Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

<<I knew you’d be down here, as per usual. Do you never stop working?>>

<<Stars above, 1-7! Haven’t you heard of letting people know you’ve come in? I was in the middle of something!>>

<<You always are, 4-2! Anyway, the reason I’m here is that I’ve got some news that I think you’d be interested in. It’s all over the metalink, of course, but you’re never connected, so I thought it’d be best if I came down and told you in person.>>

<<Must be pretty important.>>

<<Oh, it is. So, I’ve got good news and bad news. Good news first - you remember the application you filed a while back? About your research on that extraterrestrial civilisation?>>

<<Mmm?>> he replied distractedly, before remembering. <<Oh, yes! They’re going to be a big influence as they develop, I think. All the reports back from the remote probes have been positive. They’ve got a baseline of the first dimension, functionally creative in the second and third - while they can’t interact with the fourth, they’re moving forwards through it at a constant rate, and they’re trying to see how it all works. And once they’ve opened that one up, they’ll be able to get through to some of the others, maybe up to the seventh->>

<<Yeah, yeah, that one. What I’m trying to say, if you’ll let me get a word in, is that your application’s gone through!>>

<<That’s fantastic! I’ve been saying we need a team on-site for a long time now. Who’s it going to be?>>

<< That’s the bad news, I’m afraid. The main teams are all out already, so they’ve said it’s going to have to be just one scout.>>

<<Well, that was more or less as expected, wasn’t it? Small department, small budget, and all that. But if the scout is good enough, it’ll be fine. Who’s still on base?>>

His only response was a flat look.

<<So. That’s the very bad news, then. Stars, not 9-3? You and I both know she’s a good worker in the labs, but only a novice, really - this is too advanced a planet for someone like her, you’d need experience…>>

<<It’s not 9-3, no.>>

<<Small mercies, then. She’d be better off with something smaller at this stage. So who is it? I can’t think of anyone else on base who’s got the research background and experience in the field, if all the main teams are off base…>>

<<Nobody with the research background? You’re sure about that? Not even the person who headed the project? The person who’s compiled all the available data we have on the civilisation? Who first noticed it, even, and proposed we investigate?>>

<<Oh, no.>>

<<Oh yes, I’m afraid. Everyone knows you’re one of the best researchers, 4-2, and not that I’m biased, but you’re possibly the best we have. Nobody else knows more about them than you, and when all the teams are out, they have to substitute field experience with research. You’d be able to blend in best. And you co-wrote the protocols for this type of thing.>>

<<There’s a difference between writing the protocols and carrying them out! I’m a xenoanthropologist, not one of the scouts, remember? They’re the ones who obtain the data, and I interpret it, not the other way around!>>

<<I don’t see why you couldn’t do this. You know all the facts about this planet, and let’s face it, you’d be the one compiling their briefs and information packets anyway. This just saves time and effort.>>

<<Sorry, have you seen me in any kind of situation requiring social interaction? I can hardly give a presentation to a group of my peers, much less the type of thing that on-site research would need.>>

<<You’ll have to get better at it, then, because they’ve said you’re going, protest or not. It’s all been processed already. And come on, 4-2. It’s what you enjoy, research and analysis of alien culture and language. The only difference is that you’ll be on-site!>>

<<Look, alright, I’ll do it, but as soon as a qualified team comes back, we tag out.>>

<<I’ll see if I can talk to someone and get it arranged for you. Good to have you on board.>>

<<So, you’re absolutely confident you know what to do when you get there?>>

<<1-7, I wrote the damn book on what to do when I get there!>>

<<Stay calm, 4-2, it’s going to be fine.>>

Another voice now, softer, electronic. <<Ready for launch. Stasis imminent when capsule is closed.>>

<<Remind me why I agreed to do this?>>

<<Just relax. You won’t notice the stasis, it’ll be over in a moment anyway, and the background jump will give you most of the stuff you need.>>

<<I know, I know.>> There was a faint sigh. <<Let’s just get this done with.>>

The silver capsule closed, to all intents and purposes sealed from the universe.

The electronic voice came again. <<Stasis achieved successfully. Genetic map analysis… complete. Reconstruction… complete. Launch initiation in seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two.

One.>>

The capsule winked out, vanished as if it had never been.

<<Good luck, 4-2.>>

Chapter Text

Darkness. Cold.

Body adjusting. Body acclimatising. Integration successful.

Three dimensions, now. Absence, yet oversensitivity.

Use the body. Feel the surfaces, 3D interfacing. Smooth, hard, seamless - opening.

Opening.

Now. Follow protocols. Look around. Observe local flora, fauna. Observe events in progress. Program the datapoint with specifications common to the species. What were they again? Name, date of birth, and profession, I think. But look around, first!

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The drop, it seemed, had gone as expected. He opened new eyes to see a world with grey skies above him and damp green vegetation below. In fact, the dampness was all around him. He had been warned of this from the geological/meteorological survey, of course. Precipitation of water was quite common in some places on the planet, including the place he wanted to have landed. It was looking good. Taking in a wider view of the area, he saw no fauna in the immediate vicinity, of the kind he was here to observe or otherwise. He was standing in a wide-open space, the soil covered by some kind of graminoid. No artificial constructions were evident. He was entirely alone.

Except for one thing.

His initial thought, that there were no artificial items in the field with him, was wrong. A white sign on a stake greeted him as he turned around. He peered at it, waiting as the translation matrix encoded in his new body started up. ‘Milton Keynes Designation Celebration Today!’ it read.

Milton would sound good as a name, he thought to himself. Yes. It fits.

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His surroundings noted, and away from any other lifeform, he opened his hand to reveal what he had been clutching since the drop began. It had read his genetic blueprint as it was remodelled to form this new body, and contained the information about himself necessary for the next stage in the process. The small silver object was at the forefront of technology back home, and an integral part of on-site research. Known as a datapoint, it would be his main interface with both the world he had left, and that that he had just joined.

<<Name?>> issued a voice from the machine. This was crucial, and would determine how he would be known for the duration of his time on this planet.

“Milton,” he said aloud and unhesitatingly, marvelling at both how it felt to communicate in this way, and at how well the translator was working.

But there was no immediate response from the datapoint. It was silent, waiting.

Oh.

A second name, that was part of it as well. Specifying a familial connection, it was certainly important. On the spot, slightly flustered that he had forgotten such a thing already, he racked his brain for the lists of common second names in this part of the planet that he had assimilated in preparation for the journey.

“Jones,” was his panicked pronouncement.

The datapoint seemed to accept this. <<Confirm?>>

“Milton Jones,” he said confidently.

<<Year of birth?>>

What was the date today? 1967, if the drop went as planned… That would be enough - but no. If he was ‘born’ at the same time the town was formally designated as such, that would probably seem suspicious. There are no such things as coincidences in science, after all.

“Nineteen sixty… four,” he said. The nod to his true name would go unnoticed by the civilisation here, but it was a slight reassurance to him. And to be honest, he needed all the reassurance he could get.

<<Date?>>

Off the cuff, he matched the first small number to mind with the first month he remembered. “16th of, um, May?”

<<Confirm?>>

“16th of May, 1964.”

<<Designated profession?>>

As much as the name, this was essential. Possibly more so, in that it would give him the cover he needed to research this civilisation. Their reactions, their nuances of behaviour - everything that couldn’t be gained from the remote probes. Oh, dry facts were simple enough to gather - population statistics, biological design, environmental factors - but the true research to be done was about the people and how they acted. And that required communication. Social interaction on large scales. With a sigh, he answered.

“Comedian.”

<<Confirm?>>

Last chance to back out now, he thought. Oh, it was the simplest of the available options. A stage persona could give room for error, and on a big enough scale, a career as a comedian would give him room for accurate research and reaction measurement. It was the best thing open to him. But, as an introverted researcher more at home with problem solving and paperwork than presentations, none of the things open to him were that appealing. Resigned, he repeated his first choice.

<<Thank you. Datapoint now active.>>

As he placed it on the ground, the machine folded itself up even smaller, shrinking so it was almost invisible, before losing itself in the planet’s earth. It was done.

This stage complete and his new life decided, the newly-named Milton sealed himself once more into the capsule, ready to enter stasis for the next jump - this one not in space, but time.

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The background jump was a crucial part of the drop. It was impossible for a drop to happen instantaneously - something about the hyperspace convergence made it some kind of paradox, scientists supposed. In any case, the drop had to occur in the past. This, it turned out, was more of a blessing than a curse. The team, or lone scout, were dropped into the planet’s past by the span of a childhood, or however long it would take for the resequenced body to reach its apparent age. The scout would once more enter stasis, and the capsule would take them forwards to the present day, collapsing years into the space of less than a second to somehow avoid the convergence paradox. As this was happening, the datapoint would hack into the planet’s information network to create a background for the scout, so if they became notable in any way, they would have a ‘footprint’, so to speak, that others could see if they searched for them. It would not seem like the scout had just dropped out of the sky and into a job in their middle age - to the world they were researching, they had a life and history.

In addition, it would also confirm to the scout important events that had occurred while they were in stasis. The datapoint itself would become lost to the scout as it hacked into (and became a physical part of) the network of cables as they were built beneath cities, but would interface with the scout through a phone-like device. This would then keep them up to date on issues as they happened within the world, a necessary part of the scout’s information gathering as they primarily focused on research at a smaller, more personal level.

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For Milton, it seemed like only a moment from when he stepped back into the capsule to when the cool voice announced: <<Jump successful, stasis ended.>> A small beeping sound from the rectangular device clipped to the capsule wall meant that the connection to the datapoint had been made, and was holding well. He picked it up from its bracket, and checked the screen. A stream of information came up, starting to summarise any important events of the last forty-odd years between Milton’s ‘birth’ date and now, the date on this planet that corresponded with the time he left.

22nd June 2009, he read. Today’s date. By human standards, his body would be 45 years old. In reality, however, it had lived for less than a day. And he still had no idea what he looked like.

That was a priority, he thought. Find somewhere quiet to assimilate the information from the datapoint, and become accustomed to the body. The capsule is probably too noticeable as is - I can’t stay for long.

Luckily, this was a standard procedure for scouts. A living area would have been acquired from the base, before the scout had even undergone the drop. The capsule would then be programmed to take the scout to said location, before returning to base. Another capsule would be sent to retrieve the scout at the end of their mission. If everything had gone to plan, the house would be just outside the capsule.

With a deep breath, he stepped outside.

Chapter Text

The middle of a city in 2009 was somewhat different to an empty field in 1967, Milton found. It was a lot busier, for a start. People bustled down footpaths, cars roared down streets. While he had a basic idea of what to expect in this day and age, the reality - with its noises and smells layered on top of the picture - was much more overwhelming. As the capsule winked out behind him, its safety measures recognising that there was nobody in it and it had done its job, Milton stared at the house in front of him. He walked up to it, wondering at the construction.

As he approached the door, the device in his hand glowed hot, confirming that this was, indeed, the place he needed to go. A scanner in the door was linked to the presence of the device, acting as a key. Milton turned the handle and let himself in.

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The house itself was unremarkable, a small but standard building like most of the others found on the street. The rooms it contained were not unfamiliar - a kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and living space were much the same in any culture. Only the nature of the appliances were different, but once again, not unrecognisable, thanks to his prior research. The house was bare and spartan - really nothing much. But it was secure, and it was his.

What were the protocols after entering the living area? Milton asked himself. Change clothes, examine the body, get used to the space, and take in the information.

While the suit used to form and preserve the body during stasis was excusable once - probably dismissed as ‘fancy-dress’, the datapoint had informed him - it was certainly not the thing to be wearing all the time. It wasn’t something that would blend in, that was for sure. Moving to the bedroom, Milton found a carved wooden storage unit, its double doors shut tight. A wardrobe, he reminded himself. A reasonable selection of clothes would have been left here.

And indeed they had. Opening the doors, he saw an assortment of the shirts, trousers and shoes that he had observed male members of the species wearing in the images from the remote probes. Choosing the things that appealed to him - a pair of trousers made of a sturdy brown material, and a brightly coloured, patterned shirt - he started his first conscious steps on the journey to becoming human.

------------------------------------------

Exploring the house, the majority of the rooms seemed easy to understand. The kitchen would probably present the most hazards, but none more so than he would encounter in the workspaces back on base. The bathroom, however, had a surprise in store.

Entering the small tiled room, he was greeted by a flash of colour and movement. Spinning to see what it was, he saw a shiny, reflective surface on the side wall - a mirror that he had passed when coming in. The thing that had startled him was himself.

With no small amount of trepidation, Milton walked the few steps to the mirror and saw himself for the first time.

Hair. That was the first thing he noticed. A medium sandy brown colour, it refused to lie flat, and stuck up in every direction despite his best efforts to pat it down. Underneath this shock of hair were a pair of worried eyes that shifted from blue to grey to green to hazel depending on the light and surrounding colours, set above a nose that was slightly bent. Overall, the face was normal - set in an expression of permanent stress, maybe, and not the face of a supermodel, but the intrinsic kindness that was the baseline of his being shone through his eyes. On a wider level, he looked to be in his late thirties, was of moderate height, and built a little stockier than average.

It’s me, he thought, surprised at what he recognised. It’s completely different - but it’s me.

------------------------------------------

The next stage in the protocols was to assimilate the information that the datapoint had sourced over the time of the background jump. Since it would take time for half a lifetime’s worth of data on the details of a relatively unknown society to be sorted and categorised, it provided a chance for the scout to synchronise their circadian rhythms with the orbital period of the planet they were on. Milton settled himself in a comfortable-looking chair in his lounge room, and pressed the screen on his datapoint-connected device. It was attuned to his genetic makeup, and as such would only work for him. Likewise, he could access its information with the merest thought, and he did not as much read the screen as the information was transmitted directly into his mind. The device itself was more of an interface than anything.

As the data transfer took place, years blurred past. Wars, diseases - but technological and medical advancements, too. However, various fragments registered more than others.

I have a radio show? No, not one - four? Stars above!

Voice synthesizers and prerecorded clips had been combined by the datapoint into a series of radio programs that firmly cemented Milton’s background as a comedian. It wasn’t unexpected, but it was still startling.

The rest of the information about the happenings in the world was important, but nothing that hadn’t been touched on already by the remote probes that had already been sent. It was the personal details that meant the most to him and his cover. He was in England - Twickenham, in London, to be precise. Spoken language: English, which the translator had already locked onto. The population of the borough of Richmond upon Thames, of which Twickenham was a major part, was around 187 000, just a fraction of England’s total population of 53 million.

Even more important were the details about his cover that the datapoint had created. Milton paid special attention to these, internalising them. He had grown up in Kew, Surrey, and attended Middlesex Polytechnic, gaining a diploma in dramatic art. His father was Welsh. And in a civilisation divided by football allegiances, it was good to know the team he supported - Arsenal F.C. Yes. This was him, now.

