Riona (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rionaleonhart) wrote2026-01-26 07:39 pm
rionaleonhart) wrote2026-01-26 07:39 pm
Entry tags:
Fanfiction: Gone Astray (The Goes Wrong Show, Robert/Chris)
Here's another Goes Wrong fic that grew out of a fill for the ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
threesentenceficathon! All the fanfiction I've been writing has pushed Robert Grove from the fifth-most-tagged Goes Wrong Show character on AO3 up to third place, and I am drunk with power.
I think I might have accidentally written something cute. I promise this wasn't my intention.
Title: Gone Astray
Fandom: The Goes Wrong Show
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Robert/Chris
Wordcount: 3,000
Summary: After The Spirit of Christmas, someone has to get Robert home safely, and the role falls to an unwilling Chris.
“Just how much did you have to drink, anyway?” Chris asks, helping Robert into his passenger seat.
“Normal amount, I’d say,” Robert mumbles, unconvincingly. “You don’t have to drive me. I’m fine.”
“I have to drive you,” Chris says, firmly, however tempting it might be to take Robert’s car keys and abandon the damn man in the cold. He checks to make sure the theatre staff aren’t in pursuit, pulls out of his parking spot. “Some might say the ‘normal amount’ to have, while in the role of Father Christmas in a family-friendly play, is nothing at all.”
“Normal amount for Santa, anyway. A glass of sherry at every house, Chris.”
“How on Earth did you manage to become roaring drunk on stage?” He evidently missed a lot while getting into his short-lived snowman costume; Robert seemed sober enough before the play. He’ll have to have a word with the props department about allowing real alcohol on the set.
“I was trying to fix the, the...” Robert flaps his hand. “The bottle stand thing.”
“By drinking everything in it?”
“Well, I didn’t see you doing anything.”
This is, Chris supposes, technically true. “Remind me of your door number. Was it—”
A sudden shiver of realisation runs through him. Robert blurted it out himself, during the play: Denise left him. He’s living in his car, which is currently still sitting in the theatre car park.
Robert cannot be allowed to handle his car keys right now. And... well. Robert did just make an absolute mess of Chris’s script, which has not left Chris feeling especially charitable towards him. But it doesn’t feel great to leave him sleeping alone in his car on a December evening, two days before Christmas.
“Actually, I’ll bring you back to my place,” Chris mutters, grudgingly.
It’s a small flat; he doesn’t have a room for guests. He ends up climbing under the covers with Robert, bracing himself to spend the next few hours lying awake; he’s always struggled to sleep in company, or after a failed production, and he knows for a fact that Robert snores. This drunken idiot has already ruined his play, and now he’s going to ruin his night.
“I’m sorry,” Robert mumbles, the words blurring together around the edges. “I don’t think I put on my best performance.”
For a moment, Chris thinks he must have misheard. An apology? An actual apology, from Robert Grove? It’s almost unheard of. He needs a few seconds to let it sink in.
The bed’s warmer than it would be on his own, he supposes. That’s something.
“Well,” Chris says at last, “there’s always the next one.”
In the end, he sleeps better than he was expecting.
-
“Do you have any plans for Christmas?” Chris asks over breakfast, cautiously.
Robert takes an unhappy sip of his tea, his hangover radiating through every motion he makes. “Well, there’s my solo nativity performance in the park, of course.”
“Of course,” Chris agrees, a little relieved. At least he’s doing something.
“Other than that, I suppose I’ll just dress up as Santa and wander around the house. Or, well, the car.” A pause. “Could I borrow the Father Christmas outfit from the play? Mine is still at Denise’s.”
God. Chris shouldn’t get involved, he knows, but it’s all too tragic for him to bear.
He can’t actually invite Robert to join him for Christmas. He’s going to be at his parents’ house; he can’t drop another guest on them for Christmas dinner with one day’s notice, and, more importantly, he refuses to create any circumstances in which Robert might sleep with his mother again. Goodwill to all men and all that, but a man has to draw the line somewhere.
“We can pick up your car around noon, and then I’ll be going to see my parents,” Chris says. “I’ll be back on Boxing Day. Do you... want to stay here, over Christmas? Might give you a bit more room to wander around.”
Robert frowns at him. “You’re not pitying me, are you, Chris?”
“If I pitied you,” Chris says, untruthfully, “wouldn’t I be offering you company instead? I’d just feel more secure knowing there’s someone in the flat. Defence against burglars and such, you know.”
“I do strike fear into the hearts of burglars,” Robert says, thoughtfully. “All right, then; I suppose I can do you a favour. Give your mother my regards.”
