Riona (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rionaleonhart) wrote2026-04-29 11:34 am
rionaleonhart) wrote2026-04-29 11:34 am
One Of These Doesn't Feature Robert At All, And Everyone Is Very Impressed By My Restraint.
Here are a handful of short Goes Wrong Show ficlets written in response to various requests, mainly on Tumblr! (I put out a call for fic requests, with the caveat that I was likely to make everything Robert-centric.)
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the-red-thread-that-strangles: I'd love to see your take on a situation where someone decided to run a play as a Holiday on Ice sort of deal.
“Thank you all for attending our performance,” Chris says, smiling with great determination at the audience. “There has been...” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “There has been a minor mixup with regard to Celsius versus Fahrenheit, requiring some small modifications to our ice show today. So, rather than The Snow Queen on Ice, we will on this occasion be presenting The Wet Queen in Water.”
“Chris!” Dennis exclaims, rushing up clumsily in his ice skates. “Chris, I just remembered – I can’t swim!”
“The water is two inches deep,” Chris says, through gritted teeth. “You will be fine.”
Somehow, half the cast still end up narrowly being rescued from drowning. Including, embarrassingly, Chris himself.
mygoeswrongblog: Hiya! Ficlet request of the drama society going to some sort of karaoke bar?? Idk I enjoy the idea of them singing badly at karaoke and would love to see how you think it might go :) And yes PLEASE make it Robert-centric, I love how you write him and he is just such a fun character!!
Vanessa arrives a little late to karaoke, hesitates at the front desk. She doesn’t know their booth number, and she’s not sure of which name it would have been booked under.
“Have you seen a – a very tall, loud – he’s got a beard—”
“You’re in room seven,” the receptionist says. “If you break the microphones again, you’re paying for them.”
Room seven is at the end of a short hallway. Vanessa pauses outside the door, takes a deep breath. She’s intimidated by the idea of singing where other people can hear her. But she’s a part of the drama society now, and she should probably get to know her fellow performers better; she shouldn’t really be skipping social events.
“Vanessa!” Annie exclaims, wrenching the door open and very nearly giving Vanessa multiple heart attacks. “Glad you could make it!”
“Thank you.” Vanessa quickly slips inside; the singing blasting out into the hallway is making her feel selfconscious. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Annie waves her apology away. “It’s fine! Just so you know, Robert and Sandra are gonna hog the mics, so you really have to elbow your way in if you want a turn.”
Robert and Sandra are, in fact, just finishing up a passionate duet of ‘Delilah’, complete with a slightly alarming mime of Sandra being stabbed to death.
“That’s fine,” Vanessa says. “I... I think I’ll probably just watch for a while.”
Annie shrugs. “Suit yourself. Nobody’s gonna complain if you save us from Robert’s singing later on, though. He gets worse as he gets drunker.”
Vanessa takes a seat next to Chris, who has settled in a corner of the booth with a book, clearly with no intention of taking the microphone himself. It’s reassuring; perhaps she won’t be judged for just spectating. In fact, going by the way Robert is currently wrestling with Max to keep the microphone, some people might actively prefer it if others waive their turns.
Robert, Sandra, Annie and Max turn out to be the most enthusiastic singers of the group. Annie will occasionally insist on Dennis having a go; he muddles through the lyrics, mispronouncing half the words, but, to Vanessa’s surprise, he can carry a tune. Trevor scrolls speculatively through the venue’s Duran Duran collection a couple of times, but he never actually performs. Jonathan’s yet to show up, which is apparently normal; they all take turns periodically opening the door to check whether he’s outside.
Eventually, with a little liquid courage inside her, Vanessa approaches Robert and holds out her hand for the microphone. To be honest, she’s half hoping he’ll fight her off.
No such luck. “Ah, the newcomer!” he exclaims, handing it over. “Let’s hear what you’re capable of.”
She chooses ‘Waterloo’ by ABBA: something fun and crowdpleasing, something she won’t have to take too seriously. Most of the room sings along, which helps to take some of the pressure off, encourages her to put a little more power into her voice.
She’s laughing by the time she finishes. Turns around to see who’s waiting for the microphone, finds Chris’s eyes on her. It’s disconcerting; he’s been so quiet that she’d almost forgotten he was here.
“You can sing,” he says.
It instantly brings a flush to her face. “Um, thank you.”
