INTERCOMM - Short Fic - Much Gets By with a Little Help From His Friends
Title: Much Gets By with a Little Help From His Friends
Author: Nettlestone Nell
Word Count: 1817
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Much, Little John, Allan, Will, DJaq, a non-INTERCOMM character; Much/Eve, Will/DJaq, Robin/Marian
Spoilers/Warnings: All seasons, and my other INTERCOMM 2011 submissions, " A Bit Too Much" at 'Treat Much Right', " Deposed" at 'Society for People Who Are Afraid of Maid Marian', " The Long Dark Knight of the Soul", and " Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair", both at 'Sir Guy Treats YOU Right'.
You should read those first. They are deranged, but (thankfully?) brief.
Here's your warning: *If you are of the LadyKate63 persuasion, I have been made to understand you may need a bracing drink to get through those last two...
Summary: Much finds out (with a little help) who burned him.
Disclaimer: No one can truly own the legend of Robin Hood, but BBC/Tiger Aspect seem to hold rights to this particular iteration.
Category: Comedy; Short Fic
Much Gets By with a Little Help From His Friends
The modest sedan pulled into the third drive in a short run of village row houses a rambling forty-five minute country drive northwest of Cardiff.
He was asked in immediately, reminded by Will to step over the baby gate, and around the sack of dirty nappies waiting for the service to come and pick them up for laundering.
Once seated, the usual polite questions asked about Eve's good health, the weather, the particular beauty spots encountered along his drive from London covered, DJaq had brought the tea. Something Middle Eastern in flavor. Her preference, and, easy to see, now Will's, as well.
It had been a long time since he had had any, but Much found he still enjoyed its tang considerably, and waved off any cream diluting it whatsoever.
"I want to ask you both to come down to London. To stay with Eve and myself. We've plenty of room," he tried not to notice their rather cramped (if homey) residence, so overfull of brightly colored toys (many of which Will had made) and DJaq's expansive collection of books.
Attentive solely to him until that moment, DJaq and Will exchanged a look.
"What?" he asked, "What is it?" Even after all this time he had never quite gotten over the two of them as a cohesive force, no longer just DJaq and Will, but DJaq+Will.
"Well, Much," DJaq began, "it's just not a good time for us," again the shared glance, "to come down to London."
"Oh, no!" he cried out, noticing more closely the type of shirt DJaq was wearing. "Not again. Really? You two! How many can that be, now? Have you never heard of family planning?"
"What about Marian?" DJaq attempted to calm him. "Surely you may depend upon her to straighten this out for you."
"Marian?" he spluttered, nearly capsizing his teacup in its saucer. "Do you not read the papers? Not at least tune to BBC News from time to time? She has abandoned the crusade for truth! Lied under oath! Thrown me and my case under the bloody bus!"
"Much," Will reasoned. "If she has done so, I am sure there must be a good reason. What says Robin? Can you not reconcile yourself to her?"
"No," he replied, not attempting to curb his snippiness. "She and Robin have vanished. They will prove no help to me unless they choose to resurface, and soon."
"It is so long ago," DJaq contended. "If Marian has no quarrel with the published reports of it, why should we dredge it up again? Is it so very important to you?"
"Yes," he declared. "Yes, and yes, and yes. You were not portrayed as a nattering boob." He looked to Will. "Nor were you. It affects both of you little, I see. People will still buy your woodwork in the village here, and at the galleries. And none of it will influence DJaq's anthropological translation work funded by university. But more and more this feels like all I have. And so I fight for it." He set down his cup and saucer. "I daresay Richard would have done the same, but as it seems we cannot hold a strong enough séance to catch the attention of a dead monarch and talk him into testifying, I shall say 'goodbye' for now and kiss you, DJaq." He leaned over to pat what he could now see was a familiar roundness to her belly. "I love you both, I love your children, however many there may ultimately be, and I renew my invitation that you all come to visit us quite soon." He stopped and clarified, "I shall not require your sworn affidavits in the matter in exchange for housing you."
"We will let you and Eve know the first thing we hear of Robin and Marian," Will assured him, walking him back out to the car.