Chapter Text

His head still reeling slightly from the onslaught of transmitted information, Milton latched onto the next step of the protocols - he had to talk to people. The first social interaction he would go through here would be a test, he decided. Nothing serious, nothing strenuous, nothing too stressful, but simply a way to get accustomed to human social conventions in general. Perfect.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Milton made his way outside and stepped out into the street. Or rather, he would have, if another body wasn’t currently occupying the same space. They collided painfully. Worst of all, Milton’s device was knocked from his hand to fall against the pavement.

“Sorry-”

“Ah, shite-”

Stammering apologies, Milton stepped back to look at the person he had walked into. Male, bald, and quite physically imposing, he was certainly not Milton’s initial choice to be his first social encounter. Fortunately, he seemed to react just as awkwardly as Milton. Apologising in turn, he bent to pick up the device Milton had dropped.

“Oh, um, thanks,” Milton said nervously. While the device bore a passing resemblance to the new iPhone, if someone took more than the briefest of glances at it they would be able to recognise it as non-Earth technology.

“Not a problem,” the man replied. He had a lilting accent to his speech that the translator identified as being from County Wicklow in Ireland, but to Milton’s relief, the translator still recognised the words.

As the man handed the device back, Milton breathed a faint sigh. He hadn’t noticed anything. Just as he started to relax, the man spoke again.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be a pain, but can I have a look at that?” he asked. “I’m quite interested in the new things coming out, and that phone looks really different to what I’ve seen before.”

Milton was stuck. On the one hand, he couldn’t present the device for close inspection without blowing his cover entirely. But on the other, refusing would be a grave breach of social etiquette.

“Um-” he stuttered, at a loss. The pause was stretching out awkwardly.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to-”

“Oh, no no, it’s fine,” Milton stammered hastily, and held out the device. Hopefully he could bluff through the rest of this encounter.

The man took it, and started examining it closely. Obviously some kind of technophile, he looked to be interested in the device’s display, which had gone blank as soon as it left Milton’s hands. Flipping it over, he peered at the network of panels on its underside, and made a small noise of confusion.

“That’s not-” he muttered under his breath, eyebrows knit in a puzzled frown.

Milton felt himself tense as the man raised his eyes from the device to look at him.

“How did you get this?” he asked.

Milton could only blink dumbly. He drew into himself, paralysed like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Even if he could think to answer, what could he say? He knew full well that the majority of the technology on that device hadn’t even been theorised on Earth, and by the looks of it, so did the man holding the device.

“Seriously, how did you get this? It’s not possible, they haven’t solved half the equations that would make this buildable!”

He broke off as he noticed Milton’s white face and glassy eyes. His breaths were occasional, and scarily shallow.

“Shit!” he exclaimed. “Are you alright?” He shook his head, angry at himself as he answered his own question. “Of course you’re not. Ehhhm, is there anywhere we can go? Somewhere you can sit and recover for a while?”

The only response he got was a flicker of Milton’s eyes towards the door of an unremarkable house a metre or so down the street.

“Is that your house?”

Blink.

At a loss, the man spread his hands slightly. “I’ll take that as a yes, then? Can you walk on your own?”

Again, there was no response. With a slight breath of effort, he looped one of Milton’s arms around his shoulders to support the other man. Off balance, he helped him towards the house.

Arriving there, he was met by a shock. He tried the door, only to find that it was locked, but-

“There’s no keyhole?” he said, puzzled.

Luckily, Milton seemed to be showing small signs of recovery.

“My dev- phone?” he whispered faintly.

“Of course,” the other man said, hastily giving it back. As soon as Milton touched it, its screen lit up, and a faint click could be heard from the door. Trying it again, the man seemed only slightly surprised to find it was unlocked.

He helped Milton to a chair in the lounge room. As Milton collapsed into it, the other man took a seat on another, not wanting to leave until he was sure that his charge was alright. Slowly, the colour began to return to his cheeks, and his breath came more evenly.

“Was everything okay out there? Shite, I’m sorry if I scared you, I really didn’t mean to, it’s just that your phone startled me a bit. And Jesus, I haven’t even told you who I am,” the man said. “I’m Dara, Dara O Briain.”

“Milton Jones,” Milton replied.

“But really, are you alright?” Dara asked, concerned.

Milton’s face crumpled. He exhaled, a long, utterly defeated sigh that came straight from the heart, and began to speak in a rattling, breathless rush.

“Yes - no - oh, I don’t know. It’s a mess, and I’m a mess - I had one job to do, and I couldn’t even do that. I told them I shouldn’t have done it, I’m not right to be sent as a scout.” He looked Dara straight in the eyes, plaintiveness shining through. “I’m a researcher, and I was sent here to study human society. I’m not a scout, though, and I’m not good with social interactions - which is a key part of the task - really, I’m happiest analysing data, but they sent me out because none of the teams were at base. I had one job, to observe and report back without being discovered, and I haven’t even been active a full day yet and I’ve already blown my cover, and probably the entire mission too-”

He broke off, and seemed to sag into himself.

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Dara blinked at him, dumbfounded. The oddest thing was - he really could believe it. That depth of emotion, raw hopelessness, was impossible to fake, and the evidence was all there. That device, in particular - as he had noticed, the technology was way beyond the current level on Earth.

“I won’t reveal it to anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said gently.

Milton lifted his head, the smallest spark of hope flaring painfully in his eyes, before he quickly smothered it - just in case.

“It’s not a problem,” Dara hastily reassured him. “And if your research is that important, I’m sure that if only one person knows, nobody else, nothing will happen. Besides, it might be good for you to have someone to talk to, you know?”

Those blue-grey-green eyes held a world of emotion.

“Would you do that?” Milton asked in a whisper, for the first time since landing daring to hope that his mission wouldn’t be a complete disaster.

Dara’s answer was a promise. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” Milton breathed, and those two small words contained nothing less than pure gratitude.

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Milton was looking much calmer now, and his breaths were relaxed and even.

“I hope this doesn’t go any further, I heard they deport illegal aliens,” he muttered.

Dara stared at him for a second before bursting into surprised laughter.

Milton looked back at Dara, confused.

“Sorry, I just didn’t expect something like that from you,” he apologised. “And don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

Milton was thoroughly puzzled. “Like what?”

“Ah, don’t worry, it’s just-” Dara broke off, and his brow knit. “Hang on, do I know your voice from somewhere?”

“No?”

“I’m sure I do, though! Ehhm…”

Milton was really confused. He’d only been on the planet for a day - Dara couldn’t know his voice. His next words shed some light on the matter, however.

“But I would have remembered what you looked like, for sure… You never did radio, did you?”

It all clicked into place - for both of them.

“Milton Jones - how could I forget!” Dara exclaimed. “Of course you did radio, your name was on the title of the program! But - if you’ve only been around for a day, how could you have…?”

Milton gestured towards his device. He was still slightly wary of giving up such classified information, but what more could he possibly do to expose himself? And anyway, Dara seemed to be generally trustworthy. There was no real harm in it, now. “The datapoint - it’s a machine that connects me to your information network. It also gives me a background in your society, and since I’m going to be a comedian, it synthesised my voice to make a comedy radio show.” His mouth twisted. “I don’t know how I’m going to pull off being a comedian, but I’ll have to try.”

“Right,” Dara nodded. It made sense, somehow. “Well, don’t worry. You’ll make a great comedian - you’ve got a way with words. Even if you didn’t mean it to be, what you said just then about the illegal aliens was very good.”

“You think so?”

“Of course! And look, I can give you a hand, to test new stuff on, if you’d like. I’m a comedian myself, so I could be a good sounding board? I’ll be a little busy over the next few weeks, though, I’m recording a show soon, but I’ll try and be around if you need me.” Dara stopped, and a sly smile spread across his face. “It’s a panel show, you know,” he continued. “Two teams of three people each, so nobody has to carry it on their own for too long. It’s mostly stand-up based on things that have been happening in the news over the last week, and there’s a live studio audience.”

Milton’s expression grew more longing with every word. “That would be a perfect way to start off,” he sighed. “But I’d have to go through so much to even get my name on a list - I’ll probably have to do a lot of minor events in small venues before I can get to anything like that.”

“Well, the thing is,” Dara said casually, “it looks like one of our regular panellists will be leaving at the end of the series. He hasn’t been too happy with the production team, and he’s all but said he’s going to go. The really bad part is that we’ll have an empty seat to fill, which will have to be a guest panellist. And as the host, I could maybe, ehhm, suggest some names…”

Milton’s eyes were saucers. “You’re not…”

“I am. Milton, would you like to be one of the next guest panellists on Mock the Week?”

“That would be- that’d be incredible, really! Stars, I can’t thank you enough! Honestly, I don’t know what to say-”

Dara smiled gently. “Say yes.”

Those earnest eyes were alight with joy and hope.

“Yes!”

Chapter Text

Telling Dara to make himself comfortable, Milton had gone to the kitchen and returned minutes later, holding a pair of full mugs. Placing one in front of Dara, he kept the other as he settled into his chair.

“This is what people do, yes?” he asked, slightly nervously. “Make tea?”

“Ye-es,” Dara said slowly, looking into his mug. The liquid inside was barely lukewarm, and the teabag, with string and tag still attached, was a soggy blob that floated in it limply like a rather unfortunate goldfish. He took a tentative sip. It was as awful as he expected, but he forced himself to smile when he saw the worried expression on Milton’s face.

“Did I do it right?” he asked. “I did try, but I’m not sure if I quite got it…”

“It… could do with a little improvement, yes, but on the whole it’s not bad,” Dara said politely. Milton was visibly relieved, and took a sip of his own.

“And you’re sure that people make it and like it?” he said, frowning at his cup. At Dara’s nod, his frown grew slightly deeper, and he placed the still-full mug on the floor by his chair.

As Dara drank, there was a moment’s silence.

“So,” Milton began. “What do you have to do, to be funny? To be honest, I just want to get it over with as quickly as possible, but I don’t know…”

“Well, there’s no set rule,” Dara replied. “Everyone’s got a different style. Some people talk about things they’ve seen, others do impressions, and there are even a rare few who use a more physical routine. Personally, I think it happens best if you talk about things you’re interested in, though.”

“Um, I don’t know… I do like languages, I specialise in xenolinguistics - I like the different meanings words can have in different contexts, but I’m not sure how I could base an entire thing around that.”

To Dara, the answer was obvious.

“One-liners!” he said.

“Hmm?”

“You know, like what you said before with the aliens thing - even though it wasn’t intentional. Short and to the point, dependant on multiple meanings - and let’s face it, you’ve got a gift for them already! It’d be perfect for you.”

“And it’s over quickly,” Milton said thoughtfully. “I think you’re right, it would be best.”

“You’re set, then?” Dara asked.

“Yes. Yes, I think that’s what I’ll have to go with.”

“And you’ll be alright to come up with them yourself? I mean, if you think it would help, I can come around when I can, just for a chat and a look-in to see how you’re going, and like I was saying, you could use me as your trial audience.”

“If you wouldn’t mind, that would be fantastic,” Milton said with a small, awed smile, like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Of course I wouldn’t mind,” Dara reassured him.

“Thank you,” Milton breathed once again. He looked up, and Dara could see his eyes shimmer blue-grey-green with unshed tears, a wave of emotion building within him.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Dara asked.

Milton’s smile was pure and beatific. “No, nothing’s wrong. In fact, it’s so much better than I hoped it would be. I didn’t expect it to be like this, you know? Today - this morning, I thought it was going to be alright, then I met you and - stars, I thought everything was going to go so catastrophically wrong, but it didn’t, it went so much better than I could have ever expected. You helped, and you’ve done so much to get me on track-”

He broke off, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “I’ve already said it, but I want to say it again - thank you, Dara, for everything you’ve done. It’s been the best moment of my life here, meeting you.”

Dara smiled softly in return, happy for this odd person, and spoke the words that Milton would dwell on long after he had gone.

“No, thank you. I can honestly say it’s been an honour to meet you, Milton Jones.”

---------------------------------------------------

“So, Milton - how are you feeling about it all?” Dara asked. It had been twelve weeks to the day since Milton and Dara had met and the truth had come out, and once again, the big man was sitting in Milton’s lounge with a cup of tea.

As he was able, Dara had come by every week or so to check in with Milton. The routine was be much the same for every visit - Milton would give him a mug of tea (the quality of which was steadily improving, thankfully. Milton himself never had the tea after the first incident, but was not to be swayed in extending the dubious courtesy to Dara - it was a ‘social ritual’, after all), and they would settle down to discuss ideas. As he grew more confident, Milton started prompting Dara to ask him about random topics, to which he would respond with a rapid-fire stream of one-liners. His style was uniquely his own, slightly surreal lines delivered with a worried-looking deadpan, but cleverly thought out and always hilarious. It was incredible, really, that within a few weeks, Milton could have such a grasp of comedy - and despite his uncertainty. That sort of thing couldn’t be learned, either.

“Better,” Milton replied. The Milton of now was vastly different from the Milton of a few weeks ago. He was more confident, and secure in his own abilities. Still worried, yes, but overall, Milton was a lot more at ease with this world and his role in it, and it showed. His smiles came easily, and his eyes shone with a new vibrancy.

“That’s really good, yeah,” Dara said, pleased. The grin on his face faded slightly as he shuffled, trying to think of an easy way to bring up his next topic. “Milton,” he began carefully, “I was just wondering, and you’re free to say no if you don’t want to, or if you don’t feel like you’re ready, but Frankie has decided to pull out of this series early. It’s getting all too PC for him, he says - but in any case, there’s a seat on the panel that we need to fill, and at really short notice. There’s really only one person I can think of, but…”

He left the sentence hanging.

“No,” Milton said in disbelief.

Dara only nodded.

No no no no NO! I’m not ready, I can’t do this, not on an actual show with a proper audience and other comedians, said his mind.

“…Yes?” said his mouth.

Dara’s reply was soft, relieved. “Thank you.”

He could do it. He definitely could do it. It was all getting much easier, he’d be fine. And - he felt slightly guilty thinking it - Frankie wouldn’t be there. From what he had seen of the show, the Scot was quite a strong character, and Milton wasn’t looking forward to coming up against him. Wait. From what he had seen of the show…  

Milton’s brow furrowed as he remembered something - something important. “Oh, no.”

“What?”

“There’s a stand-up section,” Milton said. “That all the guests go on.”