“I was thinking of writing our Christmas play for the BBC myself,” Chris says. “It might include a few songs. Would you be willing to play the lead?”
“Excuse me?” Robert asks. “Vanessa’s brand new to the society; are you really going to offer her the lead over more senior members, on the strength of one—”
“Robert, the lead role is a small girl.”
“And you don’t think that’s within my range?”
“How could I possibly give you the role of Belle,” Chris says, “when you’re the ideal Father Christmas?”
There’s a pause.
“I do make a good Father Christmas,” Robert concedes, mollified. “In fact...”
He grabs the microphone out of Vanessa’s hand, and they all spend the next ten minutes being battered by a series of out-of-season Christmas songs.
ellieswizard: hello!! i was wondering for the ficlet requests if i could have some robert uncle shenanigans?? i absolutely adore how you write robert and i’ve always been so interested by his and lucy’s dynamic, which if i remember correctly isn’t something you’ve written before and i’d love to see your take!! thank you
(Writing Robert and Lucy’s relationship is an interesting challenge; we always see them in such a specific context, and it’s hard to envision what they’re like offstage!)
“We’re a little short on actresses,” Robert says, “so I’ve volunteered you for the role of the daughter. Chris thinks rehearsing every other day will suffice, because he lacks dedication, but I’ll work with you in between those sessions. We’ll have three weeks of daily rehearsals, with a matinée rehearsal on Sundays, after which—”
“No,” Lucy says.
Robert frowns. “Not enough rehearsals, you think?”
“No,” Lucy says. “I’m not going to be in the play.”
“Why on Earth not? Let’s be honest, at your age I doubt you have much of great importance to occupy your time.”
“I don’t want to do any more plays with you.” She’s rehearsed these words in her head so many times; it’s strange to be saying them aloud at last. “You always bully me. I’m tired of it.”
“Bully you?” He seems genuinely incredulous. “How do I bully you?”
“You dropped a coffin on me, for one thing.”
Robert scoffs, outraged. “That absolutely does not count. I was aiming for Chris.”
“And you remember the prison break play?” she asks. “All those horrible things you said to me?”
“Only because I was trying to make you cry!”
Lucy raises her eyebrows.
“Right,” Robert says. “Fine. It does sound quite bad out of context. I was trying to help you cry, in my role as your acting mentor.”
“Well, it wasn’t much fun.”
Robert folds his arms. “I’m just trying to help you fulfil your potential on the stage. You’re a member of the Grove family, you know. I have high expectations of you.”
“Could you have lower expectations of me, maybe?” Lucy asks. “Could you just treat me like I’m not related to you? Just pretend I’m Dennis or something.”
“Pretend you’re Dennis?” Robert echoes. “That might be a challenge.”
“Well, you don’t have to literally pretend I’m Dennis. Just—”
“You think I’ll shy away from an acting challenge?” Robert asks. “You’ll think you’re Dennis yourself by the time I’m done.”
-
“That, Dennis,” Robert says, clapping Lucy heartily on the shoulder, “was excellent work. You remembered every one of your lines. I’ll buy you a drink; you’ve earned it.”
She’d like to reach the point where he’s willing to pay her a compliment as herself. But it’s a start, she supposes.
harmfulmyths: My request is for the Cornley Drama Society to put on their rendition of Death Note: the Musical. They can tide me over while I wait for the show to open on the West End!
“Could I take a look at the Death Note prop?” Robert asks.
“No,” Chris says, without hesitation.
“It’s a book, Chris. It’s not exactly going to shatter if I drop it.”
“If I give you the prop,” Chris says, “you’ll refuse to return it. This is a plot to steal the lead role from me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous; that had barely crossed my mind. This is serious. You’ve heard about the recent deaths of criminals, I trust?”
Chris nods. “We did use a few of those names in the last rehearsal. I suppose we’ll have to find replacements for the actual show; it seems in poor taste to write them down now.”
“It doesn’t cause you any concern?” Robert asks. “You wrote their names down in the heart attack book, and then they died of heart attacks.”
“For goodness’ sake, surely you don’t think there’s some sort of causation involved.”
“Seems like a hell of a coincidence,” Robert says.
“And yet the alternative is impossible,” Chris says, “so a coincidence it must be. Plenty of the names I wrote weren’t reported dead.”
“Did you know their faces?” Robert asks. “It only works if you know the face, doesn’t it?”
A frown flickers across Chris’s face, just for an instant.