“I will not,” Chris says.
-
The turkey has been eaten, the tasteful crackers pulled, the frivolous paper crowns discarded unworn. As the evening of Christmas Day draws in, Chris tells his parents he’s going for a walk.
That really is his intention, at first: just to have a walk. Christmas is an emotionally complicated time; he always ends up with a certain degree of pent-up energy, a need to take some time to himself.
As he slips out into the cool air, though, a thought occurs to him: the park where Robert does his annual nativity performance isn’t far from here. Nothing is very far from anything else in Cornley. Chris has never seen it before; he might as well take the opportunity.
At first, when he enters the park, Chris thinks he’s got the wrong place. It looks deserted; there’s no sign of any sort of performance going on. Did Robert decide to use a venue closer to Chris’s flat this year?
And then a terrible unearthly howling rises up from behind a stand of trees – it’s Robert, unmistakably, it sounds like he’s in pain, and Chris has shouldered his way through the trees in a panic before he’s had a chance to think better of it.
Which is how he ends up watching the Virgin Mary, played by Robert, giving loud and agonised birth to the baby Jesus, also played by Robert. Inexplicably, he is still wearing the Father Christmas costume.
There is nobody else in the audience. Robert has apparently spent the last hour-plus out here in the cold, performing the story of the nativity to absolutely no one.
When Robert opens his eyes, after some unsettlingly convincing infant bawling, his gaze fixes on Chris. He lights up in the presence of an audience, an expression swiftly followed by suspicion.
“You’re not here to direct me, are you?” the baby Jesus demands.
Chris shakes his head. “This is your project. Show me what you’ve got, director.”
Robert smiles. “That’s what I like to hear.”
He spends the rest of the performance acting directly into the face of his sole audience member. It’s a little overwhelming, but it does, at least, successfully distract Chris from the inherent internal tension of visiting his parents for Christmas.
And, when things go wrong – and of course they do – Chris can bask in the fact that, for once, he has no responsibility for any of this.
-
“Why were you wearing the Father Christmas outfit?” Chris asks, as they leave the park together.
“My nativity costumes are all at Denise’s, too,” Robert says, glumly. “Not so much as a hat to differentiate the characters. That’s probably why no one came.”
“Probably,” Chris agrees. It’s usually simplest to agree with Robert, and he’s not feeling particularly argumentative this evening. “Well, I suppose I came.”
“You did,” Robert says. “Thank you. Can I count on you for next year?”
Chris hesitates. “Er, I’m – I’m not sure I can confirm my schedule that far in advance.”
“I suppose not,” Robert concedes. “You should come, though; you missed the whole first half. I do a very impressive angel Gabriel.”
“I’m sure.” Perhaps they should attempt a nativity story for Play of the Week, if the BBC hasn’t decided to scrap them by next Christmas.
“Merry Christmas, by the way.”
It’s strange that that should startle Chris. It’s Christmas Day; it’s the obvious thing to say. “Merry Christmas, Robert.”
“You’re coming back with me?” Robert asks. “I thought you were staying with your family.”
It doesn’t make sense for an instant, before Chris suddenly realises he’s been following Robert. Robert moves so authoritatively; Chris must have fallen into step with him without thinking. He comes to a halt. “I – I am. Staying with my family, I mean. I’m sorry. I should go.”
“You could come back with me, you know.”
“Generous as it is of you to invite me into my own flat,” Chris says, “my parents will be expecting me.”
There’s something a little dreamlike about standing out here, under the streetlamps. There are warm lights in the windows of the houses around them, decorated Christmas trees. But the street is dark and empty; in this moment, it feels like there’s nobody in the cold outside world but him and Robert.
“Well,” Robert says. “Good night, then.”
“Good night,” Chris says. “Congratulations on your performance.”
Robert brightens. “Has it persuaded you of my suitability for the lead in the next play?”
No reason to crush his dreams on Christmas Day. “I’ll consider it.”
Chris turns away, takes two steps. Something’s bothering him. He doesn’t think he left that much food in the flat; he didn’t feel particularly driven to stock up on groceries, knowing he’d be going elsewhere for a large Christmas meal. Does Robert have enough to eat?
He turns back. “Do you have—”
Robert is kissing him. Robert has one hand on Chris’s arm and one on Chris’s back and he is kissing him, close and warm in the cold night air, and Chris’s mind claws desperately for explanations, some way to understand this. This isn’t a play; they aren’t on stage. This is the two of them here in the street, in the real world, with Robert’s mouth on his and snakes writhing in Chris’s stomach.
“Robert!” Chris breaks away, backs away, frantic. “What are – what are you doing?”