“Ah, yes,” Dara said with a grimace. “That was going to be my next thing. It’s nothing to worry about, really. It’s just a couple of minutes long, and on a predetermined topic. Really, you should be fine with it - I’ve certainly got faith in you - but there is another guest on your team if you don’t feel like you want to do it-”

“No, I’ll do it.” Milton’s voice was quiet and resigned, but firm. “I need the experience, and it was going to happen sooner or later. I’ll be right.”

Dara nodded slowly, a faint, proud smile on his face. “There’s enough time for it all to be set up, thankfully,” he said. “But you’ve seen the round before, you know what it involves, yeah?”

“Yes,” Milton confirmed.

“Well, what would you want your topic to be?”

Milton stared at him, confused. “What do I want it to be-? It’s random, isn’t it? Whatever topic comes up, I talk about?”

As much as he tried, Dara couldn’t stop the wry smile that spread across his face. “It’s not random, Milton,” he said. “Whoever does it submits the topic they want to talk about a couple of weeks beforehand, so they’ve got the time to prepare and go over material.”

“That’s not right,” Milton protested. “If you say it’s random, it should be! I’ll do it, anyway. Just pick any topic and put it on the wheel, put it last so I won’t take anyone else’s, and I’ll do the round how you say it’s done!”

“That’s brave,” Dara said, a note of respect in his voice. “You’re sure?”

Milton nodded quickly.

Dara shook his head in disbelief. “Okay, then,” he said. “Now, the show itself - you’ll be on Hugh’s team. Hugh’s been on the show since day one, and he looks after the new people - you’ll be fine with him. David Mitchell, who we were going to have as the guest before Frankie left, will be on your team as well. He can get pretty opinionated, but he’s a nice guy, really. On the other team, the regulars will be there - Andy and Russell. You’d get on with Russell, probably, he’s interested in all sorts of things you might like. The guest we’ve got in for that team is Ben Norris. I haven’t really talked to him much myself, but he seems alright. Really, it’s a great panel, so you should be absolutely fine.” He smiled encouragingly.

Milton smiled back, a shy smile that was genuine and full of hope.

“Yes. Yes, I think it will go well.”

Chapter Text

For Milton, the few days leading up to the episode’s recording were incredibly stressful. He checked the news, both online and in the papers; he reviewed the show; he went through all his notes on British politics, sport and society - but nothing he did would let him relax. The rational part of his mind knew he’d be fine, that nothing bad would happen, but it didn’t stop him from worrying.

What if nobody finds my jokes funny? he thought, not for the first time. It was the night before the episode was due to be recorded, and he lay awake, thoughts going around and around in his head. REM sleep was important for this body, he’d found, but tonight, it wasn’t looking like he’d be able to get much.

What if the other comedians think I’m a fake? And what if everyone sees I’m not who I say I am? That I’m not one of them - not even human?

Tossing and turning, he felt that he couldn’t switch his mind off, no matter how much he tried to dismiss the thoughts. Utterly spent, however, almost without him realising, he soon slipped into a dreamless sleep.

------------------------------------------------------------

The toneless beeping of the alarm on Milton’s device woke him, and for a moment, he was disorientated. It often happened - 12-odd weeks here still weren’t enough to replace the rest of his life. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he stiffened as all the things he had forgotten came back to him.

Today was the day.

Trying to stay calm, he picked out his brightest, most garishly patterned shirt, and attempted once more to flatten his shock of hair. The recording wouldn’t start for a few hours yet, so he tried to keep busy, writing reports and starting to prepare the things he would need for later, when he would send his observations of the session back to the base.

All too soon, it seemed, it was time to go. Giving his hair one last pat-down (for luck, he would say if he was superstitious), he took a deep breath, and stepped out of the house, ready to go.

------------------------------------------------------------

The ITV London Studios was a big building in Waterloo that dwarfed its surroundings. Looking up at it, Milton was slightly intimidated by its sheer size.

It’s not too late, a treacherous part of his mind whispered. You could go now, call in sick, and never have to do it.

But he couldn’t do that. He had a job to do. And more than that - he’d promised Dara he’d do it, and Milton would never break a promise made in good faith, even if that promise was made to someone who wasn’t even of his species. Steeling himself, he walked inside.

He was greeted by a smooth-featured receptionist, who looked blandly disinterested in anything that wasn’t on her computer.

“May I help you?” she asked coolly.

“Um, yes, I’m looking for the Mock the Week studio?” he asked. He hadn’t felt this nervous since the catastrophic meeting with Dara.

“Take the lift to the fifth floor, and it’s the second door on your right,” the receptionist said. “First timer?” she asked, seeing how worried Milton looked. At his nod, she shot him a quick smile. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Milton mumbled, before heading to the lifts.

The lift itself was fairly spacious, and gleamed in silver and chrome. Pressing the button for the fifth floor, Milton settled in to wait out the moment it took to reach the required level. In almost no time at all, the lift dinged and the door slid smoothly open. He stepped out into a white-painted corridor, clean and functional, with framed posters of shows that had been here before hanging on the walls.

Second door on the right, second door on the right, Milton reminded himself. Aha!

He pushed the door open to find a hive of activity, busy people all with jobs to do bustling around the darkish room. One, a young man in a black t-shirt and backstage communications headset, came rushing over to meet him.

“You’d be Milton, yeah?” he asked, taking in his bright shirt and messy hair.

“Yes,” Milton nodded.

“Right. So, most people are already on stage, but you’re not the last. Is this your first time doing any kind of recording? Okay, so before you go on, you’ve got to go to makeup, just so you’re not absolutely gleaming under the lights. After that, you should be about ready.” Seeing Milton’s confusion, he pointed to a door. “Makeup’s just through there,” he said.

Following the directions, Milton came to a small, brightly lit room with one wall covered in mirrors. As he entered, another black-shirted person, a woman this time, came bustling over.

“Makeup?” she asked, already knowing the answer. “Just sit down here, and we’ll have you done in no time.”

Milton sat down facing a mirror as the woman started dabbing at his face with a white cotton pad.

“This’ll just stop the glare of the lights off your face,” she explained. “Hide any blemishes, too. Then, I’ll put a bit of bronzer on, give you a bit more definition.”

As she spoke and dabbed, Milton noticed the click of heels on the polished floor, before-

“You’re kidding me, right?” The loud question came from a matronly-looking woman with straw-like blonde hair and a pronounced northern accent who had just walked in. Milton looked up at her, stunned.

“That shirt,” she elaborated, pointing at Milton’s chest with a red-painted fingernail, as if he had any doubt as to exactly which shirt she meant. “You’re not seriously going to wear that on stage, are you?”

“I was going to, yes?” Milton said quietly, now unsure of himself. “Is that a problem?”

The woman rubbed her temples theatrically, as if warding off a headache.

“Not if you want to be seen from the bloody moon, love,” she said, and sighed. “It’s your decision, of course, but we’ve got something a bit more sober in Wardrobe if you’d prefer.”

Her tone left Milton with a very strong idea of which she’d prefer. He was trying to think of a way out when the woman doing his makeup pitched in.

“Val, there’s about ten minutes before the audience comes in. We haven’t even done his hair, because with that mop, we won’t get it anywhere near half-decent with the time we’ve got. Now, if you think you can get him down to Wardrobe, pick something that suits him and that he actually likes, then come back up here in that time, you’re welcome to do it, if he wants to.”

With another put-upon sigh, Val abated.

“You’re all done!” the makeup lady said, turning to Milton. “Best of luck out there!”

“Go on, love,” said Val briskly, albeit after another grimace at his shirt. “Go get ‘em.”

As Milton came back from makeup, he was met once more by the black-shirted man from the stage crew.

“Everything done? Great. Before you go, do you have any stuff you want to leave here?” At Milton’s refusal, he carried on. “Okay, then you’re just about set. Now, take this. Good, you’ve got a collar - this clips on to it, and this goes at the back of your belt.”

‘This’ was a fist-sized black box, connected by a tangle of coiled wires to a microphone, which Milton attached to the front of his shirt. The box, on a clip, fit nicely in the small of his black.

“Like this?” he asked.

“Exactly,” the other man replied, flashing him a brisk but friendly smile. “Now, get out there, and good luck!”

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, Milton ventured out into the bright lights of the stage.

Chapter Text

The stage was a huge setup, dominated by the large planet emblazoned with the show’s title that hung in the background just behind Dara’s chair. The panel was a desk curved like a C, with the host’s chair at the halfway point and three chairs to either side. While they were empty at present, it looked as if right now, the majority of those chairs would be filled. As well as Dara, five men stood on stage, talking and laughing. Milton stood awkwardly for a moment, not wanting to break in, before Dara noticed him and smiled a hello, walking over.

“I made it,” Milton said quietly, with a crooked smile.

“Good to see you,” Dara replied, knowing what it meant for him to be there. “Come over and meet everyone.”

Slightly nervously, Milton went over to the group.

“Um, hi?” he announced. The conversation stopped, and Milton swallowed with difficulty, his throat suddenly dry. “I’m Milton. Uh, Milton Jones.”

“Hugh Dennis,” replied the sharply-dressed man to Milton’s left, and grasped his hand in a firm handshake. His blue-grey eyes seemed to pierce right through Milton’s cover, before his stern features cracked into a smile. “Good to have you on the team.”

“Thanks,” Milton smiled.

Next to introduce himself was the other member of Milton’s team.

“Mitchell, David Mitchell,” he said formally, shaking Milton’s hand in a slightly pompous manner. A vaguely fussy-looking man, he nevertheless had an open and genuine smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Oh, um, likewise,” Milton replied, fumbling for the appropriate response.

“Andy,” smiled the bald man to Milton’s right, another regular on the show. “Hard luck, I’m afraid - they’ve put you on the losing team,” he said with a grin.

Milton only shook his head slightly, an amused frown on his face. Banter, he thought. This is going quite well, I think!

There was a companionable silence for a moment.

“Sorry, I didn’t get your name,” Milton said to the fifth man.

“Oh, yeah - Ben,” the bearded man replied. “I haven’t been paying much attention, sorry. I was asked to do the warm-up gig, but they asked if I wanted to be on the panel as well a couple of weeks ago. It’s all been a bit hectic, and I’ve been fairly distracted.”

“I know how you feel,” Milton muttered.

“Ey, where’s Russell?” Andy broke in loudly, an expression somewhere between worried and annoyed on his face. “We’re meant to be starting in about a minute, and we can’t go on with two-thirds of a team!”

“We might have to delay it if he’s much later,” Dara said. “He’s not normally this bad-”

He broke off as the door leading backstage slammed open and a young man in glasses ran out, stuffing his microphone onto his shirt.

“Sorry I’m late, traffic was bloody murder,” the newcomer apologised between breaths. “We’ve got new people, then? Hi, I’m Russell,” he said, nodding to Milton and Ben.

“Ben,” the man in question replied. “I think I’m on your team tonight.”

“Yeah, probably,” Russell said with a quick grin. “And you are…?”

“Milton Jones,” Milton said. He was getting better at this whole introducing-himself thing.

“Shit, came in just at the right time,” Russell exclaimed, looking up at the back, just as Dara frowned, getting a message over his earpiece.

“Right, we’re on, everyone,” he announced. “They’re opening the doors!”

Chapter Text

“Read all about it,

Read all about it,

News of the world

News of the world!”

---------------------------------------------------

The song blared out across the studio, fading out to the cheers and applause of the audience.

“Hello and welcome to Mock the Week, I’m Dara O Briain. Joining me this week are Andy Parsons, Ben Norris and Russell Howard; Hugh Dennis, Milton Jones, and replacing a slightly unwell Frankie Boyle, David Mitchell.”

The audience cheered after the names were announced, something Milton found both terrifying and heartening in equal measure.

“We start with a round called ‘If This Is The Answer, What Is The Question?’” Dara began. “On the board are six categories. Milton, which category would you like?”

The categories for Milton to choose from were Media, Finance, Politics, Science, Economy, and Foreign Affairs. Ignoring the feeling of millions of eyes boring into him - and not those of the Million-Eyed Skink of Base Four (which, while monstrous, seemed almost like the more preferable option), he quickly ran through the list, trying to find the one that had come up the most often in his research.

“Erm, let’s have... Politics,” he answered. There was always something to discuss in Politics, he had found, and it was a fairly safe topic. Every politician seemed to be equally hated, so he’d probably be able to score a few points with the audience that way.

“Okay, Politics it is,” Dara confirmed. “The answer is ‘over a million’, what is the question?”

“Is it, how many extra minutes Manchester United get to play because they’re not winning?” Milton asked immediately, straight-faced. Raising his eyebrows, he smiled meaningfully and inclined his head towards Dara as the audience laughed.

“Is it,” Russell chimed in, “how many people right now at home are going ‘Where’s Frankie BOYLE?!?’” The audience erupted into slightly wounded applause, recognising the fact that the joke might have hit a bit close to home - laughing at themselves, as much as the joke. “Are they thinking Adrian Chiles has finally got him? You might be right,” Russell continued, nodding at the audience with wide eyes.

“Is it the number of people who phoned into work on Monday morning saying they couldn’t come in cos they’d watched Derren Brown on Friday night, and were still stuck to the sofa?” was Andy’s contribution.

“Did you do it? Did you do it, did you do it?” Dara asked, grinning.

“I did; it was shit,” Andy replied, to general laughter.

“Is this how many numbers they counted down from in the last OCD moon mission?” Hugh deadpanned.

“Is it, when a girl tells you she’s had three sexual partners, what do you hear in your head?” Russell asked with a cheeky grin.

“Is it, when my wife and I did our IVF, how many abnormal sperms were found in my first ejaculate?” Ben asked.

“It’s true, it’s true, I was there,” Russell added, straight-faced.

“We were all there, we kinda went in a line,” Dara said, nodding sagely. “We went along as support. After this, we’re all going to go see Frankie, as well.”

“I say my first ejaculate,” Ben belatedly clarified, “it wasn’t my fir- you know.”

“Well, obviously it wasn’t your first ever ejaculate,” Dara replied dryly. “Cause that would explain why it wasn’t working til then. Oh, this?” he said, an expression of fake wide-eyed innocence on his face. “Ohh, you use this! Oh, we won’t be needing you for a while, doctor, we’ll try with this first, and then come back to you.”

“Is it, how many flip-flops can you get in a phonebox?” Milton asked after the laughter had died down, looking out at the audience seriously. This was, to the best of his knowledge and spatial calculations, true - even though the slightly bemused laughter told him it wasn’t the answer they’d be looking for.

“Is it, how many times did Mahmoud Ahmadinejad vote in the Iranian election?” Andy cracked.

“Okay, can I get a move towards the correct answer?” Dara asked, obviously getting a strong hint over his earpiece, which was promptly ignored by the panel.

“Is it, how many of Jordan’s ex-partners have this week sought legal advice?” Russell chimed in.