“I’m not going to give you the Death Note,” he says, after a moment. “But, if you must compare the names to the reports...”
He flips to the two written-on pages of the Death Note, tears them out. Hands them to Robert.
Robert screams.
“What’s wrong?” Chris asks, jerking back.
“Hi,” says the vast, feathered monstrosity behind Chris.
Robert points wordlessly at it.
Chris looks over his shoulder, frowning. “You’re afraid of Max?”
“Max?” Robert echoes, incredulous.
“Of course it’s Max; who else has that perpetual grin? He made his own costume, I think. It’s certainly impressive, but I do wish he’d stop following me around everywhere.”
Right. Yes. Of course it’s Max.
“Don’t appear out of nowhere like that, Max,” Robert orders him. “It’s unsettling.”
“Humans are weird,” Max comments.
goingsomewherebillywheeler: Robert has a voodoo doll of Chris. Starts with simple tests. A little light incapacitation. Then he decides to test the limit of Chris’s willingness to keep going during a performance. (Not in a sinister way)
(This is a delightfully weird concept, but unfortunately my fic doesn't quite match the request! When I thought about Robert with a voodoo doll of Chris, this was the first place my mind went, and I couldn’t get it out of my head.)
There’s a hammering on Chris’s front door, so sudden and so loud that it absolutely terrifies him.
“Chris!” Robert bellows, at such a volume that it carries through to the living room. “Chris!”
Oh, of course it’s just Robert. Chris feels silly for panicking, suddenly. Robert does seem even louder than usual, though; is everything all—
There is a sudden, terrible splintering noise, followed by a crash.
Oh, God.
Chris rushes into the hallway to find his front door torn off its hinges. Robert is standing in the doorframe, breathing hard.
“Robert,” Chris says, “what—”
In the next instant, he’s been whisked off his feet.
“How are you feeling?” Robert asks, cradling Chris in his arms. “You’re conscious, thank Christ; that’s a good sign.”
“Let me go! What are you doing?” He’s struggling, but Robert, considerably stronger, just keeps him clamped against his chest in a tight bridal carry. “Are you abducting me?”
They certainly seem to be on the move, Robert carrying him urgently out onto the pavement. Chris has semi-frequent nightmares about Robert tying him up in a cellar in order to take over his position as director. In this moment, they’re looking alarmingly plausible.
“Robert,” Chris says, pleading, “you can’t leave my home unoccupied and doorless. I’ll be burgled.”
“Just hold on,” Robert is saying, clearly not listening at all. “Just hold on, you’ll be fine, I’ll get you to a hospital—”
“A hospital? I don’t need—”
“It was my mistake. I apologise.” Those words, in Robert Grove’s voice, stun Chris briefly into silence. “But I’m making it right. You’ll be fine.”
He shoves Chris into the passenger seat of his car, straps him in. Chris might be able to make a bid for freedom at this point. But he’s busy trying to slot these puzzle pieces together: Robert made some sort of mistake, and Robert is suddenly extremely concerned for Chris’s wellbeing.
“Robert,” Chris says, a chill passing through him, “did you poison me?”
“Poison?” Robert echoes, casting Chris a bewildered glance as he buckles himself into the driver’s seat. “How do you imagine that would break your bones?”
Well. That’s a new puzzle piece, certainly, but the picture they’re forming is only becoming more incomprehensible. “I... don’t feel especially like my bones are broken.”
“I sat on your voodoo doll,” Robert says. “You expect me to believe you’re unscathed?”
“Voodoo doll?” Chris asks, absolutely bewildered. “You know they can’t actually – wait, why do you have a voodoo doll of me?”
“That’s not important right now,” Robert says, firmly. “Let’s just worry about your health.”
Anonymous: Oh oh oh! I seem to remember that in ff8 you have to put on a musical performance of some kind? That, but you can only get the stage for one set in the Garden Drama Society's drama festival.
“Excuse me, what are you doing here?”
Selphie looks sharply up from her guitar. It’s a couple of students from the drama society: Chris and Robert, she thinks they’re called. She’s seen one of their plays before, or at least the twenty minutes they managed to get through before a rampaging T-Rexaur broke out of the training centre and demolished their set.
“Busted,” Selphie whispers.
“This stage is specifically for the use of the Garden Drama Society,” Chris says. “You can’t just set up your band here.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Selphie says. “It’s just for tonight. One tiny concert to celebrate Squall’s promotion. I checked the schedule; your next play’s not for another couple of weeks.”