“Oh,” Robert says. “Might’ve misread that scene. Sorry.”
Chris leaves, as quickly as he can; he almost runs out of there. He doesn’t know what else to do.
-
In a perfect world, Chris and Robert would be able to ignore each other for the next month and then resume working together while pretending that nothing ever happened, like civilised people. Unfortunately, Robert is currently living in Chris’s flat, so some degree of contact is probably inevitable.
Chris pauses outside his door on Boxing Day. Breathes deeply, his key in his hand.
He lets himself in.
In the next instant, he’s been slammed to the hallway carpet.
“You will rue this day!” Robert roars, pinning him down. “Chris has entrusted me with the security of his home, and – oh. You’re not a burglar.”
He releases Chris and offers a hand to help him up.
At the very least, Chris reflects, as he sips the tea Robert has made him and tries to stop shaking, the experience seems to have broken the ice.
-
“Suppose I should move back to my car,” Robert says, once Chris has apparently steadied to his satisfaction. “I’ll gather my things.”
“Wait.” It’s tempting to say nothing, just let Robert leave without addressing it, but Chris slept very poorly after the kiss, and he doubts tonight will go much better if he still doesn’t understand how this happened. “Last night. Why did you kiss me?”
“I don’t know.” Robert looks uncomfortable, which is a relatively unusual occurrence. Well, it’s actually fairly common, given what they tend to go through on stage, but it’s rare for him to look uncomfortable about his own actions. “It just... felt like a romantic moment. When you turned back, I thought you were about to confess your love or something.”
“Did it feel like a romantic moment?”
“Didn’t it?”
“Even if it felt romantic, why would you kiss me? You’re not attracted to me.”
“God,” Robert says, “if only.”
Chris blinks at him.
“Oh,” he says. And, after a moment’s thought, “I let you into my bed.”
“And I was a perfect gentleman,” Robert says. “I don’t know what sort of depravity you’re imagining.”
“That’s not what I mean.” What does he mean? “I suppose I’m wondering... was that hard for you? Er, difficult, I mean.”
“I was too full of sherry to be particularly heartsick,” Robert says. “What does it matter?”
“Well, it’s still cold weather for sleeping in a car,” Chris says. “I don’t know if you’d really want to stay here, though. Given... the circumstances.”
Perfect. Go ahead and make that offer. What an absolutely fucking fantastic decision.
“Chris, I’m perfectly capable of not ravishing you. I’ve managed it for years.”
“Right,” Chris says, weakly. “Well, good.”
-
Chris sleeps on the sofa, that first night, or at least he tries to. It’s a miserable experience, cold and cramped. And, strangely enough, lonely. He lives alone, he’s used to sleeping that way, it’s what he’s always preferred, but... somehow, the knowledge that there’s another person in his flat makes him very aware that there’s nobody else within arm’s reach.
He climbs into the bed with Robert the next night.
“Really?” Robert asks, unenthusiastically. “I was enjoying the space.”
“I will not be made to feel bad for sleeping in my own bed.”
Robert shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Chris is expecting it to be uncomfortable, sharing a bed with Robert, now that he knows about Robert’s feelings. But, after two sleepless nights in a row, Chris settles down in the warmth beneath the covers and drifts off almost straight away.
-
Annie hosts a New Year’s Eve party for the drama society. Everyone attends except Jonathan; they’ll learn a few days later that Annie’s doorbell apparently ran out of battery just before Jonathan’s arrival, and nobody was able to hear him knocking on the door over the music.
“Right!” Annie claps her hands together, as the last minute of 2019 counts down. “Here comes 2020! Let’s make it the best year for theatre ever! Who’s going to kiss?”
“Nobody’s going to kiss at midnight, Annie,” Chris says, patiently. “We’re not fourteen, and we’re not Americans.”
Annie scowls at him. “You’re no fun.”
When midnight hits, Annie darts around the room, kissing everyone who’s dared to enter the new year unkissed. It makes Chris’s heart constrict strangely in his chest; he finds himself looking at Robert. How has he been kissed by two different members of the drama society in the last week?
At least he can be fairly certain that Annie doesn’t have any complicating feelings about him. Or, if she does, she also apparently has feelings for Robert, Trevor, Vanessa and Dennis; they can bear the burden of that awkwardness together.
Being the driver, Chris is cautious with his alcohol consumption at the party; being Robert, Robert is not. Chris manages to get him back home safely, steers him into the bedroom.
They’ll have to think, at some point, about Robert’s next move.
It can wait until the weather’s a little warmer, if he isn’t already back on his feet by then. Oddly enough, Chris doesn’t hate this situation.