“Is it how much your house has to be worth for a chance that the Lib Dems, if they ever got in, might be able to tax it?” answered Andy.

“Close enough, Andy Parsons, well done,” Dara confirmed to a round of applause. “The question I was looking for was: On what value of house do the Liberal Democrats want to introduce a new tax?”

As Dara explained the question, Milton returned to his notebook. A blank notebook was given to all panellists on Mock the Week, and his was coming in very useful indeed. To the average observer, it would appear that the pages of Milton’s notebook were covered in random circular squiggles, joined by the occasional straight line. In short, utter gibberish. Nobody could know that the apparently random doodlings were the written form of Milton’s first language as he took copious notes on what was being said, and the reactions from the audience.

“… So anything good the Lib Dems say is unpatriotic!” David finished, finger in the air. The panel had segued into talking about the Lib Dems in general, and the uselessness thereof, and David had spent a full minute ranting. It took a pointed remark from Dara to swing the conversation back to its original topic of the housing tax - a discussion that Milton was quite happy to sit out of, for the time being.

“It- it makes sense,” David started again, “because the principle behind house-buying shows at the moment-”

“Uah! Get off!” Russell interrupted, leaning back and shaking his hands. “There’s a fly just landed on my hand,” he explained.

“Is it a fly?” Dara asked, before an idea came to him. “You know what it is, it’s Frankie. It’s Frankie’s spirit, ehhh, has come back as a fly.”

“He’s transmogrified,” said Andy, leaning over to look at the fly.

“We’ve been cursed! That’s what it is!” Russell said in a tone of wonderment. “They’ve taken Frankie, and now the flies are coming…” He turned to look into the camera. “What next, dear viewer, what next?”

“This policy’s always going to have problems, though, isn’t it?” Andy asked, attempting to get the conversation back on track, before-

Thump!

Hugh’s hand slapped down on the desk in front of Milton, prompting a round of sad ohhhs from Dara and Milton.

“You’ve killed Frankie,” David said flatly.

“Frankie’s soul can- Oh man, you really have flattened him,” Dara winced.

The fly had been squished right on top of Milton’s open notebook. As proof, he held the book up to the camera with a grimace, pointing at the large black splodge that marred the white page.

As the discussion jokingly turned to animal rights, and the legal implications of the fly’s death, Dara once more tried to steer the discussion back on track.

“Yeah, let’s move on,” he said, firmly ending the topic. “In other political news, where’s David Cameron struggling for support?”

“He’s struggling up north, Dara,” Russell answered. “Who would have thought a posh Etonian is not popular in Manchester? What next, the BNP don’t like reggae?” he asked innocently, garnering a loud laugh from the audience.

Milton knew about this, it had come up a lot in his research. The North-South divide was a major sociopolitical thing in Britain, with southerners seen as being overly posh and useless, and northerners as crass and uneducated. Neither was correct, of course, but in this country, Milton had found, stereotypes tended to have a very long half-life. The present government were all Conservative southerners, and while certainly not popular in the south either, the situation in the north wasn’t helped by the fact that the current British Prime Minister, to quote Dara, “couldn’t look more southern if he wore a powdered wig, and spoke French at court!” He was unpopular, out-of-touch, and conformed very strongly to the ‘rich white male’ archetype that seemed to be the base stock of British government.

“Apparently the rumour is that David Cameron wants to make all towns in Britain triple barreled, like Kingston-upon-Thames, or Berwick-upon-Tweed - he wants to call it ‘Leeds-on-benefit’,” Milton said, straight-faced, getting an appreciative laugh from the audience.

“At the end of that round, there, the points go to David, Hugh and Milton!” Dara announced.

Milton smiled briefly as the audience clapped. It was going well, he hadn’t made any blunders, and the audience didn’t seem to hate him. And, as a bonus, his team had won the points for that round. Yes, he thought, things were going very well indeed.

“The next round is called ‘Newsreel’,” Dara continued. “We play a recent piece of footage featuring people in the news, and ask Hugh to suggest what might be being said. This week’s clip features Gordon Brown.”

As the clip played and Hugh started to voice it, Milton breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t be needed for this round, thankfully, giving him crucial time to think. The next round, he knew, was where he’d really be put to the test.

Chapter Text

“Now we play a round called ‘President Ba-gag O-haha’,” Dara announced with a miraculously straight face. Generally termed ‘Spinning the News’, this was the round Milton had been dreading ever since he accepted Dara’s invitation to come on the show.

“This game involves Milton, Andy and Russell, so if you could make your way to the performance area please? This is where we test our performers’ stand-up skills. We spin our news generator, it settles on a topic, and anyone can volunteer jokes about the chosen subject. The winners are the people I judge to produce the funniest stuff. Okay, here we go, let’s spin the wheel.”

The wheel wasn’t a wheel, as such, but a large, rectangular screen. It was set up to look like a segment of a larger wheel, accompanied by a ratcheting noise like the wheels on a game show, and utterly dominated the performance area. This was fairly spartan - a free area bordered by red steps on two sides to the left of the panel, it contained nothing more than a single microphone on a stand that the performer would come up and talk into.

The wheel spun, images blurring past, before it finally stopped on a picture of an overstuffed suitcase.

“The first subject is travel,” Dara said. “Who wants to give me that? Andy Parsons.”

Andy stepped up to the microphone as Dara introduced him, and began to speak.

As Andy went through his routine, Milton started to feel himself getting tense. Unlike the other two, he didn’t know his topic in advance, and had no way of knowing what was coming. He only knew that he'd be last. As he waited, trying to focus on Andy’s (admittedly very funny) jokes rather than his own nerves, he could only hope that the person who had selected his subject had been kind.

All too soon, Andy had finished, and Dara spun the wheel again.

“The subject is young people,” he announced. Russell walked up to the microphone, and took it from the stand as Dara introduced him.

One to go, one to go, Milton thought to himself, as once more, doubts started to creep in. What if I’m not good enough, what if they all see through me-

No. I can do it. I have to do it.

The sound of applause cut through Milton’s reverie, and he realised, startled, that Russell had already finished. He was on.

“Okay, that leaves us with Milton,” Dara said. “Let’s see what you’ve been left with as a subject. Let’s spin the wheel.”

Milton stared at the screen, nervous adrenaline rushing through him, as once more the images blurred past, before finally stopping on-

“And the subject is work,” Dara announced.

Work. Right. That’s not too bad, Milton thought. I can do that. He made a small noise of commitment, taking a second to compile a list of one-liners, and stepped down to the microphone, rubbing his hands.

He took the microphone from its stand, rested his other hand on the stand for support, and looked out at the audience, his gaze solemn and penetrating, but tinged with a nervous energy.

“The pollen count,” he began. “That’s a difficult job.” Once more he stared out at the audience, who were laughing appreciatively, a look of utter seriousness on his face.

“Easiest job in the world, of course, Australian psychiatrist. ‘G’day g’day, how ya doin’, no worries, next!’”

Again, there was another round of laughter and applause. He couldn’t quite believe it. Despite Dara’s assurances and his own growing confidence, Milton still harboured doubts about his ability to perform comedically. But now, it seemed, he was becoming accepted. With a slightly awed smile, he continued.

“I lost my job with lastminute.com for being persistently late,” he said. “I lost my job as a cricket commentator for saying ‘I don’t want to bore you with the details.’ If they make it illegal to wear the veil at work, beekeepers are going to be furious.”

Even Dara, who had heard a lot of these before when Milton was rehearsing, was smiling.

“My wife, uh, it’s difficult to say what she does - she sells seashells on the sea shore,” Milton finished in a slight mumble, again staring at some fixed point in the audience. “Some people say that firefighters deserve more money,” he continued, once more speaking clearly, “but apparently a poll was taken and they all fell through a hole in the floor. Sometimes I wonder what my grandfather would think of what I do - he spent his whole life in the kebab business, was buried with all his equipment…” He shook his head. “He’s probably turning in his grave.”

With a stiff nod and a quick grin to the audience, Milton replaced the microphone on its stand and headed back to where he was standing before, the applause of the audience ringing in his ears. He felt his defensive posture ease, his shoulders settling and his tense muscles relaxing. He’d done it.

“Thank you very much there Milton Jones! Points at the end of that round go to Milton and Russell!” Dara called out with a grin.

As he walked back to his seat at the panel, Milton couldn’t keep the smile off his face. His first taste of live stand-up had gone exceptionally well, and the audience had responded extremely positively. This, more than anything else, convinced him.

He, Milton Jones, alien and researcher, was a true comedian.

Chapter Text

“Our next round is called ‘Headliners’,” Dara announced once everyone had taken their seats. “Here’s a picture of the American president hard at work at the White House recently, but what does O.C.S.W. stand for?”

The picture on the screen showed Barack Obama in front of the White House, play-fighting with a lightsaber toy.

“Is it, Obama Can’t Stand Whitey?” Russell asked.

“Is it, Obama Challenges Sith Warlord?” Andy said in his best movie-trailer voice.

“Is it, Obama Circumcision Safety Worries?” Milton asked quietly. He wasn’t sure how it would go, but he got a good laugh nonetheless.

“Is it just that- Is it a new series?” Hugh asked. “Is it ‘Obama: Crimescene White House’?”

As he was speaking, Milton had another idea. American politics was always turbulent, he’d seen in the research…

“Is it from the Republican press,” he deadpanned, “and it’s Oh Crap, Satan’s Winning?” This drew another laugh from the audience.

“Is it, Obama Casts Spell: Wingardium leviosa!” Russell joked, waving his hand in front of him. While the audience seemed to understand what Milton assumed to be a reference to something, he certainly didn’t. With a slight frown, he jotted down a note to himself to look up exactly what this meant.

“Is it another headline from ‘Dyslexic Weekly’,” Andy began, referencing what must be a running gag, “and it’s just about cows?”

Even Dara was laughing. “I’m impressed by two things,” he said, with a grudging smile. “I’m impressed both by the return of ‘Dyslexic Weekly’ to our discussion, and also to the fact that they wanted to alert the dyslexic population to the presence of cows!” he finished with an incredulous laugh. “Cows! Cows, cows, COWS! Oh my god! Cause cows are the natural predator of the dyslexic!”

Andy, while enjoying the gag, must have sensed he was losing face. “Is it, Obama Cancels Star Wars,” he offered seriously.

“Yes, it is Obama Cancels Star Wars,” Dara confirmed. “Thank you very much Andy Parsons!” To the audience, he elaborated: “The answer I was looking for was Obama Cancels Star Wars. This is the news that President Barack Obama has decided to scrap the 20 billion Star Wars defence shield which previous administrations claimed would have protected Europe from Iranian missiles by intercepting them from the air - as opposed to intercepting them when they were rolling about on the ground, presumably.”  

“It’d be great if we actually had Star Wars technology,” Russell said. “We wouldn’t need missiles, we’d just get Obama to use Jedi mind tricks on Ahmadinejad, wouldn’t that be fantastic? Just, “These aren’t the defence missiles you’re looking for! You will now go non-nuclear!”” he quoted, waving an arm in a mystical fashion. Once again, Milton wrote a note to look up the reference.

Andy had a question. “The idea was, wasn’t it, that Poland and Czechoslovakia would be protected from invasion from Russia?”

“Yes,” Dara confirmed.

“And you’re thinking, well, you know, there’s no way the Russians are going to invade Poland and Czechoslovakia. Poland and Czechoslovakia are in more danger from British stag parties!” he finished to the audience’s laughter.

“Yeah, I think Europe will be quite safe,” Milton said seriously, “cause I phoned up the United Nations Rapid Response Force and they said-” he mimed picking up a phone incredibly quickly- “‘Yes?!’” he said urgently, pretending to shake with adrenaline. Dara, too, was laughing as Hugh picked up the discussion.

“See, the Americans are very, uh, Republican Americans are really annoyed that Barack Obama has cancelled Star Wars, as though it existed! It doesn’t exist! Even if it- The reason they cancelled it is because it simply won’t work!” he said, waving his hands for emphasis. “Cause it’s run by computers, and they never work, so, you know, Iran’ll launch a missile, and we’ll launch our Star Wars countermeasure, and as we press the button a thing’ll come up on the screen, little balloon, it says: ‘Microsoft Missile Interceptor Shield has encountered a problem and needs to close. Do you wish to send an error report?’ ‘Yes, but I haven’t got time!’”

“Thing is, though, that it wasn’t built really to intercept Iranian missiles, it was being built to annoy the Russians,” David said. “You hope you don’t have to use the thing, it’s just there to annoy- The Russians were getting really annoyed - ‘You can’t have lasers and missiles and things really near our country, in countries we used to run, that- that’s insulting to us as Russians!’ And there’s a division in American politics about whether it is good to be as rude as possible to the nutty Russians, or bad to be as rude as possible to those maniacs, and I don’t know, I mean, there’s no doubt the Russians are-”

“Your choice of language alone would seem to place you in one camp rather than the other,” Dara pointed out with a smirk.

“No, I think- I think that- Don’t get me wrong, I think the Russians are really insane, and nutty,” David said, to a sarcastic ‘oh-really?’ type noise from Dara. “Right? Not all of them are insane, but they have an insane political culture. They see that weird, bald, plabby man with his shirt off, fishing, and they think ‘yes, we want to vote for him, oh, by the way, apparently he tortured people when he was in the KGB, what a guy!’ Now, I think that’s an odd kind of country, but I don’t necessarily think the best thing to do with them is to annoy them even more. However, it is the most satisfying thing to do,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Shall we have a bit of fun? Poke the Russians, poke the Russians- OH MY GOD THEY’RE COMING.”

“In other news, what has Justice Secretary Jack Straw been supporting this week?” Dara asked after the applause for David’s rant died down.

“He’s been supporting the idea that heroin addicts should be able to get heroin off the NHS,” Andy replied. “It’s quite an interesting idea, I guess, y’know - apparently it’ll cut crime, but whether, you know, if you’re a heroin addict and you go into hospital and get heroin, can you- if you’ve got- if you’re some other addict, you know, if you’re a sex addict, can you go into hospital: ‘Orright nursey, any chance?’” he said, making a presumably rude hand gesture with a mock-sleazy smile on his face.

“That would be great, wouldn’t it, like obese people waddling towards hospitals for cake!” Dara laughed.

“Chocolate! Chocolate!” mocked Andy.

“No, it’s obviously too late for you,” Dara said, shaking his head pityingly at an imaginary obese person in front of him. “Let’s just give you cake and be done with it.”

“Thinking outside the box,” Russell broke in, “if we gave obese people heroin, that might work! You very seldom see a fat smackhead!”

“And we give junkies cake!” Dara added.

“Yeah!” Russell enthused.