“And we need to rehearse for it! If you wanted to use the stage, you should have talked to us about it beforehand.”
“Hold on, Chris,” Robert says. “You heard that announcement. Squall’s the leader of the Garden now, you know. If the drama society could get on his good side...”
Chris looks sharply from Robert back to Selphie. “Does Squall have the authority to make budgetary decisions?”
“Uh, sure,” Selphie says. “Why not?”
“Excellent.” Robert gives an authoritative nod. “I think I speak for Chris when I say we’d be delighted to have you on our stage.”
“You do not speak for me,” Chris says, “but... yes, I think we can allow it on this occasion.”
“Anyway,” Robert says, “a concert, you say? Any room for more performers?”
“You can play an instrument?” Selphie asks.
Robert shrugs. “Drums, probably. How hard can it be? Oh, and I’ll source some fireworks for the concert.”
“Er,” Chris says, “is that a good—”
Selphie claps her hands together, dropping her guitar in the process; it’s a good thing it’s on a strap. “Oh, fireworks would be super cool.”
-
“Um.” Selphie sidles awkwardly up to Chris, after the concert. “Sorry we, uh, blew up your stage.”
Chris sighs, deeply. “Well, it’s not the first time.”
Anonymous: hiiiii I have a ficlet request!! idk if you’ve seen the promo vid for tptgw filmed in a suit shop but I think it’s so silly and I love the way you write robert so was wondering if you might write that whole thing through his perspective? thanks for keeping us cornley fans fed :)))
(The short video of Chris and Robert in a suit shop is one of my absolute favourite pieces of supplemental Goes Wrong canon, and I was delighted to have an excuse to watch it repeatedly! I found this request tricky because the video is so heavy on visual comedy, though; I felt any attempt to convey it in writing would pale in comparison. So, instead, I wrote a little scene set after the ending of the video.)
“Right,” Robert says. “Now I’ll need you to help me pick out a suit.”
Chris frowns. “I thought you’d picked out a suit already. You’re wearing a suit right now.”
“For God’s sake, Chris, this isn’t the actual suit I’m buying. I just changed into the first one that fit so I could advise you.”
Chris blinks. “You... needed an outfit to help me pick my outfit?”
“Well, you’re not going to take clothing advice from someone dressed less smartly than you are, are you?” Not that the damn man took Robert’s advice anyway; he’s remarkably ungrateful. “Now that you’re suited up, you can help me.”
“Ask the staff. They seem to know what they’re doing.”
“Chris, you cannot possibly expect me to trust a total stranger’s judgement on matters of refinement.”
“I don’t expect you to trust my judgement,” Chris says. “I know for a fact you’re not going to listen to a word I say. But fine. What’s your size?”
“There’s measuring tape right there, Chris,” Robert says. “You can’t expect to be handed all the answers in life.”
There is, for some reason, a touch of annoyance in the way Chris looks at him. But he picks up the measuring tape.
-
“Right,” Chris says. “As expected, you haven’t gone with a single item of clothing I recommended. Is that everything?”
“Not quite.” Robert holds up the tie he’s picked out: a far more sophisticated choice than Chris’s suggestion, naturally. “Still need you to tie this.”
Chris eyes it for a moment. “Surely you can put on your own tie.”
“I could, certainly,” Robert says, “but then I wouldn’t be getting the full clothes shop experience, would I?”
“If you say so.” Chris takes the tie from his hand, loops it around Robert’s neck. Crosses the ends over each other. Pauses.
“You’re not finished, if you were wondering,” Robert says.
Chris looks up to meet his eyes. “Is there a particular knot you’d...”
He tails off. A few seconds pass, the two of them watching each other from inches apart. It doesn’t seem that Chris is going to finish his sentence.
“You’re staring,” Robert comments.
Chris drops his eyes. There is, Robert is delighted to note, a slight blush rising in his face. “I’m not.”
“I was practically humping you when I was trying to pull your trousers up, you know,” Robert remarks. “It’s charming that you only become flustered when it looks like kissing is in the cards. Very romantic.”
“Shut up, Robert.”
“What’s that tone for? I mean it. I’m a great believer in romance, you know.”
“For God’s sake.” Chris backs away sharply. “Tie your own tie.”