The time between Christmas and the new year is a strange period; Chris never quite knows what to do with himself. It’s been pleasant to have company, in a way, even if that company is Robert Grove. Their main area of interest has always aligned, even if their opinions sharply differ; they’ve yet to run out of conversation about theatre.
Robert reaches out to touch Chris’s face, while Chris is guiding him onto the bed, and Chris goes very still.
“Thanks,” Robert says, letting his hand fall.
Chris doesn’t know what he’s being thanked for. “That’s okay.”
-
Chris wakes in the early morning to find Robert wrapped around him, a living furnace at his back. This has happened a couple of times over the past week, and Chris has quickly extricated himself on those occasions; he’s not given to physical contact, and he doesn’t want Robert to wake up and become confused.
Perhaps it’s staying up late, perhaps it’s some lingering affection from spending an evening with the drama society, but he finds he’s not especially driven to move right now. He’s warm; he’s comfortable, which is a very rare occurrence.
He falls asleep again.
-
“Think I’ve found a flat,” Robert says a few weeks later, strolling briskly into the sitting room.
Chris stands sharply from the sofa. “What?”
“Just what I said,” Robert says. “I just have to sign some documents and pay some grasping landlord an unreasonable quantity of money, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
Chris stares at him. He hadn’t even known he was looking at places. Nights sharing a bed, days spent running lines and cooking together and arguing over casting, the sound of Robert’s daily vocal exercises gradually shifting from irritating to oddly comforting, and Robert is—
Robert is going to leave.
“But—” Chris takes a few steps towards Robert, hesitant, desperate. “Documents, you said. It’s not final?”
“Should be soon enough,” Robert says. “Probably be moving in mid-February.”
Chris is picturing it now, moving day; he’ll help Robert get settled in, they’ll exchange awkward goodbyes in a near-empty flat, a moment’s strange silence between them, and then Chris will—
Chris will...?
Is he really going to leave this until it’s too late to change anything?
“I’m going to kiss you,” Chris says, realising it as he says it. “Is that – is that – I mean, can I—”
Robert is staring at him, incredulous. “For God’s sake, Chris, if you’re going to do it, do it.”
Chris kisses him. Cautious at first, chaste, but Robert takes the lead almost instantly, and – well, Chris can’t just yield the lead to him; they both try to deepen the kiss so hard and fast that they end up having to break apart, nearly choking.
“You idiot,” Robert says, breathing hard. “You absolute fool. We’ve been sharing a bed all this time. What a waste.”
Chris feels like he’s on fire, at once thrilled and terrified, excitement and pre-emptive regret at war somewhere in his abdomen. He can barely speak, has to force the words out. “We can fix that, can’t we?”
Robert smiles broadly at that. “We certainly can.”
He picks Chris up bodily, bridal style, and carries him towards the bedroom.
It’s absolutely humiliating. But, after taking this long to piece everything together, Chris supposes he might deserve a little humiliation.
threesentenceficathon! All the fanfiction I've been writing has pushed Robert Grove from the fifth-most-tagged Goes Wrong Show character on AO3 up to third place, and I am drunk with power.I think I might have accidentally written something cute. I promise this wasn't my intention.
Title: Gone Astray
Fandom: The Goes Wrong Show
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Robert/Chris
Wordcount: 3,000
Summary: After The Spirit of Christmas, someone has to get Robert home safely, and the role falls to an unwilling Chris.
“Just how much did you have to drink, anyway?” Chris asks, helping Robert into his passenger seat.
“Normal amount, I’d say,” Robert mumbles, unconvincingly. “You don’t have to drive me. I’m fine.”
“I have to drive you,” Chris says, firmly, however tempting it might be to take Robert’s car keys and abandon the damn man in the cold. He checks to make sure the theatre staff aren’t in pursuit, pulls out of his parking spot. “Some might say the ‘normal amount’ to have, while in the role of Father Christmas in a family-friendly play, is nothing at all.”
“Normal amount for Santa, anyway. A glass of sherry at every house, Chris.”
“How on Earth did you manage to become roaring drunk on stage?” He evidently missed a lot while getting into his short-lived snowman costume; Robert seemed sober enough before the play. He’ll have to have a word with the props department about allowing real alcohol on the set.
“I was trying to fix the, the...” Robert flaps his hand. “The bottle stand thing.”
“By drinking everything in it?”
“Well, I didn’t see you doing anything.”
This is, Chris supposes, technically true. “Remind me of your door number. Was it—”
A sudden shiver of realisation runs through him. Robert blurted it out himself, during the play: Denise left him. He’s living in his car, which is currently still sitting in the theatre car park.