Two-hours outside of London, to the West, he decided, after all, to stop in on John, living for the summer season at Stow-on-the-Wold.
From habit, he did not even try Little John at his lodgings, but looked about town, finding the local community theatre without any trouble.
The stage proved mostly barren of set dressing, but John quickly explained they were working on a production of Our Town, set to open within the week. "I am to play the narrator," he shared, with pride. "And so I am working on my American accent."
"Don't suppose I could tempt you to skip some rehearsal or a few performances and come down to London with me for a day or two, help out in this BBC-thing?"
"Oh, that," John seemed to consider. "Doesn't seem like you have a chance in a thousand of winning that, without Marian's help."
"Which I somehow lost."
John grunted. "Which you somehow lost."
"Well, what am I supposed to do, then? A whitepages search on Gisborne?" He threw his hand in the air. "Carter's with some sort of Her Majesty's Black Ops group, now. No way to contact him according to his wife. Been six weeks since she heard from him."
"Well, if you can't find Gisborne, you might try the man who used to run with him."
"Allan?"
"Why not? He's still one of the lads, isn't he?"
"Well, yes, of course...only, do you think he'd help me? BBC's done a lot to put a strain on our relationship."
"Give him some credit, Much. He lived it, too. He knows the truth of things, same as all of us."
"You've got his current number?"
Little John shook his head. "He changes it too often. But he always seems to know what's afoot. Got tickets put by for him at Will Call. Whatever night he comes to pick them up, you slip a note in with them. He'll call you."
"Yes, I'll do that."
"Shall I put some on hold for you and Eve, what night you might be free to drive back out?"
"Yes," Much agreed, feeling better at the thought of getting Allan's help in the matter. "Thank you. Only, not too close to the stage. You...tend to spit, you know...when you get to the graveyard scene."
"Well, Muchy! And lawyer," Allan-A-Dale grandly addressed the two other men in the small screening room of the legal offices by which Much was represented. "Here it is, the tape even Wikileaks wouldn't touch." He proudly brandished an old-school VHS tape (presumably the original).
"And how have you come by it?" Much asked, curiosity eating at him.
Allan looked significantly at the solicitor seated next to his mate. "'Rather not say."
At this, the solicitor looked decidedly relieved.
"All started," Allan began, "with a claim of 'wrongful termination' filed by a P.J. Lackland against BBC. Claims he was an uncredited writer and story consultant on their Hood series." From within a locked briefcase he withdrew an actual pink slip (pink, and everything, wot), passing it to Much, who looked it over and handed it on to the solicitor. "Word is, there's been a significant action on the Beeb's part to cover this whole matter up, with a lotta under-the-table mud-slinging, and a whole lotta cash."
"Allan, I appreciate the build-up, really I do, but I don't see how an 'uncredited writer and story consultant' can further my suit."
"What follows," Allan referenced the tape he was shortly to press 'play' on, "is footage of a mid-Season Three story meeting. It's quite common to record them (though you'd think the Beeb'd have sprung for some better video equipment), so as not to miss something in the brainstorming free-for-all nature of them." He smirked. "Don't think you'll miss much, here."
The tape engaged and began playing on the screen. It seemed to be very much the standard meeting (so like ones in any office), held in a fluorescently lit boardroom, those present dressed casually, a white board on one wall scrawled with many types and styles of handwriting, holding story ideas.
And then one man, in khaki Dockers and a light blue button-down oxford stood up, his reddish cast-of-hair and back to the camera, his hand waving about what was clearly the actually pink pink slip Allen had just shown them, addressed to 'P.J. Lackland'.
The man on the tape began to speak, quickly silencing the others. His manner was grand, and articulate, teetering toward the dramatic.
"Oh, is that what you would like, is it? Sacking me. You'd like it if I went, and quietly, I've no doubt. With me gone, what've you got? What? No story is what, no drama. More bloody reality programmes! That's what'll be in Hood's slot in six months! Give the people what they bloody-well like? High special effects budget blue screen tween vampire love quadrangles?" He gestured passionately. "Because that's what the idiocy of this dismissal from staff shows me: no vision, no imagination--no bloody ambition. 'The people', 'the people'! 'Might as well ask me to draft you the Magna Carta." At this he turned, addressing the camera, his full face flooding it. "Oh," he quipped, cocking his head, "too late." His eyes slightly rolled. "Been there, done that."