The conversation about heroin continued for a while longer, David proposing the idea that the problem of addiction could be solved by getting everyone hooked on the drug, and the others running with the thought of heroin becoming a normal part of day to day life.

“Apparently, uh, farmers are using a lot of heroin,” Milton said, “but getting the evidence is like looking for, uh…” he trailed off. It took a few seconds for the audience to realise the implicit punchline, but after the short silence, the laughter was long and loud.

At that point, Dara must have sensed it was a good time to end the segment. “Ladies and gentlemen, at the end of that round, the points go to Russell, Ben and Andy,” he announced, still smiling. “Now we come to our final quick-fire round, called Scenes We’d Like To See. This round is for everyone, so if you could make your way to the performance area, please? I call out ideas for scenarios we’d love to see, and the performers come in with their suggestions,” he explained as they all walked over to the arena. “Okay, here we go - the first subject is… Things you wouldn’t hear at a party conference.”

David stepped promptly up to the mic. “Blackpool’s nice, isn’t it!” he said brightly.

Hugh was next. “Unlike other party leaders I could mention, I’m not a slave to the autocue, smile, pause, applause.”

“Could you please welcome the man who’s made the Conservatives an electable force again,” Andy mock-announced. “Gordon Brown!”

“I’m going to turn my back for one minute,” Russell said, “and I want whoever stole David Blunkett’s dog to put it back.”

“The delegates were so impressed by Ming Campbell’s speech that they gave him a ten-minute standing cremation,” was Hugh’s second contribution.

Slightly nervously, Milton went up to the mic. “Uh, kiss the baby?” he said, mimicking a posh accent. “No, I’d better not, it might set my tag off.”

“Well, I must say, on this issue, I’m with Al-Qaeda,” David said, taking over as Milton walked off.

“So, for Scottish independence, and cheaper parking” Hugh said, putting on a Scottish accent, “vote SNCP.”

“In an attempt to be more like Barack Obama,” Russell began, “Gordon Brown has sensationally blacked up.”

Ben walked on next. “And I do believe we are the only party who are going to do anything about the amount of unemployed dwarves in this country,” he said. “In fact, I saw one outside holding a sign that said ‘No job, too small’.”

“We’re going to open this BNP conference with a prayer,” Hugh said, at the mic once more. “So if you would all like to turn towards Mecca?”

“Okay,” Dara said through the crowd’s applause. “The next topic is: Unlikely things to hear on a history documentary.”

“Now follows a documentary about the Queen Mother,” Russell said in a calm voice-over voice, “which contains nudity and strong language from the start.”

“It was here, at this exact spot, that faced with thirty thousand baying Frenchmen, that Henry V shat himself,” Hugh contributed.

“On the first day of the battle of the Somme,” David began in a respectful tone, “over sixty thousand documentaries were commissioned.”

“I was in the parachute regiment,” Milton said, in a doddery voice. “I was dropped over occupied territory-” he broke off and made a whistling noise, arms outstretched, “four thousand feet… Three thousand… Two thousand… I pulled the cord- nggh- My cagoule tightened.” He froze for a second in that position, before walking off to applause.

“Two World Wars and one World Cup. Doodah.” Andy said seriously.

“And it was actually here, in this very tower, that the princes were slaughtered, uh, William on Red Bull and vodka,” Ben said.

“1547. Nostradamus predicts the rock group The Kaiser Chiefs. Also, predicts a riot,” Milton said with a straight face.

Russell got up next, a half-smile already on his face. “On one side of battle stood William of Orange. On the other side, Charles of O2, and Richard of Vodafone.”

“The final outcome of the Second World War has changed the world forever. So, if you don’t want to know the result, look away now,” Andy cracked.

“Next, Eva Braun,” began Ben. “The inventor of the ladyshave.”

“So it was my job to assassinate Himmler, so I stood behind the tree and waited for his car to come around the corner, then I leapt out, and I said ‘Boo!’” Milton said. “Sometimes all we had was the element of surprise.”

“Napoleon was imprisoned in Saint Helena, which was extremely uncomfortable for her,” Hugh chipped in. “His head was pointy, and he never took his boots off.”

“The Loch Ness Monster,” David began with a pensive expression. “Fact or fiction? Fiction, goodnight.”

Milton was beginning to enjoy his time at the mic. “Of course, during the war, I was brought up in Dorset,” he said, once more putting on an older person’s voice. “None of us expected the surprise Japanese attack on Poole Harbour.”

“At the end of that round, the points go to David, Hugh and Milton!” Dara announced. “That’s the end of the show, and the end of the series. This week’s winners are Hugh Dennis, Milton Jones and David Mitchell! Commiserations to Andy Parsons, Ben Norris and Russell Howard. We’ll see you again soon, but thanks for watching, I’m Dara O Briain, goodnight.”

The episode was done, the audience cheering and applauding, and Milton was ecstatic. His team had won, and he had shown himself he was capable of both panel discussion and stand-up proper. Even though it wasn’t his, all was right with this world.

Chapter Text

As the audience filed out, the panel remained on stage, chatting about the episode that had just finished.

“Well done,” Hugh congratulated his team with a smile, which both David and Milton returned.

“Anyone up for a drink?” Andy cut in, asking the question to the whole group. “It’s been a long session, and I’m absolutely bloody gasping!”

“Yeah, alright,” Russell said, replacing the glasses he’d taken off for the show. Pushing them further up the bridge of his nose, he continued. “That’d be great. And it’s the end of the season, too, so we can send it off with style! Usual place?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Andy affirmed. “Anyone else?”

Soon, everyone had counted themselves in - except for Milton.

“D’you want to come, Milton?” Dara asked. “We’re just going to go round the Mulberry Bush - it’s really close. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but it should just be a bit of a relax, and to celebrate finishing off the season.”

Milton just frowned, a little confused. “But - it’s late? Not early in the morning?”

Everyone laughed, taking the comment for Milton’s surreal humour. It was up to Dara, recognising that Milton might have been serious, to explain.

“It’s a pub, Milton. We’re going to go have a few drinks,” he said. It was odd, he thought, pretending to pretend to be serious.

“Oh, um, yes, okay,” Milton said, recovering. “Yes, I’ll come.”

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The Mulberry Bush was a welcoming-looking brownstone building opposite the studio. The panellists filed in through its open door, and took a seat at a table by the window.

“Who’s having what?” Andy asked after they had all got comfortable. As the orders came in, Andy frowned, remembering something.

“Are we all paying for our own?” he asked hopefully.

Hugh’s immediate grin stopped him in his tracks. “Captain of the last episode’s losing team shouts the first round, wasn’t that what we agreed a couple of series ago?”

Andy sighed. “Anyone want to change their order to something cheaper? No, didn’t think so. Right, so we’ve got what, a Guinness, two Stellas, whatever the on-tap craft beer is, ‘whatever the most expensive thing on the drinks menu is’, and - ey, Milton, what are you having?”

Milton was stuck - he knew nothing about what was being discussed. Frantically, he latched onto the thing that seemed to be the most common in the group.

“Um, I’ll have a Stella, thanks,” he said, internally wondering what the hell he’d just asked for. With a slow nod, trying to memorise the orders, Andy set off towards the bar.

A few moments later, he came back, a look of mock anger on his face.

“You two,” he grumbled, shaking his head at Hugh and David. “That bloody craft beer was one of the most expensive things on the drinks menu, and for what I paid for yours, Hugh, it’d better be made from the tears of bloody angels!”

The pair in question merely offered Andy innocent smiles in return, to which Andy shook his head disgustedly.

As the banter passed back and forth, a waiter came to the table with a tray of large glasses.

“The Guinness?” he asked, quite obviously trying not to stereotype in the face of there being only one Irishman among the TV personalities at the table.

“Yep,” Dara said with a nod of acknowledgement. With a barely stifled grin, the waiter placed the glass in front of him.

“The Young’s Blonde?” he asked.

“That one’s yours, Dennis,” Andy said grouchily. With a wide grin, Hugh accepted the drink.

“And the London Stout?”

“That would probably be mine,” David said, looking to Andy for confirmation. At his nod, David took the glass, thanking the waiter.

“So that means the rest of you would have the Stellas, then,” the waiter finished, and handed out the remaining four glasses. “Alright! Enjoy your drinks!”

Milton looked dubiously at the golden-amber liquid in front of him. Streams of small bubbles spiralled gently to its foam-capped surface. It smelt different from everything else he’d encountered - slightly sour, yet crisp. Hmm.

Still, everyone else was drinking theirs. To fit in, he’d have to do the same.

A tentative sip revealed a palette of tastes. Much the same as it smelled, the drink was sour and slightly bitter, but with an oddly refreshing edge. Some kind of fermented grain distillate, his acute senses informed him, with a higher percentage of ethyl alcohol than was standard. While not one of his favourite drinks - he’d become quite accustomed to tea, after he’d discovered where he had gone wrong with the recipe - it certainly wasn’t unpleasant.

“Well, that was an experience,” Dara said philosophically, putting his own drink down.

Frowns were seen all round the table - nobody quite knew what he meant.

Russell was the one to ask what they were all thinking. “What do you mean?” he asked, the confusion on his face mirrored in everyone else’s.

“The recording tonight,” Dara elaborated. “It’s the first we’ve done without Frankie.”

“God, yeah,” Hugh agreed. “He’s been part of it since day one, hasn’t he? When it was you, me, and Rory Bremner.”

“He’s been there as long as I’ve been around,” Andy added. “And you came the series after I did, Russell, so it’d be the same for you, ey?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Russell said.

David had also worked with Frankie in prior episodes, and Ben, as the warm-up man for the series, had got to know Frankie fairly well, too. It seemed that the only one who didn’t know the man was Milton, so he was content to sit back and listen as the others shared anecdotes.

“Remember the Dalek picture?” Dara asked.

“‘I'm not the king of the Daleks, I'm their creator, Dara,’” Hugh mimicked in his best impersonation of the Scot, before returning to his normal voice. “And the Christmas message! I tried to go next, and I just had to walk back to the steps! Nothing could have followed that one up.”

“The whole thing with the cities on legs!” Andy said, remembering. “It’s just not going to be the same without him, is it?”

“Ah, well, they should be able to air a lot more of the recording,” Dara said. “If I had a pound for each time I had Production going off in my ear about something he’d said, or that you’d run with, Hugh, I’d be a billionaire.”

“Didn’t stop you from joining in though, did it?” Hugh asked with a sly grin.

“I was there for one of those, I think,” David said. “One of the Headliners, something about a hospital, wasn’t it? And we all got pulled up for too much swearing - we’d had the talk when we all got in, and then the ‘T.F.H.C.’ came up on the board, and you lot couldn’t resist.”

“Of course we ignored it!” Russell protested. “What do you take us for? God, it was the ‘This Fucker Has…” one, that’s right!”

“I told you, didn’t I, that the first words weren’t ‘This Fucker Has’?” Dara said with a mock-innocent expression.

“So then we ran with a ‘That Fucker Has…’!” Andy said triumphantly, remembering the incident in question.

“I was right, though,” David said, “that because we’d had all the fucks beforehand, they just wouldn’t be as funny without the fucks - unless we used the C instead.”

Something said a moment ago had just occurred to Hugh. “I love how you say ‘you lot’, David,” he said with an amused look on his face, “when you and Dara being pedantic and arguing about the specifics was where most of the fucks and cunts came from!”

David merely smiled in response, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“And then, when I’d finally got it through to you that the F didn’t stand for ‘fuck’ or ‘fucker’,” Dara said, trying to suppress his laughter, “Frankie chimes in with ‘Two Fat Hairy Cocks’!”

His smile turned rueful, and he sighed. “You’re right, Andy - it won’t be the same without him.”

“Here, why not have a toast?” Hugh said. “You lot still have some beer left, yeah?” After he got the nod from everyone, he raised his glass. “To Frankie!”

The others raised their glasses as well, Milton copying them as they repeated the refrain: “To Frankie!”

-----------------------------------------------------------

“Anyone up for another round?” Andy asked, after both the drinks and conversation had dried up. A chorus of hopeful assents led him to clarify. “You’re all buying your own this time, you greedy buggers!”

“I’d better not, anyway,” Russell said resignedly. “I’ve got to drive home, so one’s probably enough for me.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” Andy shrugged. “And the rest of you?”

All the others, Milton included, nodded.

“Same again?” Andy asked. Once again, variations on a theme of ‘yeah, alright,’ filled the air as drinks menus were hurriedly consulted and money retrieved from pockets.

“Actually, I’ll have a Stella too,” Hugh said quickly.

Andy raised a cynical eyebrow. “Don’t feel like paying all that yourself, do you?” he asked sarcastically.

“That, and it tastes like piss,” Hugh replied.

With a hook of a smile, Andy headed to the bar.

----------------------------------------------------------

The beer arrived a few minutes later, and the conversation picked up once again - particularly on the topic of a certain woman who everyone at the table but Milton seemed to know of.

“She’s beautiful, absolutely stunning,” David lamented, his gaze earnest. “But it’s not just that, even though she is the epitome of beauty - she’s got such a mind, too, always ready with a bitingly sarcastic quip. She’s subtle and brilliant - you can see it in her eyes, she’s so incredibly talented-”

He broke off as a phone rang loudly, the synthesised tone cutting through the babble of music and chatter that spilled through the pub.

“Shit,” Ben swore, patting his pockets. “Can you lot hold on for a sec?”

Finding his phone, Ben stepped outside to where it was quieter, answering the phone as he did so.

A few minutes later, he returned, phone in hand. “Sorry, I’ve got to head off,” he apologised. “My wife’s not feeling the best, so I’m going to make my way home.”

“Ah, that’s alright,” Dara said. “Tell her I hope she’s feeling better soon.”

“Thanks, I’ll pass it on,” Ben replied.

“Here, if you’re going, I’ll come too,” Russell said. “The parking fee’s probably more than I made this episode, so I’d probably best be off as well. See ya, guys - have a good break!”

The pair made their farewells and left, an awkward silence opening up behind them.

“Another round, anyone?” Hugh asked, breaking it. “I’m going again, and y’know what? I’ll buy,” he announced.

“Count me in, then,” Andy said enthusiastically.

“Whyever not?” David said.

“And you? Milton? Dara?” Hugh asked again.

“Oh, um, alright,” Milton said. It seemed like the most acceptable thing to do.

“Nah, I’m right, thanks,” Dara replied.

“Alright. So same as before?”

He received a round of nods in reply, and walked off to the bar. He returned a short while later, with the same waiter as before following him only a few minutes after that. Now seeming to have memorised the orders - after all, they hadn’t changed - he placed each drink by the person it was for and left with a smile.

Milton took a sip of his beer. He was beginning to get tired of the taste of it, but he’d already ordered, and it would be strange to abandon the full glass. And besides, Hugh had paid, and it would be a severe breach of social etiquette to refuse. With a slight sigh, he raised his glass again.

