in Milliways

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Rich Brook enjoys filming for The Storyteller. He honestly does. It may not be the role of a lifetime, but he could do worse than to spend the day reading fairy tales to kids.

He's always liked fairy tales.

Still, when Milliways pops up during a break in filming, he doesn't turn it down. He glances back over his shoulder first; then, when no one else seems to see anything amiss, he goes in.

At the Bar, he asks for a club soda with lime. He could have something stronger if he liked - with time stopped at home, no one would be the wiser - but it seems wrong for the Storyteller to drink while he's technically on duty.



[OOC: For clarity, Jim is in character as Rich, and will be making a much stronger effort to remain in character than he usually does in Milliways. And yes, he really is coming in from filming. DVDs don't make themselves.]

Comments

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(Ginger hair, freckles, and - obviously - persona can be faked. At home, the height would be the deciding factor, since not even Sherlock is capable of making himself several inches shorter, but Jim knows very well that in Milliways, height is just another variable.

He's either another Sherlock, or the first non-Sherlock with that face Jim has run into. Either way: not boring.)

"Nice to have a place where you know the bartender will always get it right, isn't it?" Rich says.

. . . he's not sure that made as much sense as it did before he started saying it. That tends to happen when he's working. It's hard to put his own sentences together properly when half his brain is full of someone else's.

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"Hmm?" Martin looks up to see who's talking to him. He hardly even noticed Rich there, but he's tired from driving to Cornwall and back.

"Oh, right. Yeah. It was a bit weird at first, but you get used to it."

He sounds like he's not quite got there yet, himself.

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Rich nods earnestly, glad to find that he apparently made sense after all.

"Yeah," he says, "you do. Well, mostly."

To the Bar, anyway.

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Martin works with Arthur Shappey. Parsing oddly-structured sentences is part of the job.

"Do you, ah, come here often?" Martin tries uncertainly. It might be a failed attempt at a chat-up, or just really awkward conversation. It's hard to tell.

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It . . . really kind of is. But that question does come up a lot here, for good reason, so after a couple seconds' hesitation, Rich picks the less awkward interpretation.

"Uh, it pops up a couple times a week, maybe? I don't always come in, but it's often that it doesn't surprise me like it used to." He winces slightly. "That was fun to explain a couple times."

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"It likes to pop up for me after work," Martin says. He's fairly convinced that it's the Bar's way of making sure he doesn't starve, but he doesn't say as much. "Usually, after I've showered, but it seemed to have other plans today."

And boy, did it ever. Martin just has no idea what they are yet.

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"It's got me in the middle," Rich says. "Hours before I'll get to shower all this out."

He touches his unforgivingly slicked-back hair as he speaks, then pulls his hand away. He's always having to remember not to muss it between takes.

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Martin laughs an amused little laugh. "What...what do you, er, do then?"

Eloquence has never been Martin's strong suit. And he's fairly relaxed right now (£200 in one's pocket will have that effect on him). Just wait until something's got him worked up.

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He sticks his hand in his pocket. Between that and the drink in his other hand, his hair should be safe.

Until he forgets, anyway.

"I'm an actor," he says. And because he is currently a working actor, he sounds a bit pleased with himself as he says it.

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Martin's certainly impressed. This guy seems a lot less horrible than the last actor he met, anyway.

"Really?" he asks. "What have you been in, uhm, lately?"

He was about to tack onto the end, 'that I might have seen,' but realised at the last second that the answer to that would have probably been 'nothing.'

What with probably being from different universes, and all.

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Rich's expression turns wryly amused as he hears the question change direction partway through. That's not just a Milliways thing; people also do it when they don't want to say I don't recognize you from anything.

"Didn't have much going lately till I had this one," he admits. "It's The Storyteller. Reading to kids on telly, basically. It's not Hamlet, but it's a living."

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"Oh, well, that's not bad," says the man who knows all too well what it's like to have an empty bank account.

"I'm, uhm, Martin. By the way."

This is the part he always hates the most. He could tell Rich that he's a pilot, and then have to admit that it's just a really expensive hobby, and then have to admit that he actually makes his money with a broken down old Ford Transit, or he can just wait until he's asked directly and give a well-crafted, subtle lie.

He goes for the second option, and says nothing on the matter.

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"Oh." Right, that. Introductions. He hastily withdraws his hand from his pocket to shake.

(Rich Brook is not right-handed. Too much of a hassle for too inconsequential a detail.)

"I'm Rich," he says. "Ironically, since I barely get by. Uh, like I just said." Or - implied. Vaguely.

Why did he stop going by Richard again?

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"Well, we can't all be Hester MacCaulley," Martin says dryly, shaking Rich's hand.

It doesn't occur to him that she might not exist in Rich's universe.

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And indeed, Rich looks politely blank.

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"Never mind," Martin says. "Actress. And not a very nice one. One of the guys I work with has a bit of a thing for her, though."

He sounds like he honestly can't imagine why.

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"Oh," he says with a nod. He knows the type. Oh, does he know the type.

"So, what is it you do?"

And there goes his newly-free hand, right to his hair. At least he managed to wait till after the handshake to get product all over his fingers.

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"Ah..."

Damn.

"Cargo transport," he says. "It's not very glamorous, but it pays the bills."

Just.

It is technically not a lie. And can work to explain both the van and MJN, since they seem to do more freight than passengers half the time.

He has the rough hands to support this lie as well. Definitely not the hands of a pilot, by any means. Under his thin t-shirt, and despite his small frame, he definitely has the body of someone who moves heavy boxes around for a living.

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(Jim's interest sharpens further at that. He's obviously telling the truth, and yet fairly trembling with all the signs of a terrible liar. There are any number of boring reasons to lie about one's occupation, but people who have reason to do so tend to be a bit better at it.)

"I did that for a summer when I was a kid," Rich says. "God, it's hard work. People don't give it near enough credit."

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"Somebody's got to do it," Martin says. It's the same line he's been telling himself for a few years, now.

"And the hours are flexible. So, that's nice."

It's a good thing, too. Because Carolyn's hours are anything but flexible.

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"Exactly," he says. "You get the real work done."

Any actor with any real respect for the craft knows where he'd be without his stagehands: fucking nowhere.

"Do you work for someone, or are you on your own?"

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"Uh... Self. I'm self-employed."

He says it just awkwardly enough that even Rich should be able to work out the meaning in that.

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"Oh."

Rich takes the next few seconds to draw some conclusions.

"Well - whatever it is - I mean, you're not, you know, going to get arrested for anything here if you don't do it here, so, uh - I mean, I'm not prying, I'm just saying, it wouldn't a big deal if you felt like, uh. Saying it."

He's only good at this kind of thing when he has a script.

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"What?" Martin asks, suddenly very confused.

And then it clicks.

"Oh! No! no, no. No. No."

And then, just for good measure: "No."

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(He just can't help himself.)

". . . . no?" Rich echoes, earnest and embarrassed and without a trace of mockery to be found.

"Um. Okay. No."