As Allan had expected, Much began nearly to stroke out at the sight of the man on camera, whose face was now conveniently freezeframed.
"But that's...but that's...but that's..." Much spluttered, his finger pointing wildly, gesticulating hysterically at the screen.
The solicitor present was obviously somewhat acquainted with Much, as he did not immediately ring for emergency services, or the building's portable defibrillator. Instead, he attempted to prompt his client, "Mr. Much?"
Allan offered, "that, is good old 'P.J.'."
"Of the wrongful termination suit?"
"Among other things," Much announced, defiantly, finding his voice. Looking to Allan (rather than his solicitor) he keenly asked, "what does this mean to us?"
Allan pretended to consider the question, though he had sorted out the ramifications some time ago. "It means BBC has gone to a lot of trouble to keep this hiring--and firing--under wraps. It means we know whom to implicate in storylines and important plot points going astray. AND, it means full capitulation to your demands should be just a phone call away--once we let them know we're in possession of the evidence."
"Brilliant," said Much, with his whole heart.
"As ever," Allan gave a slight half-bow.
Now, Much began to tally production time on that DVD boxed set in his head. Could they ship in time to be in the shops for Christmas?
"Now," said Allan, turning to the solicitor, "over the champs," with a subtle tilt of his head he indicated the in-room landline that he expected the chap shortly to ring for a celebratory bottle of champagne on, "and before we call BBC, you and I, and Much, here, of course, shall discuss what it would take to turn this, very shortly, into a most-lucrative class action suit..."
...fin...
Read the conclusion: Why We Fought
Confused? Haven't read what came before?
Wish you could recall how to get to them to re-read? Here they are:
" A Bit Too Much" at 'Treat Much Right'
" Deposed" at 'Society for People Who Are Afraid of Maid Marian'
" The Long Dark Knight of the Soul" &
" Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair", both at 'Sir Guy Treats YOU Right'.
Author: Nettlestone Nell
Word Count: 1817
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Much, Little John, Allan, Will, DJaq, a non-INTERCOMM character; Much/Eve, Will/DJaq, Robin/Marian
Spoilers/Warnings: All seasons, and my other INTERCOMM 2011 submissions, " A Bit Too Much" at 'Treat Much Right', " Deposed" at 'Society for People Who Are Afraid of Maid Marian', " The Long Dark Knight of the Soul", and " Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair", both at 'Sir Guy Treats YOU Right'.
You should read those first. They are deranged, but (thankfully?) brief.
Here's your warning: *If you are of the LadyKate63 persuasion, I have been made to understand you may need a bracing drink to get through those last two...
Summary: Much finds out (with a little help) who burned him.
Disclaimer: No one can truly own the legend of Robin Hood, but BBC/Tiger Aspect seem to hold rights to this particular iteration.
Category: Comedy; Short Fic
Much Gets By with a Little Help From His Friends
The modest sedan pulled into the third drive in a short run of village row houses a rambling forty-five minute country drive northwest of Cardiff.
He was asked in immediately, reminded by Will to step over the baby gate, and around the sack of dirty nappies waiting for the service to come and pick them up for laundering.
Once seated, the usual polite questions asked about Eve's good health, the weather, the particular beauty spots encountered along his drive from London covered, DJaq had brought the tea. Something Middle Eastern in flavor. Her preference, and, easy to see, now Will's, as well.
It had been a long time since he had had any, but Much found he still enjoyed its tang considerably, and waved off any cream diluting it whatsoever.
"I want to ask you both to come down to London. To stay with Eve and myself. We've plenty of room," he tried not to notice their rather cramped (if homey) residence, so overfull of brightly colored toys (many of which Will had made) and DJaq's expansive collection of books.
Attentive solely to him until that moment, DJaq and Will exchanged a look.
"What?" he asked, "What is it?" Even after all this time he had never quite gotten over the two of them as a cohesive force, no longer just DJaq and Will, but DJaq+Will.