-------------------------------------------------------

The episode they had just filmed was a major point of conversation in the Mulberry Tree that evening. The unexpected happenings in the studio were always a source of entertainment afterwards, and the last episode seemed to be no exception.

“But did you see that fly, though?” Hugh asked the table, eyes wide.

“Frankie,” Dara corrected mock-seriously.

Hugh grinned in response. “It was bloody massive!” he continued. “D’you still have the mess it made on your notebook, Milton?”

Milton nodded, and reached for the book in question. Flipping it open to the page with the squashed fly, he held it out for inspection.

“It wouldn’t have been that size when it was alive,” David pointed out pedantically - and unnecessarily. “The same volume, yes, but not that wide.”

“As far as flies go, it was big,” was Andy’s matter-of-fact contribution to the discussion.

“Bloody huge!” Hugh countered.

Milton felt he should weigh in - after all, the fly had left its remains on his notebook. “It was quite a bit bigger than average,” he said.

“There we go,” Hugh said conclusively. “It was giant.”

As he finished, Hugh’s eyes fell on Milton’s open notebook, and the circular squiggles that filled it. His eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown, and Milton braced himself for the question he knew was coming.

“What’s that?”

Luckily, Milton felt he had got the measure of this group well enough to take a risk. “I’m writing notes for my study of your civilisation,” he deadpanned to a laugh from the others, before relaxing into a smile. “Doodling - keeping my hands busy - helps me think,” he explained. That wasn’t even a lie - just slightly less true than the truth, so to speak.

The others seemed to accept his explanation unquestioningly, passing off his earlier comment as just another case of Milton’s odd sense of humour. All except Dara, that is, who flashed him a brief, encouraging smile before settling back into the conversation.

As the voices washed around him, Milton’s brow furrowed in puzzled thought. “That’s odd,” he mused to himself as he watched the others. The alcohol seemed to have a strange effect on the human body, making his companions louder and more talkative. David was particularly eloquent - even more so than usual. However, Milton didn’t seem to be feeling any effects. His faster metabolism and detoxification systems must have been filtering the alcohol from his bloodstream as he drank it. “Does this usually have this effect on you?” he asked the table in general.

“ARE YOU CALLING ME A FUCKING LIGHTWEIGHT?!” David slurred loudly from across the table. Despite the unusual volume and slurred nature of his speech, there was still an articulation to the man's clipped accent, and Milton raised an eyebrow at what were apparently the effects of the chemical.

But as to the question itself, Milton could only blink in response, confused both by the term and the accusatory tone in response to what had been a simple question posed from scientific curiosity. “I’m sorry?” he stammered, thoroughly bewildered.

“Are you,” David enunciated precisely, “calling me a lightweight? Unable to hold my liquor? Just because I have been somewhat exuberant in my speech? Because I have decided to enlighten you all as to the miracle of nature that is Victoria Coren? Because I have chosen to release the full magnitude of my emotional spectrum?” He paused for a second and frowned, before continuing on with an upraised finger. “If so, then you’d be absolutely fucking right.”

Despite himself, Milton couldn’t stop the wry smile that spread across his face.

“Jesus, how much have you had, David?” Dara asked, loud but concerned. “I mean, I don’t see you drunk that often, but you’re never normally like this!”

“Shit!” Andy exclaimed, looking at the menu. “Have you seen the alcohol content of this?”

Dara’s eyes widened slightly as he saw the percentage printed next to the name of the beer. “No wonder you’re acting strange!”

“I’m not acting strange,” David said deliberately, with the earnest expression of the completely plastered. “I’m merely unrestrained.”

“I think we’d better get you home, David,” Hugh said, his blue-grey eyes now clear and serious. “How’d you get here? Because if you drove, I don’t think it’d be wise for you to get behind the wheel.”

“No, I took the tube,” David replied.

“That’s a bit better,” Hugh said. “Will you be alright to get home by yourself, though?”

“I’m fine,” David assured him in a way that was not reassuring in the slightest.

“Fucking hell, David!” Dara said in exasperation. “I’m a bit tipsy myself, and even I can tell you’re pissed as a fart!”

Confronted by the 6-foot 4 Irishman, David rolled his eyes in annoyance, but wisely, in Milton’s opinion, chose to remain silent.

“It’s getting pretty late, anyway,” Milton said, trying to smooth things over. “Do you think we should head home now?”

Dara recognised the gambit for what it was, and took the proffered olive branch. “Yeah, I am feeling pretty knackered,” he said.

“Me too,” Andy admitted, stifling a yawn. “It’s been a long day, what with recording and all.”

“Alright,” David muttered grumpily. “Yes, let’s go by all means.”

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The summer night air was pleasantly cool as the five men left the pub - some with a more unsteady gait than others.

Lack of coordination, Milton added to his mental list of alcohol’s effects, as they walked to the tube station they were all heading to. The regulars had planned on having a night out, it seemed, and had worked out transportation accordingly, with those who lived close by catching the tube, and the others relying on the nearby taxi rank. It was pure chance that Milton had booked a taxi, though - not trusting himself to know the area well enough to get there on time.

As they neared the station, a voice cut through the still air.

“Dara?”

A man around David’s age was walking up from the station, and had obviously recognised the big Irishman - he cut an impressive figure, after all. But before Dara had a chance to respond, the man looked closer.

“David?!” he asked incredulously.

“Lee?” David replied in the same tone of voice. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question!” Lee replied, a strong Northern accent marking his words. He examined the group, before coming to the conclusion: “Mock the Week just wrapped up, then?”

“For the series, yeah,” Dara said. “Good to see you, Lee - it’s been what, a couple of months since the QI planning meeting, hasn’t it? How’ve you been keeping?”

“Yeah, not bad,” Lee replied, and was obviously about to continue before-

“You haven’t answered my question,” David insisted.

“I was heading out for a drink, if you must know,” Lee said with a roll of his eyes. “Hey, do you want to come too? To be honest, I wouldn’t mind the company, it’s been ages since I’ve had a proper argument with someone who can hold his own - not since the last series of WILTY finished, really.” He stopped as he noticed David’s face. “Not that you need a drink, do you? Jesus Christ, you’re absolutely plastered!”

“I wouldn’t say plastered,” David said primly. “More… tastefully varnished.”

Lee shook his head in amazement. “You’re drunk as a lord, David Mitchell! So much for my night out, then,” he sighed. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Hugh frowned slightly, puzzled. “You know where he lives?”

“‘Course I do, he’s put on a couple of dos there after the WILTY episodes have finished,” he said defensively. “Anyway, it’s no trouble, really.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Lee,” Dara said, obviously not relishing the prospect of carting a drunk David all the way to his front door.

Lee smiled. “No worries.” He turned to David with a long-suffering look on his face. “C’mon then, you posh tit, let’s go.”

The evening out ended shortly after that, with the parties going their separate ways - David and Lee heading to one platform of the station, Andy and Hugh another, and Dara and Milton left waiting for taxis to arrive.

“So how was that for you?” Dara asked Milton.

Milton smiled, reflecting on the pleasant surprises of the evening. “You know what? It was great.”

“Would you do it again?”

Milton had to think for a second about that one, weighing up the positives and negatives. “Yes,” he replied, as a taxi pulled up to the kerb. “Yes, I think I would.”

With a broad grin, Dara waved him towards the car, content to wait for an extra few minutes. With a quick smile of thanks, Milton got in and told the driver his address.

As the taxi left, Milton could still hear Dara’s words of farewell ringing in his ears.

“See you next series!”

Chapter Text

It was the 17th of June, 2010 - almost a year since Milton first set foot on this planet to begin his research - and once again, he found himself at the ITV London Studios. At Dara’s request, Milton had agreed to be on the panel of Mock the Week’s series 9 debut, along with Hugh, Andy and Russell, plus the relative unknowns of Diane Morgan and Chris Addison. Despite becoming a semiregular on the last series, Milton had never met Chris before, and Diane was a complete newcomer. And while Milton was starting to almost relax on the show, meeting new panellists was, for him, always awkward.

Going up the now familiar route to the studio, Milton felt his tense posture ease. He was used to it, now. Even if he didn’t like the stand-up - and to be honest, probably never would - it was as much a part of him as his passion for research back on base.

The trip in the lift was short as always, and Milton stepped out, heading by habit to the second door on the right. As he walked in, he was greeted by one of the backstage crew.

“Evening,” the black-shirted man said. “You’re one of the first in today, so you’ve got heaps of time. There’s nothing unusual to report, procedure’s all the same as last series. I’ll get you kitted up after Makeup, then?” To Milton’s nod, he smiled in return. “Alright! See you in a mo.”

Milton proceeded through to the Makeup room and sat down as directed in one of the pleather chairs. As the staff bustled around him, a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Still not giving up on those shirts, eh, love?”

“Hello, Val,” Milton said with a small smile. The feud about Milton’s sartorial choices was still ongoing, but had lost most of its sting. “As long as I’m here, so are the shirts,” he defended himself.

“I’d burn them all if I could, y’know,” was Val’s wry reply.

“And then who would you grump at?” muttered one of the makeup attendants, before turning back to Milton. “Keep wearing them, please - just for our sake!”

“They’re not a burning offence, surely!” Milton protested to Val. “I like them, they can’t be all bad!”

Val raised a sceptical eyebrow. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that one,” she replied dubiously.

“Sorry, can I just get in for a sec?” the woman powdering his face apologised. The conversation lapsed into silence as Milton shut his eyes and mouth to be fully made-up.

“Right, we’re done,” she announced.

Milton opened his eyes again, thanking her for her work.

“Now, get that godawful rag you’re wearing out of my sight!” Val joked. “Good luck, though, love,” she added warmly.

“Thanks,” Milton replied with a small, slightly nervous smile, and walked out of the room, and almost straight into one of his co-panellists.

“Hey, Milton,” Russell nodded, clearly on his own way to Makeup. “I’ve just gotta get this done,” he added with a quick grin. “I’ll see you in a bit!”

“Yeah,” Milton replied. As Russell walked past, Milton continued back to where the one of the black-shirted crew members waited to give him his microphone.

“You know where all this goes, don’t you?” he asked, before shaking his head. “Of course you do, you’ve done it half a dozen times before. Anyway, here.”

With a half-smile and nod of thanks, Milton took the microphone, clipping the box to his belt and the mic itself to his collar.

“Okay!” came the cheerful affirmation as he finished with the kit. “See you after the show!”

Once again, Milton pushed open the door to head onstage.

---------------------------------------------------

As predicted by the stagehand, there were only a couple of people on the stage when Milton walked on. Dara raised a hand in greeting as he came over, a wave that Milton returned.

“Good to see you again,” Hugh said with a smile.

“Good to be back,” Milton replied simply, feeling the truth of the statement resonate within himself. It felt right to be back here.

“How’ve you been?” Hugh asked, small-talk filling in the five-month gap since the teammates last saw each other.

“Good thanks, yeah,” Milton replied. “And you?”

“Oh, much the same,” Hugh answered. “Haven’t been up to much, really - been recording Outnumbered, but that’s all wrapped up now, so it’s good that this’s started again. You done anything interesting?”

“Not really, no,” Milton began, scrambling for a plausible alternative to ‘writing reports for my research into your civilisation’. Luckily, he was saved by the entrance of Russell and a young woman with masses of curling red-brown hair.

“Hello, I’m Diane,” she introduced herself in a perky Northern accent as behind her, Russell smiled a hello to everyone.

“Hugh Dennis,” Hugh said in reply, taking her proffered hand.

Milton then gave his name and a brief handshake. Diane was friendly, but efficient.

“Now, Dara I already know, and Russell I’ve met - who else are we expecting tonight?” she mused.

“Andy and Chris,” Russell replied. “Would you know them?”

“Only by reputation,” Diane said. “Not personally.”

“They should be here soon, the show’s starting in just a bit,” Dara said.

“Speak of the devil,” Russell said with a half-smile, as Andy walked onstage.

“Alright, lads?” he greeted them. “How’d the break treat you?”

A pointed throat-clearing noise behind him made Andy turn.

“Lads?” asked Diane, eyebrows raised in mock-annoyance.

Andy apologised, a hook of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “It’ll be good to have you on the team - you don’t miss a thing, do you?”

Diane merely smirked in response.

“Am I late?” came a cry from the stage door.

“No, no, you’ve still got time,” Dara called back, as the newcomer walked over, obviously relieved. A tall young man with rumpled, curly brown hair and a shirt with both the first few buttons and the cuffs unbuttoned, he had an open, friendly face, and was obviously pleased to be there.

“Hey, everyone,” he said, beaming. “You must be Diane,” he enthused, eagerly enfolding her hand in both of his. “I’m Chris. Lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Diane said, wryly amused.

“And you’d be Milton,” Chris said, turning to him. Milton promptly found his hand taken up in a hearty shake. “Good to meet you, I’ve seen all your episodes from last series, and you’re really great.”

“Thank you,” he replied sincerely. “I’m looking forward to working with you, I’ve enjoyed your episodes too.”

Chris flashed his boyish grin in response, his hazel eyes shining.

“Alright!” Dara interrupted briskly, a hand to his ear. “Show’s about to start!”

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The show started much as normal for Milton, nothing unexpected happening. The oil spill along the Louisiana coastline was the first topic of discussion, with the ‘If This Is The Answer, What Is The Question?’ answer that Diane chose being ‘Golf balls, tyres and rubbish’. Milton had heard of the disaster, of course, but had no real thoughts on the topic. Apart from the occasional one-liner, he preferred to stay silent and watch his fellow panellists. Diane could keep an incredibly straight face when delivering her razor-sharp pronouncements, and just tossed them out like they were nothing. Chris, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. He used his entire body to tell a story, and was always animated, constantly moving. The contrast between the pair was quite interesting for an outside observer.

All too soon, the first round was over, and the dreaded ‘Spinning the News’ was almost upon Milton.

“Hang on, before we start the next one, can we have a bit of a break?” Hugh asked Dara, leaning across Milton in the process. “I need to duck out for a bit,” he said, his voice dropping.

“Sure,” Dara agreed quietly. To the rest of the panel, and the audience, he reaffirmed the statement. “We’re just going to take a quick break, guys, we’ll start again in a second.”

Hugh flashed Dara a brief smile. “Scuse me,” he said, getting up from his chair.

As he left, Chris leaned across the desk to Milton. “Hey, have a look at this,” he said with a grin, and slid his notebook over. Milton took it, and his eyes widened slightly in surprise.

DON’T look shocked. Pretend this is a caricature of Hugh, or something, the first line read. Hurriedly Milton recomposed his features, pasting a brittle smile on his face, and forced a laugh that even to him sounded thin and unnatural. Because it wasn’t the words that had stunned him, no, but the way they were written.