“Hm. If I must.” Robert ties it, checks himself in the mirror. The overall look is extremely satisfactory; it’s no wonder it apparently struck Chris. “That was an interesting reaction, though. I think we should explore it further in the future.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Chris says through gritted teeth.
I had a lot of fun writing these! But apparently I cannot be trusted to stick to the actual details of a fic request.
“Thank you all for attending our performance,” Chris says, smiling with great determination at the audience. “There has been...” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “There has been a minor mixup with regard to Celsius versus Fahrenheit, requiring some small modifications to our ice show today. So, rather than The Snow Queen on Ice, we will on this occasion be presenting The Wet Queen in Water.”
“Chris!” Dennis exclaims, rushing up clumsily in his ice skates. “Chris, I just remembered – I can’t swim!”
“The water is two inches deep,” Chris says, through gritted teeth. “You will be fine.”
Somehow, half the cast still end up narrowly being rescued from drowning. Including, embarrassingly, Chris himself.
Vanessa arrives a little late to karaoke, hesitates at the front desk. She doesn’t know their booth number, and she’s not sure of which name it would have been booked under.
“Have you seen a – a very tall, loud – he’s got a beard—”
“You’re in room seven,” the receptionist says. “If you break the microphones again, you’re paying for them.”
Room seven is at the end of a short hallway. Vanessa pauses outside the door, takes a deep breath. She’s intimidated by the idea of singing where other people can hear her. But she’s a part of the drama society now, and she should probably get to know her fellow performers better; she shouldn’t really be skipping social events.
“Vanessa!” Annie exclaims, wrenching the door open and very nearly giving Vanessa multiple heart attacks. “Glad you could make it!”
“Thank you.” Vanessa quickly slips inside; the singing blasting out into the hallway is making her feel selfconscious. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Annie waves her apology away. “It’s fine! Just so you know, Robert and Sandra are gonna hog the mics, so you really have to elbow your way in if you want a turn.”
Robert and Sandra are, in fact, just finishing up a passionate duet of ‘Delilah’, complete with a slightly alarming mime of Sandra being stabbed to death.
“That’s fine,” Vanessa says. “I... I think I’ll probably just watch for a while.”
Annie shrugs. “Suit yourself. Nobody’s gonna complain if you save us from Robert’s singing later on, though. He gets worse as he gets drunker.”
Vanessa takes a seat next to Chris, who has settled in a corner of the booth with a book, clearly with no intention of taking the microphone himself. It’s reassuring; perhaps she won’t be judged for just spectating. In fact, going by the way Robert is currently wrestling with Max to keep the microphone, some people might actively prefer it if others waive their turns.
Robert, Sandra, Annie and Max turn out to be the most enthusiastic singers of the group. Annie will occasionally insist on Dennis having a go; he muddles through the lyrics, mispronouncing half the words, but, to Vanessa’s surprise, he can carry a tune. Trevor scrolls speculatively through the venue’s Duran Duran collection a couple of times, but he never actually performs. Jonathan’s yet to show up, which is apparently normal; they all take turns periodically opening the door to check whether he’s outside.
Eventually, with a little liquid courage inside her, Vanessa approaches Robert and holds out her hand for the microphone. To be honest, she’s half hoping he’ll fight her off.
No such luck. “Ah, the newcomer!” he exclaims, handing it over. “Let’s hear what you’re capable of.”
She chooses ‘Waterloo’ by ABBA: something fun and crowdpleasing, something she won’t have to take too seriously. Most of the room sings along, which helps to take some of the pressure off, encourages her to put a little more power into her voice.
She’s laughing by the time she finishes. Turns around to see who’s waiting for the microphone, finds Chris’s eyes on her. It’s disconcerting; he’s been so quiet that she’d almost forgotten he was here.
“You can sing,” he says.
It instantly brings a flush to her face. “Um, thank you.”
“I was thinking of writing our Christmas play for the BBC myself,” Chris says. “It might include a few songs. Would you be willing to play the lead?”
“Excuse me?” Robert asks. “Vanessa’s brand new to the society; are you really going to offer her the lead over more senior members, on the strength of one—”
“Robert, the lead role is a small girl.”
“And you don’t think that’s within my range?”
“How could I possibly give you the role of Belle,” Chris says, “when you’re the ideal Father Christmas?”
There’s a pause.
“I do make a good Father Christmas,” Robert concedes, mollified. “In fact...”
He grabs the microphone out of Vanessa’s hand, and they all spend the next ten minutes being battered by a series of out-of-season Christmas songs.