Robert cannot be allowed to handle his car keys right now. And... well. Robert did just make an absolute mess of Chris’s script, which has not left Chris feeling especially charitable towards him. But it doesn’t feel great to leave him sleeping alone in his car on a December evening, two days before Christmas.
“Actually, I’ll bring you back to my place,” Chris mutters, grudgingly.
It’s a small flat; he doesn’t have a room for guests. He ends up climbing under the covers with Robert, bracing himself to spend the next few hours lying awake; he’s always struggled to sleep in company, or after a failed production, and he knows for a fact that Robert snores. This drunken idiot has already ruined his play, and now he’s going to ruin his night.
“I’m sorry,” Robert mumbles, the words blurring together around the edges. “I don’t think I put on my best performance.”
For a moment, Chris thinks he must have misheard. An apology? An actual apology, from Robert Grove? It’s almost unheard of. He needs a few seconds to let it sink in.
The bed’s warmer than it would be on his own, he supposes. That’s something.
“Well,” Chris says at last, “there’s always the next one.”
In the end, he sleeps better than he was expecting.
“Do you have any plans for Christmas?” Chris asks over breakfast, cautiously.
Robert takes an unhappy sip of his tea, his hangover radiating through every motion he makes. “Well, there’s my solo nativity performance in the park, of course.”
“Of course,” Chris agrees, a little relieved. At least he’s doing something.
“Other than that, I suppose I’ll just dress up as Santa and wander around the house. Or, well, the car.” A pause. “Could I borrow the Father Christmas outfit from the play? Mine is still at Denise’s.”
God. Chris shouldn’t get involved, he knows, but it’s all too tragic for him to bear.
He can’t actually invite Robert to join him for Christmas. He’s going to be at his parents’ house; he can’t drop another guest on them for Christmas dinner with one day’s notice, and, more importantly, he refuses to create any circumstances in which Robert might sleep with his mother again. Goodwill to all men and all that, but a man has to draw the line somewhere.
“We can pick up your car around noon, and then I’ll be going to see my parents,” Chris says. “I’ll be back on Boxing Day. Do you... want to stay here, over Christmas? Might give you a bit more room to wander around.”
Robert frowns at him. “You’re not pitying me, are you, Chris?”
“If I pitied you,” Chris says, untruthfully, “wouldn’t I be offering you company instead? I’d just feel more secure knowing there’s someone in the flat. Defence against burglars and such, you know.”
“I do strike fear into the hearts of burglars,” Robert says, thoughtfully. “All right, then; I suppose I can do you a favour. Give your mother my regards.”
“I will not,” Chris says.
The turkey has been eaten, the tasteful crackers pulled, the frivolous paper crowns discarded unworn. As the evening of Christmas Day draws in, Chris tells his parents he’s going for a walk.
That really is his intention, at first: just to have a walk. Christmas is an emotionally complicated time; he always ends up with a certain degree of pent-up energy, a need to take some time to himself.
As he slips out into the cool air, though, a thought occurs to him: the park where Robert does his annual nativity performance isn’t far from here. Nothing is very far from anything else in Cornley. Chris has never seen it before; he might as well take the opportunity.
At first, when he enters the park, Chris thinks he’s got the wrong place. It looks deserted; there’s no sign of any sort of performance going on. Did Robert decide to use a venue closer to Chris’s flat this year?
And then a terrible unearthly howling rises up from behind a stand of trees – it’s Robert, unmistakably, it sounds like he’s in pain, and Chris has shouldered his way through the trees in a panic before he’s had a chance to think better of it.
Which is how he ends up watching the Virgin Mary, played by Robert, giving loud and agonised birth to the baby Jesus, also played by Robert. Inexplicably, he is still wearing the Father Christmas costume.
There is nobody else in the audience. Robert has apparently spent the last hour-plus out here in the cold, performing the story of the nativity to absolutely no one.
When Robert opens his eyes, after some unsettlingly convincing infant bawling, his gaze fixes on Chris. He lights up in the presence of an audience, an expression swiftly followed by suspicion.
“You’re not here to direct me, are you?” the baby Jesus demands.
Chris shakes his head. “This is your project. Show me what you’ve got, director.”
Robert smiles. “That’s what I like to hear.”
He spends the rest of the performance acting directly into the face of his sole audience member. It’s a little overwhelming, but it does, at least, successfully distract Chris from the inherent internal tension of visiting his parents for Christmas.
And, when things go wrong – and of course they do – Chris can bask in the fact that, for once, he has no responsibility for any of this.