"Well, Much," DJaq began, "it's just not a good time for us," again the shared glance, "to come down to London."
"Oh, no!" he cried out, noticing more closely the type of shirt DJaq was wearing. "Not again. Really? You two! How many can that be, now? Have you never heard of family planning?"
"What about Marian?" DJaq attempted to calm him. "Surely you may depend upon her to straighten this out for you."
"Marian?" he spluttered, nearly capsizing his teacup in its saucer. "Do you not read the papers? Not at least tune to BBC News from time to time? She has abandoned the crusade for truth! Lied under oath! Thrown me and my case under the bloody bus!"
"Much," Will reasoned. "If she has done so, I am sure there must be a good reason. What says Robin? Can you not reconcile yourself to her?"
"No," he replied, not attempting to curb his snippiness. "She and Robin have vanished. They will prove no help to me unless they choose to resurface, and soon."
"It is so long ago," DJaq contended. "If Marian has no quarrel with the published reports of it, why should we dredge it up again? Is it so very important to you?"
"Yes," he declared. "Yes, and yes, and yes. You were not portrayed as a nattering boob." He looked to Will. "Nor were you. It affects both of you little, I see. People will still buy your woodwork in the village here, and at the galleries. And none of it will influence DJaq's anthropological translation work funded by university. But more and more this feels like all I have. And so I fight for it." He set down his cup and saucer. "I daresay Richard would have done the same, but as it seems we cannot hold a strong enough séance to catch the attention of a dead monarch and talk him into testifying, I shall say 'goodbye' for now and kiss you, DJaq." He leaned over to pat what he could now see was a familiar roundness to her belly. "I love you both, I love your children, however many there may ultimately be, and I renew my invitation that you all come to visit us quite soon." He stopped and clarified, "I shall not require your sworn affidavits in the matter in exchange for housing you."
"We will let you and Eve know the first thing we hear of Robin and Marian," Will assured him, walking him back out to the car.
Two-hours outside of London, to the West, he decided, after all, to stop in on John, living for the summer season at Stow-on-the-Wold.
From habit, he did not even try Little John at his lodgings, but looked about town, finding the local community theatre without any trouble.
The stage proved mostly barren of set dressing, but John quickly explained they were working on a production of Our Town, set to open within the week. "I am to play the narrator," he shared, with pride. "And so I am working on my American accent."
"Don't suppose I could tempt you to skip some rehearsal or a few performances and come down to London with me for a day or two, help out in this BBC-thing?"
"Oh, that," John seemed to consider. "Doesn't seem like you have a chance in a thousand of winning that, without Marian's help."
"Which I somehow lost."
John grunted. "Which you somehow lost."
"Well, what am I supposed to do, then? A whitepages search on Gisborne?" He threw his hand in the air. "Carter's with some sort of Her Majesty's Black Ops group, now. No way to contact him according to his wife. Been six weeks since she heard from him."
"Well, if you can't find Gisborne, you might try the man who used to run with him."
"Allan?"
"Why not? He's still one of the lads, isn't he?"
"Well, yes, of course...only, do you think he'd help me? BBC's done a lot to put a strain on our relationship."
"Give him some credit, Much. He lived it, too. He knows the truth of things, same as all of us."
"You've got his current number?"
Little John shook his head. "He changes it too often. But he always seems to know what's afoot. Got tickets put by for him at Will Call. Whatever night he comes to pick them up, you slip a note in with them. He'll call you."
"Yes, I'll do that."
"Shall I put some on hold for you and Eve, what night you might be free to drive back out?"
"Yes," Much agreed, feeling better at the thought of getting Allan's help in the matter. "Thank you. Only, not too close to the stage. You...tend to spit, you know...when you get to the graveyard scene."
"Well, Muchy! And lawyer," Allan-A-Dale grandly addressed the two other men in the small screening room of the legal offices by which Much was represented. "Here it is, the tape even Wikileaks wouldn't touch." He proudly brandished an old-school VHS tape (presumably the original).
"And how have you come by it?" Much asked, curiosity eating at him.