(Writing Robert and Lucy’s relationship is an interesting challenge; we always see them in such a specific context, and it’s hard to envision what they’re like offstage!)
“We’re a little short on actresses,” Robert says, “so I’ve volunteered you for the role of the daughter. Chris thinks rehearsing every other day will suffice, because he lacks dedication, but I’ll work with you in between those sessions. We’ll have three weeks of daily rehearsals, with a matinée rehearsal on Sundays, after which—”
“No,” Lucy says.
Robert frowns. “Not enough rehearsals, you think?”
“No,” Lucy says. “I’m not going to be in the play.”
“Why on Earth not? Let’s be honest, at your age I doubt you have much of great importance to occupy your time.”
“I don’t want to do any more plays with you.” She’s rehearsed these words in her head so many times; it’s strange to be saying them aloud at last. “You always bully me. I’m tired of it.”
“Bully you?” He seems genuinely incredulous. “How do I bully you?”
“You dropped a coffin on me, for one thing.”
Robert scoffs, outraged. “That absolutely does not count. I was aiming for Chris.”
“And you remember the prison break play?” she asks. “All those horrible things you said to me?”
“Only because I was trying to make you cry!”
Lucy raises her eyebrows.
“Right,” Robert says. “Fine. It does sound quite bad out of context. I was trying to help you cry, in my role as your acting mentor.”
“Well, it wasn’t much fun.”
Robert folds his arms. “I’m just trying to help you fulfil your potential on the stage. You’re a member of the Grove family, you know. I have high expectations of you.”
“Could you have lower expectations of me, maybe?” Lucy asks. “Could you just treat me like I’m not related to you? Just pretend I’m Dennis or something.”
“Pretend you’re Dennis?” Robert echoes. “That might be a challenge.”
“Well, you don’t have to literally pretend I’m Dennis. Just—”
“You think I’ll shy away from an acting challenge?” Robert asks. “You’ll think you’re Dennis yourself by the time I’m done.”
“That, Dennis,” Robert says, clapping Lucy heartily on the shoulder, “was excellent work. You remembered every one of your lines. I’ll buy you a drink; you’ve earned it.”
She’d like to reach the point where he’s willing to pay her a compliment as herself. But it’s a start, she supposes.
harmfulmyths: My request is for the Cornley Drama Society to put on their rendition of Death Note: the Musical. They can tide me over while I wait for the show to open on the West End!“Could I take a look at the Death Note prop?” Robert asks.
“No,” Chris says, without hesitation.
“It’s a book, Chris. It’s not exactly going to shatter if I drop it.”
“If I give you the prop,” Chris says, “you’ll refuse to return it. This is a plot to steal the lead role from me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous; that had barely crossed my mind. This is serious. You’ve heard about the recent deaths of criminals, I trust?”
Chris nods. “We did use a few of those names in the last rehearsal. I suppose we’ll have to find replacements for the actual show; it seems in poor taste to write them down now.”
“It doesn’t cause you any concern?” Robert asks. “You wrote their names down in the heart attack book, and then they died of heart attacks.”
“For goodness’ sake, surely you don’t think there’s some sort of causation involved.”
“Seems like a hell of a coincidence,” Robert says.
“And yet the alternative is impossible,” Chris says, “so a coincidence it must be. Plenty of the names I wrote weren’t reported dead.”
“Did you know their faces?” Robert asks. “It only works if you know the face, doesn’t it?”
A frown flickers across Chris’s face, just for an instant.
“I’m not going to give you the Death Note,” he says, after a moment. “But, if you must compare the names to the reports...”
He flips to the two written-on pages of the Death Note, tears them out. Hands them to Robert.
Robert screams.
“What’s wrong?” Chris asks, jerking back.
“Hi,” says the vast, feathered monstrosity behind Chris.
Robert points wordlessly at it.
Chris looks over his shoulder, frowning. “You’re afraid of Max?”
“Max?” Robert echoes, incredulous.
“Of course it’s Max; who else has that perpetual grin? He made his own costume, I think. It’s certainly impressive, but I do wish he’d stop following me around everywhere.”
Right. Yes. Of course it’s Max.
“Don’t appear out of nowhere like that, Max,” Robert orders him. “It’s unsettling.”
“Humans are weird,” Max comments.