“Why were you wearing the Father Christmas outfit?” Chris asks, as they leave the park together.
“My nativity costumes are all at Denise’s, too,” Robert says, glumly. “Not so much as a hat to differentiate the characters. That’s probably why no one came.”
“Probably,” Chris agrees. It’s usually simplest to agree with Robert, and he’s not feeling particularly argumentative this evening. “Well, I suppose I came.”
“You did,” Robert says. “Thank you. Can I count on you for next year?”
Chris hesitates. “Er, I’m – I’m not sure I can confirm my schedule that far in advance.”
“I suppose not,” Robert concedes. “You should come, though; you missed the whole first half. I do a very impressive angel Gabriel.”
“I’m sure.” Perhaps they should attempt a nativity story for Play of the Week, if the BBC hasn’t decided to scrap them by next Christmas.
“Merry Christmas, by the way.”
It’s strange that that should startle Chris. It’s Christmas Day; it’s the obvious thing to say. “Merry Christmas, Robert.”
“You’re coming back with me?” Robert asks. “I thought you were staying with your family.”
It doesn’t make sense for an instant, before Chris suddenly realises he’s been following Robert. Robert moves so authoritatively; Chris must have fallen into step with him without thinking. He comes to a halt. “I – I am. Staying with my family, I mean. I’m sorry. I should go.”
“You could come back with me, you know.”
“Generous as it is of you to invite me into my own flat,” Chris says, “my parents will be expecting me.”
There’s something a little dreamlike about standing out here, under the streetlamps. There are warm lights in the windows of the houses around them, decorated Christmas trees. But the street is dark and empty; in this moment, it feels like there’s nobody in the cold outside world but him and Robert.
“Well,” Robert says. “Good night, then.”
“Good night,” Chris says. “Congratulations on your performance.”
Robert brightens. “Has it persuaded you of my suitability for the lead in the next play?”
No reason to crush his dreams on Christmas Day. “I’ll consider it.”
Chris turns away, takes two steps. Something’s bothering him. He doesn’t think he left that much food in the flat; he didn’t feel particularly driven to stock up on groceries, knowing he’d be going elsewhere for a large Christmas meal. Does Robert have enough to eat?
He turns back. “Do you have—”
Robert is kissing him. Robert has one hand on Chris’s arm and one on Chris’s back and he is kissing him, close and warm in the cold night air, and Chris’s mind claws desperately for explanations, some way to understand this. This isn’t a play; they aren’t on stage. This is the two of them here in the street, in the real world, with Robert’s mouth on his and snakes writhing in Chris’s stomach.
“Robert!” Chris breaks away, backs away, frantic. “What are – what are you doing?”
“Oh,” Robert says. “Might’ve misread that scene. Sorry.”
Chris leaves, as quickly as he can; he almost runs out of there. He doesn’t know what else to do.
In a perfect world, Chris and Robert would be able to ignore each other for the next month and then resume working together while pretending that nothing ever happened, like civilised people. Unfortunately, Robert is currently living in Chris’s flat, so some degree of contact is probably inevitable.
Chris pauses outside his door on Boxing Day. Breathes deeply, his key in his hand.
He lets himself in.
In the next instant, he’s been slammed to the hallway carpet.
“You will rue this day!” Robert roars, pinning him down. “Chris has entrusted me with the security of his home, and – oh. You’re not a burglar.”
He releases Chris and offers a hand to help him up.
At the very least, Chris reflects, as he sips the tea Robert has made him and tries to stop shaking, the experience seems to have broken the ice.
“Suppose I should move back to my car,” Robert says, once Chris has apparently steadied to his satisfaction. “I’ll gather my things.”
“Wait.” It’s tempting to say nothing, just let Robert leave without addressing it, but Chris slept very poorly after the kiss, and he doubts tonight will go much better if he still doesn’t understand how this happened. “Last night. Why did you kiss me?”
“I don’t know.” Robert looks uncomfortable, which is a relatively unusual occurrence. Well, it’s actually fairly common, given what they tend to go through on stage, but it’s rare for him to look uncomfortable about his own actions. “It just... felt like a romantic moment. When you turned back, I thought you were about to confess your love or something.”
“Did it feel like a romantic moment?”
“Didn’t it?”
“Even if it felt romantic, why would you kiss me? You’re not attracted to me.”
“God,” Robert says, “if only.”
Chris blinks at him.
“Oh,” he says. And, after a moment’s thought, “I let you into my bed.”
“And I was a perfect gentleman,” Robert says. “I don’t know what sort of depravity you’re imagining.”
“That’s not what I mean.” What does he mean? “I suppose I’m wondering... was that hard for you? Er, difficult, I mean.”