The note was in his own language.

Chapter Text

<4-2, it’s me, 1-7,> the note continued. <Thank the stars I found you, I’ve had troubles with malfunctioning equipment, and it’s a matter of luck more than anything that I’m here. Your reports have been so helpful - they’re probably the best thing that’ve happened while I’ve been here - and you’ve got me through more than one sticky situation, I have to say.>

Milton smiled faintly at that, and read on.

<I’ve got some fairly urgent news I need to tell you, though, and I’d prefer to do it alone and in person. Could we talk later, at all?>

Milton grabbed his pen and hastily scribbled a reply, the loops and swirls of his handwriting darting across the page.

<Stars above, 1-7, but it’s good to see you!> he wrote. <And yes, we’ll be able to talk later, we can go somewhere after the show.>

He slid the notebook across to Chris, who took it, read it quickly and nodded to Milton, again with a flash of his open grin.

Milton smiled back, completely stunned that 1-7 was there - and ecstatic, for the same reason. 1-7 was his senior research assistant, a good friend, and the one who had told him about the expedition in the first place. He had an effervescent personality, always cheerful and interested in everything, and naturally personable in all the ways Milton was not. He’d obviously taken to this life, and comedy, like a duck to water (to use the local idiom), and Milton felt a rush of pride for his young friend that he’d been able to blend in so well. In fact, his inner stickler for detail was mildly peeved that he hadn’t recognised his friend’s personality from the start - it all seemed so obvious, now he knew. What was the saying? 20/20 hindsight, that was it.

As he watched, Chris folded over the page of the notebook - just in time, as it turned out. Hugh came back seconds later, taking his seat again.

“Ready to start, Hugh?” Dara asked.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” he replied.

“Alright!” Dara affirmed, before turning back to face the camera. “Now we play a round called ‘Mocked Out In The Quarter-Finals As Usual’. This game involves Milton, Andy and Diane, so if you could make your way to the performance area, please?”

As the comedians made their way over, Dara once again expanded on the rules of the round. “This round is a stand-up challenge. I launch the wheel of news, and wherever it chooses to stop, one of our performers must step forward and talk about that subject. The winner is whoever I think is the funniest.” Seeing they had all reached the performance area, Dara continued. “Okay, here we go. The first subject is: The Coalition government. Andy Parsons,” he announced, as the man in question stepped up to the microphone.

“Yes,” Andy began. “So they told us to vote, we voted, and we now have a government that absolutely none of us in fact voted for.” As he continued to go on about the new government, taking off the ineptitude of both politicians and the journalists that talked about them, Milton could feel the familiar knot of nervous stress building in his stomach. The waiting was the hardest part, he found - and knowing that 1-7 was there only made him more tense. He wanted to impress his friend with what he’d been able to pick up, and every moment he spent standing there, trying to predict what topic would come up and what he could possibly say, seemed to drag for hours.

“Okay, let’s spin the wheel again,” Dara announced after Andy had finished, distracting Milton from the turmoil in his head. “The subject is: Accents. Who wants to come in with that? Diane.”

Diane stepped up to the microphone, and as Milton watched and worried, gave a very good routine about how different accents could completely change the tone of PA messages. And of course, all too soon she returned to the steps, giving Milton only seconds until his topic was announced.

“And that leaves us with Milton,” Dara said, as Milton overexaggerated crossing his fingers, playing up his nerves while the audience applauded. “Let’s spin the wheel. The subject is: Family.”

With a last, desperate hope that everything would go well, Milton straightened and walked over to the microphone.

“One of my earliest memories is seeing my mother’s face through the oven window,” he began. He paused as the audience laughed at his typically surreal opening line, and he could feel Chris’s gaze on him as the younger man waited for the punchline. “As we played hide and seek, and she said ‘You’re getting warmer,’” he delivered.

As the audience warmed to his style, Milton found the rest of his few solo minutes to fly by. Using the large database of jokes he’d compiled with Dara, he could build a routine to fit just about any topic, and tonight’s was no exception. Soon enough, it was all over, and he could let himself relax.

“At the end of that round, the points go to Milton Jones!” Dara announced after Milton had made it back to the stairs. His victorious grin only broadened as he saw the proud smile on Chris’s face as his friend clapped him back to his seat. The applause ringing in his ears sounded particularly welcoming this evening.

-------------------------------------------

As the recording continued, Milton couldn’t seem to focus. His old friend was here, as incredible as it seemed. Hiding his smile was hard, particularly when Chris’s observations about the panel - and indeed, the things he had observed about human society in general - were so direct. It was almost a game between the pair, passing notes back and forth when neither the cameras, nor Hugh’s gaze, was trained on them.

It was inevitable, of course, that they would get caught.

“Chris, what are you doing?”

Hugh had spun his chair around at an inopportune moment, turning to see Chris holding up a notebook open to a page covered in spiralling squiggles.

Chris flashed his open grin again, slightly shamefaced this time. “I noticed Milton was doodling,” he said sheepishly, “and I wanted to see if I could copy him. It’s quite an intricate pattern, really.”

The explanation seemed to satisfy Hugh, who only shook his head in amusement at his teammate’s antics.

<Well, that was close,> Chris’s next note read.

<You’re telling me,> Milton replied. <It’s probably best if we hold off until the recording’s finished.>

Chris nodded, and closed his notebook with a snap.

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The round wrapped up fairly soon after that, leaving only Scenes We’d Like To See. The final round passed easily, the topics of ‘Commercials That Never Aired’ and ‘Things You Don’t Want To Hear In Hospital’ presenting Milton and the rest of the panel with no problems. And while Dara had awarded the overall victory to Andy’s team, Milton felt quite happy with his performance that evening.

Soon enough, the audience, promptly followed by most of the panel, had left. As the others said their goodbyes, Milton and Chris had found excuses to linger behind, making sure that they would be the last ones to leave.

“I think the green room would be free,” Milton suggested. “It’s pretty private in there, so…”

“Sure,” Chris agreed with a grin. “Let’s go!”

His smile a copy of the one on his friend’s face, Milton led Chris backstage. He couldn’t wait to be able to talk properly.

Chapter Text

Now, in the privacy of the green room, they could finally talk openly.

“It’s so good to see you again!” Chris said, sounding incredibly relieved to see his friend and mentor once more.

“Stars, yes, you too!” Milton replied, shaking his head in amazed disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

“It was just going to be a routine thing,” his friend replied. “You know, someone gets sent out to check on the scout?”

“Of course,” Milton nodded. “But- you said you had malfunctioning equipment?”

Chris rolled his eyes disgustedly. “You would not believe the trouble I’ve had with everything, 4-2.”

A sudden flash of worry appeared in Milton’s eyes. “Sorry, but before you go on,” he interrupted apologetically, “I think it would be better if we kept using the assumed names. If anyone overheard-”

“Gone native, have you?” Chris asked teasingly.

“It feels strange, like this, in this body, you know?” Milton tried to explain, the worried crease between his eyebrows that had disappeared on Chris’s arrival returning once more. “And again, if people overheard, it’d be such a massive risk.”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand,” Chris said, nodding seriously.

“Anyway, you were saying?” Milton prompted.

“The capsule malfunctioned, I got sent back a good twenty years too far,” Chris said. “The background jump evened it all out, thankfully, but the fact remains that apparently I’m almost 40 years old, in their timeframe, and there’s a significant physical decline that I’m not showing. And on top of that, the datapoint’s been glitching. Not a lot, mind, but enough to be a right pain.”

“That really shouldn’t be happening,” Milton said, concerned.

“You’re telling me,” Chris replied heatedly, before calming. “Really, though, it’s not too bad.”

Milton still frowned.

“Don’t worry,” Chris said with a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing, I’m sure.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Milton replied dubiously, before dropping the subject. “Anyway, how’s everyone back on base? How are the projects going?”

“As per usual, the main things have been put on hold while your reports were coming in,” Chris said with a grin, “not that we needed the extra time. You’re so thorough, you’ve made it almost no work at all.”

“I have had experience on your side of it, remember?” Milton said dryly.

“Yeah, it shows. The regular scouts should do time analysing all the things with us, if it’d make their reports this easy to go through.”

Milton half-smiled in wry appreciation.

“And as to everyone, they’re all much the same as before you left,” Chris continued. “Some of the old teams are back, so of course 2-9 is handling the attention in her usual way-”

Milton let out a short laugh. 2-9 had a very dry sense of humour, a large arsenal of scathing remarks, and a deep hatred of what she saw as dull and mundane. As a scout, she normally kept suitably occupied, but whenever she came back to base, she would get irritable quickly - and take it out on others in a way that was as much an art form as it was attitude.

“Anyway, how’ve you been?” Chris asked. “I mean, your reports have been good for the facts, but you’ve never said how you’re finding it! Has it all been working out for you?”

“Yes! Stars, it’s been great!” Milton replied. “Honestly, all of the people here have been so nice - Dara’s become a really good friend, and he’s helped me out a lot with everything.”

He cleared his throat abruptly, wary of breaching the subject of Dara. While he was sure he could trust Chris with the information that the Irishman knew about his true purpose, it seemed like it would be better overall if he kept it to himself. “So, what do you think of them?” he asked, genuinely excited to be able to talk his findings over with someone else.

“Humanity in general, you mean? You know, they’re not too bad!” Chris said. “I mean, they’re not as good as some species we’ve seen, but they could be a lot worse.”

“Exactly,” Milton agreed.

“Their propensity for violence is a bit worrying,” Chris added with a frown. “Even within what you’d think of as the same geographical location, you can find two different sects using heavy firearms. The gap between the people with money and the people without is staggering - the lack of things like food, clean water and proper healthcare - basic rights!- is just tragic! And the people they put in power are usually the absolute worst people for the job - is there a species-wide lack of judgement?”

“Well, you’re right, but don’t think it’s that as much as it’s different ideologies,” Milton replied thoughtfully. “People here can take their beliefs to extreme levels, I’ve found - particularly if they only have one source of information. But on the whole, they’re alright,” he said, protective of what was almost his pet species. “There are people who do amazing things, too, trying to unite warring places, campaigning for peace, and trying to fix the divides in society. And so curious! Have you seen the speed of their technological developments? They want to know so much about the way their world works, and what else is out there - I’m surprised that they hadn’t come up on the list of civilisations to watch earlier!”

“You’re right there,” Chris admitted. “They’re reaching out, and fast.”

“And have you looked at the arts side of things?” Milton asked, enthused once more. To further his understanding of human culture, Dara had recommended that he go to a concert at the Royal Albert Hall. He hadn’t regretted going for a second. “The things they can do with nothing more than soundwaves, it’s incredible!”

“I know what you mean,” Chris said, the new spark of light in his eyes mirroring that in Milton’s. “I mean, it’s not like what they do on that planet - you know, the one we’d need another half-dozen sensory apparatuses to even say properly, where they paint with pure emotion-”

Milton nodded, remembering the data that had been sent back of that experience.

“But it’s unique, and it’s actually very moving,” Chris continued. “You wouldn’t think it’s possible, to do that with just sound, but they manage it!”

A knock at the door disturbed Chris from his excited ramblings, and he broke off as the door opened a crack.

“Anyone still in here?” a voice called. “Sorry to disturb you, but this studio’s done for the evening, and we were just about to lock up.”

Milton opened the door fully, revealing one of the crew members. “Thanks,” he said with a polite nod. “We were just going, yeah.”

With a meaningful look to Chris, he ducked out of the room.

------------------------------------------

“Would they have heard anything?” Chris asked, a worried look in his hazel eyes as he followed his friend out onto the street.

“No,” Milton said confidently. “I can tell you for a fact that when the door is shut, that room is completely soundproof.” Out of the corner of his eye, Chris noticed Milton shudder slightly.

“So, how long are you planning to stay?” Milton asked, changing the subject quickly as a thought came to him. Protocol dictated that the person checking in on the scout didn’t stay on the planet for an extended period of time, to avoid forming an attachment to the people. They were just there to confirm the physical and mental wellbeing of the scout, not to observe the civilisation. That said, however, Milton wasn’t looking forward to saying goodbye to his friend again.

“I don’t really know,” Chris said. “I mean, obviously I can’t stay for long, but - well, I was hoping to stay until the end of the series, at least - I do like it here.”

Milton’s eyes brightened, glad that he’d be able to see his friend for a few more weeks, at least. “Look, I’ve been set up with a place not too far from here - do you want to go there for a bit?”

At Chris’s open grin of acceptance, he smiled. He could write up his report later. For now, he had a year’s worth of catching up to do.

Chapter Text

For Milton, the weeks after he first talked to Chris seemed to fly by. The pair would meet up fairly regularly, discussing their latest findings and hypotheses about the human race over a cup of tea or two. However, he wasn’t Milton’s only visitor. Dara still dropped by from time to time, although less frequently as Milton found his feet more in society. They still saw each other at recordings, and would enjoy a good chat there, but as Milton seemed to be coping better, Dara seemed happy to let him discover more about the world for himself.

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A knock at the door disturbed Milton from his thoughts. Opening it, he found a familiar face.

“Speak of the devil!” he said delightedly. “I was just thinking about you! Come in, come in - I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Thanks, Milton,” Dara said with a smile. “Good to see you too.”

As Milton went to make the tea, Dara followed him to the house’s small kitchen.

“How’ve you been?” he asked as Milton filled the kettle.

“Yeah, not bad, thanks,” Milton replied. “And you?”

As he asked the question, Milton bent down to retrieve their mugs from the cupboard. As he did so, Dara couldn’t help but see that a third mug had been added to the pair that he recognised as Milton’s normal mug and his own.

“Oh, much the same,” he replied. “You know the way it is, recording keeps me busy.”

“Yeah, of course,” Milton said.

“Sorry, I just noticed,” Dara said with a puzzled frown, “but you’ve got an extra mug there?” He had to ask - after all, he knew Milton well enough to know that nothing in the researcher’s life, however small, changed without a reason.

“Oh, that’s Chris’s,” Milton replied slightly distractedly, rummaging for teabags. “He comes round sometimes, and of course I have to make tea, it’s one of your most important-”

“-social rituals,” Dara chorused with him.

“Exactly,” Milton said with a sheepish smile. “Do I really say it that much? No, don’t answer that,” he hurriedly revised. “Look, do you want to just go through and make yourself comfortable? I’ll just be a second, and you really don’t have to stand around while the kettle boils if you don’t want to.”

“Thanks,” Dara nodded appreciatively, and walked back down the corridor to the lounge room. Settling himself in one of the armchairs, he began to hum tunelessly as he waited. He didn’t have to wait for long, however. Minutes later, Milton came through bearing the pair of full mugs. Handing one to Dara, he kept the other and sat down in the other armchair, taking a deep drink of his tea.