Allan looked significantly at the solicitor seated next to his mate. "'Rather not say."
At this, the solicitor looked decidedly relieved.
"All started," Allan began, "with a claim of 'wrongful termination' filed by a P.J. Lackland against BBC. Claims he was an uncredited writer and story consultant on their Hood series." From within a locked briefcase he withdrew an actual pink slip (pink, and everything, wot), passing it to Much, who looked it over and handed it on to the solicitor. "Word is, there's been a significant action on the Beeb's part to cover this whole matter up, with a lotta under-the-table mud-slinging, and a whole lotta cash."
"Allan, I appreciate the build-up, really I do, but I don't see how an 'uncredited writer and story consultant' can further my suit."
"What follows," Allan referenced the tape he was shortly to press 'play' on, "is footage of a mid-Season Three story meeting. It's quite common to record them (though you'd think the Beeb'd have sprung for some better video equipment), so as not to miss something in the brainstorming free-for-all nature of them." He smirked. "Don't think you'll miss much, here."
The tape engaged and began playing on the screen. It seemed to be very much the standard meeting (so like ones in any office), held in a fluorescently lit boardroom, those present dressed casually, a white board on one wall scrawled with many types and styles of handwriting, holding story ideas.
And then one man, in khaki Dockers and a light blue button-down oxford stood up, his reddish cast-of-hair and back to the camera, his hand waving about what was clearly the actually pink pink slip Allen had just shown them, addressed to 'P.J. Lackland'.
The man on the tape began to speak, quickly silencing the others. His manner was grand, and articulate, teetering toward the dramatic.
"Oh, is that what you would like, is it? Sacking me. You'd like it if I went, and quietly, I've no doubt. With me gone, what've you got? What? No story is what, no drama. More bloody reality programmes! That's what'll be in Hood's slot in six months! Give the people what they bloody-well like? High special effects budget blue screen tween vampire love quadrangles?" He gestured passionately. "Because that's what the idiocy of this dismissal from staff shows me: no vision, no imagination--no bloody ambition. 'The people', 'the people'! 'Might as well ask me to draft you the Magna Carta." At this he turned, addressing the camera, his full face flooding it. "Oh," he quipped, cocking his head, "too late." His eyes slightly rolled. "Been there, done that."
As Allan had expected, Much began nearly to stroke out at the sight of the man on camera, whose face was now conveniently freezeframed.
"But that's...but that's...but that's..." Much spluttered, his finger pointing wildly, gesticulating hysterically at the screen.
The solicitor present was obviously somewhat acquainted with Much, as he did not immediately ring for emergency services, or the building's portable defibrillator. Instead, he attempted to prompt his client, "Mr. Much?"
Allan offered, "that, is good old 'P.J.'."
"Of the wrongful termination suit?"
"Among other things," Much announced, defiantly, finding his voice. Looking to Allan (rather than his solicitor) he keenly asked, "what does this mean to us?"
Allan pretended to consider the question, though he had sorted out the ramifications some time ago. "It means BBC has gone to a lot of trouble to keep this hiring--and firing--under wraps. It means we know whom to implicate in storylines and important plot points going astray. AND, it means full capitulation to your demands should be just a phone call away--once we let them know we're in possession of the evidence."
"Brilliant," said Much, with his whole heart.
"As ever," Allan gave a slight half-bow.
Now, Much began to tally production time on that DVD boxed set in his head. Could they ship in time to be in the shops for Christmas?
"Now," said Allan, turning to the solicitor, "over the champs," with a subtle tilt of his head he indicated the in-room landline that he expected the chap shortly to ring for a celebratory bottle of champagne on, "and before we call BBC, you and I, and Much, here, of course, shall discuss what it would take to turn this, very shortly, into a most-lucrative class action suit..."
...fin...
Read the conclusion: Why We Fought
Confused? Haven't read what came before?
Wish you could recall how to get to them to re-read? Here they are:
" A Bit Too Much" at 'Treat Much Right'
" Deposed" at 'Society for People Who Are Afraid of Maid Marian'
" The Long Dark Knight of the Soul" &
" Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair", both at 'Sir Guy Treats YOU Right'.