“I was too full of sherry to be particularly heartsick,” Robert says. “What does it matter?”
“Well, it’s still cold weather for sleeping in a car,” Chris says. “I don’t know if you’d really want to stay here, though. Given... the circumstances.”
Perfect. Go ahead and make that offer. What an absolutely fucking fantastic decision.
“Chris, I’m perfectly capable of not ravishing you. I’ve managed it for years.”
“Right,” Chris says, weakly. “Well, good.”
Chris sleeps on the sofa, that first night, or at least he tries to. It’s a miserable experience, cold and cramped. And, strangely enough, lonely. He lives alone, he’s used to sleeping that way, it’s what he’s always preferred, but... somehow, the knowledge that there’s another person in his flat makes him very aware that there’s nobody else within arm’s reach.
He climbs into the bed with Robert the next night.
“Really?” Robert asks, unenthusiastically. “I was enjoying the space.”
“I will not be made to feel bad for sleeping in my own bed.”
Robert shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Chris is expecting it to be uncomfortable, sharing a bed with Robert, now that he knows about Robert’s feelings. But, after two sleepless nights in a row, Chris settles down in the warmth beneath the covers and drifts off almost straight away.
Annie hosts a New Year’s Eve party for the drama society. Everyone attends except Jonathan; they’ll learn a few days later that Annie’s doorbell apparently ran out of battery just before Jonathan’s arrival, and nobody was able to hear him knocking on the door over the music.
“Right!” Annie claps her hands together, as the last minute of 2019 counts down. “Here comes 2020! Let’s make it the best year for theatre ever! Who’s going to kiss?”
“Nobody’s going to kiss at midnight, Annie,” Chris says, patiently. “We’re not fourteen, and we’re not Americans.”
Annie scowls at him. “You’re no fun.”
When midnight hits, Annie darts around the room, kissing everyone who’s dared to enter the new year unkissed. It makes Chris’s heart constrict strangely in his chest; he finds himself looking at Robert. How has he been kissed by two different members of the drama society in the last week?
At least he can be fairly certain that Annie doesn’t have any complicating feelings about him. Or, if she does, she also apparently has feelings for Robert, Trevor, Vanessa and Dennis; they can bear the burden of that awkwardness together.
Being the driver, Chris is cautious with his alcohol consumption at the party; being Robert, Robert is not. Chris manages to get him back home safely, steers him into the bedroom.
They’ll have to think, at some point, about Robert’s next move.
It can wait until the weather’s a little warmer, if he isn’t already back on his feet by then. Oddly enough, Chris doesn’t hate this situation.
The time between Christmas and the new year is a strange period; Chris never quite knows what to do with himself. It’s been pleasant to have company, in a way, even if that company is Robert Grove. Their main area of interest has always aligned, even if their opinions sharply differ; they’ve yet to run out of conversation about theatre.
Robert reaches out to touch Chris’s face, while Chris is guiding him onto the bed, and Chris goes very still.
“Thanks,” Robert says, letting his hand fall.
Chris doesn’t know what he’s being thanked for. “That’s okay.”
Chris wakes in the early morning to find Robert wrapped around him, a living furnace at his back. This has happened a couple of times over the past week, and Chris has quickly extricated himself on those occasions; he’s not given to physical contact, and he doesn’t want Robert to wake up and become confused.
Perhaps it’s staying up late, perhaps it’s some lingering affection from spending an evening with the drama society, but he finds he’s not especially driven to move right now. He’s warm; he’s comfortable, which is a very rare occurrence.
He falls asleep again.
“Think I’ve found a flat,” Robert says a few weeks later, strolling briskly into the sitting room.
Chris stands sharply from the sofa. “What?”
“Just what I said,” Robert says. “I just have to sign some documents and pay some grasping landlord an unreasonable quantity of money, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
Chris stares at him. He hadn’t even known he was looking at places. Nights sharing a bed, days spent running lines and cooking together and arguing over casting, the sound of Robert’s daily vocal exercises gradually shifting from irritating to oddly comforting, and Robert is—
Robert is going to leave.
“But—” Chris takes a few steps towards Robert, hesitant, desperate. “Documents, you said. It’s not final?”
“Should be soon enough,” Robert says. “Probably be moving in mid-February.”
Chris is picturing it now, moving day; he’ll help Robert get settled in, they’ll exchange awkward goodbyes in a near-empty flat, a moment’s strange silence between them, and then Chris will—
Chris will...?
Is he really going to leave this until it’s too late to change anything?