(This is a delightfully weird concept, but unfortunately my fic doesn't quite match the request! When I thought about Robert with a voodoo doll of Chris, this was the first place my mind went, and I couldn’t get it out of my head.)
There’s a hammering on Chris’s front door, so sudden and so loud that it absolutely terrifies him.
“Chris!” Robert bellows, at such a volume that it carries through to the living room. “Chris!”
Oh, of course it’s just Robert. Chris feels silly for panicking, suddenly. Robert does seem even louder than usual, though; is everything all—
There is a sudden, terrible splintering noise, followed by a crash.
Oh, God.
Chris rushes into the hallway to find his front door torn off its hinges. Robert is standing in the doorframe, breathing hard.
“Robert,” Chris says, “what—”
In the next instant, he’s been whisked off his feet.
“How are you feeling?” Robert asks, cradling Chris in his arms. “You’re conscious, thank Christ; that’s a good sign.”
“Let me go! What are you doing?” He’s struggling, but Robert, considerably stronger, just keeps him clamped against his chest in a tight bridal carry. “Are you abducting me?”
They certainly seem to be on the move, Robert carrying him urgently out onto the pavement. Chris has semi-frequent nightmares about Robert tying him up in a cellar in order to take over his position as director. In this moment, they’re looking alarmingly plausible.
“Robert,” Chris says, pleading, “you can’t leave my home unoccupied and doorless. I’ll be burgled.”
“Just hold on,” Robert is saying, clearly not listening at all. “Just hold on, you’ll be fine, I’ll get you to a hospital—”
“A hospital? I don’t need—”
“It was my mistake. I apologise.” Those words, in Robert Grove’s voice, stun Chris briefly into silence. “But I’m making it right. You’ll be fine.”
He shoves Chris into the passenger seat of his car, straps him in. Chris might be able to make a bid for freedom at this point. But he’s busy trying to slot these puzzle pieces together: Robert made some sort of mistake, and Robert is suddenly extremely concerned for Chris’s wellbeing.
“Robert,” Chris says, a chill passing through him, “did you poison me?”
“Poison?” Robert echoes, casting Chris a bewildered glance as he buckles himself into the driver’s seat. “How do you imagine that would break your bones?”
Well. That’s a new puzzle piece, certainly, but the picture they’re forming is only becoming more incomprehensible. “I... don’t feel especially like my bones are broken.”
“I sat on your voodoo doll,” Robert says. “You expect me to believe you’re unscathed?”
“Voodoo doll?” Chris asks, absolutely bewildered. “You know they can’t actually – wait, why do you have a voodoo doll of me?”
“That’s not important right now,” Robert says, firmly. “Let’s just worry about your health.”
Anonymous: Oh oh oh! I seem to remember that in ff8 you have to put on a musical performance of some kind? That, but you can only get the stage for one set in the Garden Drama Society's drama festival.
“Excuse me, what are you doing here?”
Selphie looks sharply up from her guitar. It’s a couple of students from the drama society: Chris and Robert, she thinks they’re called. She’s seen one of their plays before, or at least the twenty minutes they managed to get through before a rampaging T-Rexaur broke out of the training centre and demolished their set.
“Busted,” Selphie whispers.
“This stage is specifically for the use of the Garden Drama Society,” Chris says. “You can’t just set up your band here.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Selphie says. “It’s just for tonight. One tiny concert to celebrate Squall’s promotion. I checked the schedule; your next play’s not for another couple of weeks.”
“And we need to rehearse for it! If you wanted to use the stage, you should have talked to us about it beforehand.”
“Hold on, Chris,” Robert says. “You heard that announcement. Squall’s the leader of the Garden now, you know. If the drama society could get on his good side...”
Chris looks sharply from Robert back to Selphie. “Does Squall have the authority to make budgetary decisions?”
“Uh, sure,” Selphie says. “Why not?”
“Excellent.” Robert gives an authoritative nod. “I think I speak for Chris when I say we’d be delighted to have you on our stage.”
“You do not speak for me,” Chris says, “but... yes, I think we can allow it on this occasion.”
“Anyway,” Robert says, “a concert, you say? Any room for more performers?”
“You can play an instrument?” Selphie asks.
Robert shrugs. “Drums, probably. How hard can it be? Oh, and I’ll source some fireworks for the concert.”
“Er,” Chris says, “is that a good—”
Selphie claps her hands together, dropping her guitar in the process; it’s a good thing it’s on a strap. “Oh, fireworks would be super cool.”
