerve!” Robert exclaims. “As if I would sabotage the noble art of theatre in such a way.”
“Where,” Chris says, slowly and deliberately, “are the others?”
Robert clears his throat. “Word may have got about that the rehearsal was cancelled.”
Chris presses both hands to his temples. Closes his eyes for a moment. Why is this the life he’s found himself leading?
“What’s your goal here, Robert?” he asks at last, letting his hands fall. “Are you trying to sleep with the director in the hope of getting better roles?”
“How dare you?” Robert demands. A pause. “Not a bad point, though. Would you give me better roles if I slept with you?”
Oddly enough, it’s not the first time he’s been asked that. Sandra made some overtures, perplexingly, back when she was the only actress in the troupe and already played every female lead by default. He still can’t fathom what she was hoping for. “Of course not!”
“Well, then, no,” Robert says. “Although, if you happened to feel like rewarding me for my performance, I’m sure it wouldn’t go amiss.”
“I’ll give you better roles if you stop trying to sleep with me,” Chris says. He holds out his palm, as sarcastically as he can manage. “How about that?”
Robert reaches out to shake his hand. “You have yourself a deal.”
“What?” Chris jerks his hand away. “Why are you agreeing so quickly?”
“What do you mean, why am I agreeing? You just offered me centre stage.”
“I said better,” Chris says. “I didn’t specify – look, I’m asking why you’re agreeing so quickly. It’s almost like your goal all along was to get this sort of deal. It’s almost like you’re not actually attracted to me at all.”
“You’re paranoid, Chris. I’d fuck you very happily. It’s just that prime casting is equally attractive.”
“Equally attractive? Sounds like it’s more attractive, with the speed you—” The words really hit Chris halfway through, I’d fuck you very happily, and his voice sort of chokes off midsentence.
Robert shrugs. “All right, more attractive, then. What does it matter to you? You’ve made it clear enough that you’re not interested in my advances.”
“I just think you could show a little more dedication.” Chris folds his arms. “At least show some reluctance, for God’s sake. This person you’re supposedly interested in is asking you to leave them alone. Surely that should hurt you.”
“Are you directing me, Chris?” Robert asks. “Are you directing me on how to deal with my own attraction?”
“Well, apparently you can’t manage it yourself!”
“All right; it hurts me. Oh, woe is me, et cetera. With great reluctance, I shall cast my feelings aside for the greater good of the theatre-going public. I’ll expect the lead role in the next play.”
Chris lets out a burst of outraged, bitter laughter. “I can’t believe I actually thought you wanted me.”
“I can’t believe I had any interest in you, if it’s any consolation,” Robert says. “It’s just as well you were unmoved by my seduction. Good news for both of us: it’s now at an end.”
“No,” Chris says. The word bursts out of him, an explosion, uncontrollable. “Carry on. Show me you meant it.”
Robert raises his eyebrows. “Absolutely not. The casting is the better deal. I’ll take that, thank you very much.”
“Then—” What is he doing? What is he saying? “Then kiss me. I’m telling you to do it, so it doesn’t count as you trying to seduce me. Kiss me.”
There’s an instant of total silence.
“No,” Robert says.
“No? What, so—” He’s startled by the emotion that rises in his throat, a kind of outraged emptiness, a furious vindication that verges strangely close on disappointment. “So I was right. You’re not actually interested in me at all.”
“Not with that delivery,” Robert says. “Tell me to kiss you again. Make me believe that you mean it.”
“I do mean it!”
“Make me believe it. You’re an actor, aren’t you?”
“Kiss me!” Chris demands. “Kiss me, you bastard!”
Robert sweeps Chris off his feet and into his arms.
It lands Chris in the hospital with two fractured vertebrae, but, all things considered, it’s not one of the worst kisses he’s had.
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no subject
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“Good evening, and welcome to Play of the Week.” Chris beams at the audience. “Today’s play takes place on a space station after a freak, ah, confetti machine explosion. You may spot the station staff clearing up the confetti in the background of scenes; please be assured that this is all part of building the atmosphere.”
Chris I'm so proud of your The Show Must Go On bullshit.
“It’s occurred to me,” Robert says, “that my past relationship with your mother may have left you with certain concerns.”
Normal thing to say.
although it does occasionally creep out to haunt him when he’s trying to sleep
LOL
Any photographs I might have of your mother are strictly for private use
NOT HELPING
“That business with my sister was fairly distasteful,” Robert says, “but I’ve looked into that as well, just in case. If you’d married her, we’d be brothers-in-law, but it still wouldn’t be considered incestuous if we slept together. Can you believe that? It’d be adultery, I suppose, which is also frowned upon, but—”
FKSKSKSKSKSKSKS
“Robert,” he says, “are you the one who covered our set in rose petals?”
LOL
obert drops his hand, the drama of his expression flashing instantly to incredulity. “You, Chris, obviously. I’m courting you.”
I love how utterly unromantic this is.
“Disappointing, Chris,” Robert says, eventually. “A reflection of your lack of judgement in casting decisions. I’ll fix it.”
*screech* OMINOUS
I specifically waited until all the injuries from our last performance could heal.
lol
“That’s no attitude, Chris. You’ve said it yourself: every rehearsal is one lawsuit fewer.”
AMAZING
“I’ve thought of this a long time, you know.” Robert strokes Chris’s cheek. “Despite your controlling nature and astonishingly irritating personality.”
WIAT what I
Robert clears his throat. “Word may have got about that the rehearsal was cancelled.”
Devious!
“How dare you?” Robert demands. A pause. “Not a bad point, though. Would you give me better roles if I slept with you?”
I can't believe he didn't already think of that
back when she was the only actress in the troupe and already played every female lead by default
genuinely astonishing reversal of the usual gender distribution of theatre groups imo. in my first A-level group there were 3 dudes and 15 girls.
“I’ll give you better roles if you stop trying to sleep with me,” Chris says. He holds out his palm, as sarcastically as he can manage. “How about that?”
Wild
“Are you directing me, Chris?” Robert asks. “Are you directing me on how to deal with my own attraction?”
AMAZING
It lands Chris in the hospital with two fractured vertebrae, but, all things considered, it’s not one of the worst kisses he’s had.
Incredible. Worst seduction ever. A+.
no subject
These guys are so relentlessly determined to get through a performance, and I find it very endearing. Often disconcerted, never dissuaded.
I love how utterly unromantic this is.
how dare you, Robert is a being of pure romance, did you not see all the rose petals
I laughed aloud at 'WIAT what I'.
I can't believe he didn't already think of that
It's possible, of course, that it had already crossed his mind and you've been deceived by Robert's stellar acting skills! There's no shame in it; he is a master of the craft.
Thank you so much for helping to get this fic started; I had such a good time writing it! And thank you for this comment as well, which delighted me.