“I’m going to kiss you,” Chris says, realising it as he says it. “Is that – is that – I mean, can I—”
Robert is staring at him, incredulous. “For God’s sake, Chris, if you’re going to do it, do it.”
Chris kisses him. Cautious at first, chaste, but Robert takes the lead almost instantly, and – well, Chris can’t just yield the lead to him; they both try to deepen the kiss so hard and fast that they end up having to break apart, nearly choking.
“You idiot,” Robert says, breathing hard. “You absolute fool. We’ve been sharing a bed all this time. What a waste.”
Chris feels like he’s on fire, at once thrilled and terrified, excitement and pre-emptive regret at war somewhere in his abdomen. He can barely speak, has to force the words out. “We can fix that, can’t we?”
Robert smiles broadly at that. “We certainly can.”
He picks Chris up bodily, bridal style, and carries him towards the bedroom.
It’s absolutely humiliating. But, after taking this long to piece everything together, Chris supposes he might deserve a little humiliation.
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Robert would have loved to star in Men (2022)
“You will rue this day!” Robert roars, pinning him down. “Chris has entrusted me with the security of his home, and – ”
lmaoooo
“God,” Robert says, “if only.”
genuinely sad for him
They have these incredibly sweet moments & then these moments of delightful bickering.
Poor Jonathan :,(
Annieeeeeee <3
You're doing very good Doomed Pining for a very unexpected character.
Chris can’t just yield the lead to him; they both try to deepen the kiss so hard and fast that they end up having to break apart, nearly choking.
most in-character disaster kiss
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I'm glad to hear the pining works! It felt a little intimidating to write about Robert having Serious Feelings.
Thank you so much! This is a delight of a comment; I keep rereading it and smiling. ♥!
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And I'm surprised Robert was only the fifth most popular character before you started writing fic -- he was definitely the most memorable one for me from the first episode. (Although I went and looked up who is ahead of him in the tags, and I was intrigued by Trevor, for all that he was just silently shoring things up in the episode I watched, as far as I can recall.)
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I was also a little surprised Robert wasn't further up the list! I realise that not everyone is as smitten with him as I am, but he's such a striking character, and a lot of fun to write. Perhaps too much fun to write, as demonstrated by my inability to stop writing about him.
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Verité is important, okay.
It’s a small flat; he doesn’t have a room for guests.
Are you saying THERE'S ONLY ONE BED????
“Well, there’s my solo nativity performance in the park, of course.”
Of course.
he refuses to create any circumstances in which Robert might sleep with his mother again. Goodwill to all men and all that, but a man has to draw the line somewhere.
Quite so!
“If I pitied you,” Chris says, untruthfully, “wouldn’t I be offering you company instead? I’d just feel more secure knowing there’s someone in the flat. Defence against burglars and such, you know.”
Nice one Chris.
Which is how he ends up watching the Virgin Mary, played by Robert, giving loud and agonised birth to the baby Jesus, also played by Robert. Inexplicably, he is still wearing the Father Christmas costume.
My mind rebels at this concept but it pictures it unpleasantly well.
“Well, I suppose I came.”
It was that good, etc
“Generous as it is of you to invite me into my own flat,” Chris says, “my parents will be expecting me.”
LOL
At the very least, Chris reflects, as he sips the tea Robert has made him and tries to stop shaking, the experience seems to have broken the ice.
Incredible
“Chris, I’m perfectly capable of not ravishing you. I’ve managed it for years.”
GASP!!!!
“Here comes 2020! Let’s make it the best year for theatre ever! Who’s going to kiss?”
OH NOOOOOOO
“I’m going to kiss you,” Chris says, realising it as he says it. “Is that – is that – I mean, can I—”
Amazing.
“You absolute fool. We’ve been sharing a bed all this time. What a waste.”
The romance!
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My mind rebels at this concept but it pictures it unpleasantly well.
I'm cracking up at this. I'm extremely sorry for doing this to you.
Thank you so much!! ♥
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He technically drank less than the real Father Christmas!
That actually works on Robert!
This is utterly amazing!
At least he knows his home is safe!
That's one way to handle an awkward moment like that.
Annie, make a polycule! You're already kissing everyone, just keep slowly escalating!
Oh no!
Yes, Chris, the man in your bed every night who has already mentioned being attracted to you is okay with you kissing him.
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Robert's an effective guard dog! An indiscriminate guard dog, unfortunately, so you might find yourself unexpectedly guarded against, but an effective one.
Annie, make a polycule! You're already kissing everyone, just keep slowly escalating!
I keep almost creating a drama society polycule in my fics and then not quite managing it! Evidently I need to try harder.
Thank you so much! ♥