“Um.” Selphie sidles awkwardly up to Chris, after the concert. “Sorry we, uh, blew up your stage.”
Chris sighs, deeply. “Well, it’s not the first time.”
Anonymous: hiiiii I have a ficlet request!! idk if you’ve seen the promo vid for tptgw filmed in a suit shop but I think it’s so silly and I love the way you write robert so was wondering if you might write that whole thing through his perspective? thanks for keeping us cornley fans fed :)))
(The short video of Chris and Robert in a suit shop is one of my absolute favourite pieces of supplemental Goes Wrong canon, and I was delighted to have an excuse to watch it repeatedly! I found this request tricky because the video is so heavy on visual comedy, though; I felt any attempt to convey it in writing would pale in comparison. So, instead, I wrote a little scene set after the ending of the video.)
“Right,” Robert says. “Now I’ll need you to help me pick out a suit.”
Chris frowns. “I thought you’d picked out a suit already. You’re wearing a suit right now.”
“For God’s sake, Chris, this isn’t the actual suit I’m buying. I just changed into the first one that fit so I could advise you.”
Chris blinks. “You... needed an outfit to help me pick my outfit?”
“Well, you’re not going to take clothing advice from someone dressed less smartly than you are, are you?” Not that the damn man took Robert’s advice anyway; he’s remarkably ungrateful. “Now that you’re suited up, you can help me.”
“Ask the staff. They seem to know what they’re doing.”
“Chris, you cannot possibly expect me to trust a total stranger’s judgement on matters of refinement.”
“I don’t expect you to trust my judgement,” Chris says. “I know for a fact you’re not going to listen to a word I say. But fine. What’s your size?”
“There’s measuring tape right there, Chris,” Robert says. “You can’t expect to be handed all the answers in life.”
There is, for some reason, a touch of annoyance in the way Chris looks at him. But he picks up the measuring tape.
“Right,” Chris says. “As expected, you haven’t gone with a single item of clothing I recommended. Is that everything?”
“Not quite.” Robert holds up the tie he’s picked out: a far more sophisticated choice than Chris’s suggestion, naturally. “Still need you to tie this.”
Chris eyes it for a moment. “Surely you can put on your own tie.”
“I could, certainly,” Robert says, “but then I wouldn’t be getting the full clothes shop experience, would I?”
“If you say so.” Chris takes the tie from his hand, loops it around Robert’s neck. Crosses the ends over each other. Pauses.
“You’re not finished, if you were wondering,” Robert says.
Chris looks up to meet his eyes. “Is there a particular knot you’d...”
He tails off. A few seconds pass, the two of them watching each other from inches apart. It doesn’t seem that Chris is going to finish his sentence.
“You’re staring,” Robert comments.
Chris drops his eyes. There is, Robert is delighted to note, a slight blush rising in his face. “I’m not.”
“I was practically humping you when I was trying to pull your trousers up, you know,” Robert remarks. “It’s charming that you only become flustered when it looks like kissing is in the cards. Very romantic.”
“Shut up, Robert.”
“What’s that tone for? I mean it. I’m a great believer in romance, you know.”
“For God’s sake.” Chris backs away sharply. “Tie your own tie.”
“Hm. If I must.” Robert ties it, checks himself in the mirror. The overall look is extremely satisfactory; it’s no wonder it apparently struck Chris. “That was an interesting reaction, though. I think we should explore it further in the future.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Chris says through gritted teeth.
I had a lot of fun writing these! But apparently I cannot be trusted to stick to the actual details of a fic request.
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Aw, Dennis!
I love the characterization!
How dare you suggest he might not be perfect for the lead role at all times in every single thing!
I love that this was somehow better than his usual approach.
Everything about this is brilliant!
To be fair, drums is just hitting stuff in specific timing, and he would be good at half of that.
Very Robert!
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It's always fun to be presented with a specific situation and get to consider how each of the members of the drama society would respond to it! Condolences to Jonathan on the answer almost always being 'he would fail to be there'.
I enjoyed including a 'How hard can it be?', fully embracing the fact that I am essentially just back in Top Gear fandom again. (I'm also cracking up at 'he would be good at half of that'.)
Thank you so much!
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I'm cracking up at this. Dennis's conflictless play probably wouldn't be a great piece of theatre, but I very much want to watch it. (Of course, the actors are more than capable of supplying the conflict themselves.)