“I’ve really come to like this,” he remarked. “The tea, I mean. Well, the conversation, too,” he hastily corrected himself, “but I liked that from the beginning-”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Dara said with a grin. “Your tea’s certainly come on a long way since the first time, I have to say. D’you remember that? Fucking hell, but that was an awful cup of tea!”

Milton’s smile was a rueful hook at one corner as he reminisced about that first day. “You think it was bad for you? Stars, for me that was the least of it! I thought I was going to be hauled back to base immediately for letting so much slip to a still-developing culture!”

It was a mark of Milton’s newfound confidence that he was able to talk so openly about that day in front of Dara, as was Dara being more able to swear around him. Not wanting to overly stress the newly-arrived Milton, Dara had censored himself quite heavily. However, as Milton adapted better to Earth life, Dara felt he could relax. The gesture, while an unconventional form of esteem, hadn’t gone unnoticed by Milton, who was touched that his friend cared so much about him.

“So how’s recording going?” Milton asked.

“It’s going well, yeah!” Dara said. “It’s manic, though - you know how it is when you come on, and I’m on every time! It’s fun, but when you’ve got Production going off in your ear every ten seconds-” He broke off, and smiled. “It’s been good though, really - Chris has been asking to come back quite a bit. For a new guy, he’s really enjoying it.”

“He’s settling in, then?” Milton asked casually.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dara said, nodding, before his face set in a thoughtful expression. “About that,” he started carefully. “Ehmmm, that’s the reason I’m here, really.”

“Oh?” Milton said, confused.

“You’ve been hanging around with Chris quite a lot lately,” Dara said slowly, “and I’m just wondering if there’s something going on with you two. I mean, I’ve seen you together before recordings, even if only one of you is on the panel, you’ve got him his own mug here, so you’re obviously spending a lot of time together - and I overheard something one of the staging guys was saying about the green room-” He broke off, before continuing. “Is there something I should know about you two?”

Milton’s heart started racing. Did he know about Chris? Had he worked out that there was more to Chris than he’d said? It was one thing for his own cover to be compromised, but if he had somehow let slip about another researcher - that couldn’t be good under any circumstances.

“I mean, what you do in your own time is your own business, and I’m not judging you - I’m fine with it, if that’s what you feel, it doesn’t change how I see you,” Dara hastily added, seeing Milton’s worried expression.

“Sorry?” Milton asked, thoroughly bewildered.

“He’s a great guy, Chris,” Dara said.

“Yeah, he is,” Milton agreed, wondering where this was going.

“And I’m happy for you, if that’s what you’re doing, I just-” Dara began, before seeming to commit to some internal resolution. “Look, if you’re just going to fucking leave the planet one day soon, never to return, it’s going to hit him so hard, you know? If he doesn’t know what you are, and you suddenly leave, and can never be contacted, the poor man’s going to be absolutely heartbroken. And I know it’s hard for you too, but I really don’t think you should be getting into relationships like this when it’s all going to end so fucking abruptly- He doesn’t deserve this. Neither of you deserve this.”

“Is that it?” Milton asked, elated, as a wave of pure relief washed over him. Chris hadn’t been compromised - it was just a case of mistaken intentions. Dara only thought that he and Chris were in a relationship.

Wait. Dara thought that he and Chris were in a relationship?

“No, no, it’s not- We’re not-” he stammered, embarrassed. “There’s nothing going on between us, we’re just friends!”

“You’re- Shite, I’m sorry-”

The rising blush on Dara’s face mirrored that on Milton’s.

“I mean, it’s nothing-” Milton stuttered. “I’m not against it, but I’m not- And he’s not-”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand- It just looked like-”

“No, no, don’t worry-”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have assumed,” Dara said seriously. “I just wanted to look out for the pair of you, and I’ve really gone and put my foot in it-”

“It’s ok, really,” Milton said. “I know what you meant, and it’s alright, but we’re just friends.” He smiled. “He really reminds me of someone I know back on base. I guess that’s why we became friends so fast,” he said with a shrug.

“Mm,” Dara said softly.

The two men sat in a still slightly awkward silence, neither knowing quite what to say. It was Dara who had the presence of mind to break it, starting the conversation on an entirely new track.

“So, how are your reports going?” he asked.

Milton’s eyes lit up once more, and he began to talk excitedly, appreciating the distraction. Watching his friend at ease, Dara smiled, relaxing into the conversation. It seemed the awkwardness was over.

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The week after Dara’s visit, Milton found himself on the panel with Chris for the third time. Before the cameras started rolling, the pair had time to chat about the latest things they had going on - conversation that was as innocent and mundane as it came. Hiding a smile, Milton decided to shake things up a bit for his friend.

“You know, Dara visited just the other day,” he remarked offhandedly, out of the corner of his eye watching Chris raise a mug of water to his lips. “Funny thing, though - he told me he thought we were in a relationship,” he said casually - too casually - as Chris took a sip.

The water went everywhere. “What-?!” he spluttered.

To Milton, the look on Chris’s face made it all worthwhile.

Chapter Text

“So, I guess this is it, then,” Chris said resignedly. It was the morning after the last recording of the series - a recording that he had jumped at the chance to be a part of. He had really enjoyed his time on this planet, and he was sad he had to leave to return to base. As protocol demanded, he couldn’t stay too long on the planet. Even as it was, he was already spending more time there than was usual, enjoying the time he had with his friend. But now, as the series had finished, there was no reason that would allow him to stay longer.

“Looks like it,” Milton replied, his voice as soft and as sad as his friend’s. He wasn’t looking forward to staying behind as the only person he could talk freely with left indefinitely. The problem was only increased by the fact that communication between Earth and the base was one-way - information, such as Milton’s reports, could only be transmitted, not received. Milton, and the datapoint, were too far away from base to be able to pick up or send information reliably. It could tap into Earth’s satellite system to transmit the reports, using the myriad orbiting devices to boost the signal, allowing reports to be sent. However, the frequency any information from base was broadcast on was undetectable by current Earth technology, and the datapoint could only use the technology there already. In addition, even if the signal frequency were to be changed, enabling detection, Milton wouldn’t be the only one to observe it. The many scientific organisations dedicated to scanning the sky would be able to discover it, and it would only be a matter of time before it was decoded. The civilisations of Earth certainly weren’t ready for that sort of knowledge of the greater universe - not yet.

However, none of these reasons, as important as they were, made Milton feel any better about being cut off from his own society.

-------------------------------------------

The pair had caught a train up to England’s north, where hopefully they would find an area deserted enough for Chris to leave safely, and without being noticed. The transmat wasn’t an obtrusive piece of technology - unlike the capsules they had arrived in, the teleport (programmed into Chris’s device and keyed to respond only to him) would just cause him to blink out of sight. However, it would still be something unusual enough to make anyone investigate. Luckily, they had found an open field much like the one Milton where had arrived without much searching. It seemed absolutely deserted, not a person nor even a curious animal in sight. Perfect.

“You ready?” Milton asked.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s not like it’s hard,” Chris said. “Just push the button and off I go.”

Milton raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

Chris sighed deeply, and was silent for a minute before responding. “Yes- no- oh, I don’t know,” he exhaled.

“You’ve certainly given me a range to choose from,” Milton said, a half-smile touching his features.

Chris smiled tiredly in return. “I’ve loved it here, it’s a good planet-”

“But?”

“But I am ready to go back,” he admitted. “It is home, you know?”

Milton could only nod. He knew that feeling of homesickness only too well.

“And then again,” Chris said, “I don’t want to leave you here on your own! You’re my friend, and I’ve really enjoyed staying here with you. And besides, the whole comedy thing - I’ve loved it, honestly, and I don’t want to give that up just to go back to the lab, yeah?” He shrugged ruefully. “The more I want to go, the more I want to stay, it feels like.”

He stared off into the middle distance, seeming to look past the empty field that stretched out in front of him. His hazel eyes were fixed on a point that existed more in the past than the present, lost in his own thoughts.

Milton, too, was thinking about the time they spent together, trying to concentrate on that, rather than Chris’s impending departure. Neither of them wanted him to go - not yet - and it seemed like the longer they stayed absorbed in their memories, the more unreal Chris’s leaving felt.

But he couldn’t stay there forever, and they both knew it. With a resigned sigh, Chris turned to Milton once more. “I’ll see you when you come back,” he said softly, knowing that his friend would be cut off again, unable to be in contact with him for probably the rest of the mission’s duration. “It won’t be too long, I’m sure,” he reassured him.

“You’re right,” Milton admitted. “It’s not easy, though.”

Chris could only smile sadly in response. “Of course it’s not.”

Milton took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to blow out his negative thoughts with it. “It’s not going to get any easier if you leave it longer,” he said, the barest hint of a smile in response shining in his eyes. “Go. I’ll see you when this is done.”

The pair embraced briefly, friend farewelling friend.

“Bye, Milton,” Chris said, reaching for his device, finding the button that would activate the transmat beam.

“Bye,” Milton replied simply. There was nothing more he could say.

With a deep breath, Chris pressed the button.

And nothing happened.

Chapter Text

Chris pressed the button again and again, growing more frantic as still, nothing happened. The transmat wasn’t a complicated piece of technology, and its effects were meant to be instantaneous.

Taking a closer look at his device, Chris swore, using the full extent of the vocabulary he had picked up from his fellow panellists.

“The bloody thing is faulty again!” he exclaimed, shaking the piece of technology, as if that would have any effect whatsoever. “The signal has cut out,” he explained to Milton, who was looking at him confusedly. “The whole thing’s gone dead, really. I can’t link up to the network, no matter what I do.”

“You’ve tried the emergency restart?” Milton asked, trying to think of what the problem could be.

“Of course I have!” Chris snapped, his frustration boiling over. “And it’s still not doing anything. It’s completely shot! I don’t know what I should be doing, I contacted base yesterday to tell them what was happening, and they’re probably worried as hell, and my way out has packed it in! And I can’t even use yours, you don’t have the transmat coordinates, and in any case it’s biometrically coded to you! I’m stuffed, 4-2!”

“Look,” Milton said, trying to appear calm, even if he was feeling just as uneasy as Chris, “there’s not much we can do here and now. Let’s go somewhere where we’ve got the tools and the time to see what’s happened.”

Chris sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, good idea."

--------------------------------------------

With nothing left to do, the pair could only head back to Milton’s. The trip seemed to take hours, worried as they were, and it wasn’t until he walked through his front door that Milton started to feel himself relax. While he still didn’t know what the root of the problem was, at least in his own home, surrounded by familiar tools, he could help Chris get to the bottom of it.

“Sorry, do you have a screwdriver?” Chris asked, breaking into Milton’s thoughts.

“Oh- Yes, yes,” he replied, still slightly distracted, and headed to find it. It wasn’t long until he found one, and, passing it to Chris, settled in to wait.

After a few tense minutes, Chris fiddling with the internal mechanics of his device, and Milton watching him nervously from the sidelines, Chris straightened with an annoyed sigh.

“The signal relay’s completely burnt out,” he said. “It must have shorted on entry - that’s why the capsule stopped early, I’d say. But it still hadn’t gone fully, it was mostly usable, but glitchy - until now. The transmat signal must have fried it, look.” He beckoned Milton over and pointed at a blackened wire in the mass of circuitry buried within the device. “The fuse has completely gone, see? And that’s completely stuffed the entire relay.”

“So you can’t send anything to base?” Milton asked, the worried crease appearing between his eyebrows once more.

“Not a thing,” Chris confirmed. “The intraplanetary comms system is still all hooked up, but for anything off the planet, I’m screwed.”

Milton frowned. “I’ll contact base, tell them what’s happened,” he offered.

Chris nodded, grateful. “Yeah, good idea,” he said. “They’re probably getting twitchy by now.”

Milton thought for a moment, then sat down to type.

-----------------------------------------------

<Date: 11875-1084-307 (formal standard). Urgent transmission, priority level 2. Operative 1-7 was unable to activate transmat beam for planned departure today (see above date). Further inspection of internal mechanisms revealed short circuit and burnt fuse leading to permanent (with current planetary technology) shutdown of signal relay. Request either replacement components, or entire replacement device encoded to 1-7, sent by remote probe as per protocol 452-2.>

-----------------------------------------------

He pressed send, and the transmission light blinked on for a moment, confirming it had gone through.

“It’s done,” he said.

“Thanks,” Chris replied. His smile faltered, however, as the reality of what was going to happen hit him. Earth was a nice place to visit, but the prospect of many years there, cut off from just about everything he knew, wasn’t appealing. “It’s going to take a while, isn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Milton replied softly. There was no point denying it. “Whatever they do, you’re going to have to stay for a fair bit. I’m sorry,” he added, knowing what his friend would be feeling.

“It’s okay,” Chris sighed. “There’s nothing to be done, I know. But still-”

“Yeah,” Milton agreed. “I know.”

Still, Chris felt at a loss. “What am I meant to do?” he asked. He had no permanent job, nothing he’d arranged, only the unpredictability of the Mock the Week panel.

Milton smiled crookedly as he answered. “We do what humanity is so good at,” he said. “We keep busy.”

---------------------------------------------

And life carried on, as normal as they could make it. Chris threw himself into not just comedy, but acting, too - landing a fairly major part in a political satire. The young man was enjoying it all, and keeping himself occupied as much as possible.

Milton, on the other hand, was slightly stuck. His career was all but dependent on Mock the Week, and with that finished for another season, he was out of things to do. It wasn’t until one of his chats with Dara that an idea, brewing in the back of his mind for some time now, finally saw the light of day.

“Dara,” he began hesitantly, not knowing quite where to start, “what would you say, uh, if I told you I wanted to go on a tour?”

Apart from a slight blink, the Irishman didn’t seem at all surprised. “I’d say go for it,” he replied brightly. “Honestly, I’ve thought you’ve been ready for it for months now.”

“Really?” Milton asked, surprised. The researcher did feel confident in his abilities now, but even so, this was a big step for him.

“Of course!” Dara said encouragingly. “God, Milton, it’s been a year and a half that I’ve known you, and in that time, you’ve really come out of your shell. I reckon you’re more than ready to go solo.”

Milton smiled, touched by his friend’s faith in him. “Thanks,” he said shyly. “That really means a lot to me.”

“It’s the truth, though.”

Another thought came to Milton. “Um, if you don’t mind, Dara,” he began tentatively, “would it be okay if I went over my routine with you?”

The question was greeted with a broad smile. “I’d be happy to.”

--------------------------------------------

Planning a tour was a lot of work. Christmas and the start of the new year came and went in a rush of emails and phone calls. What Milton thought would have been the hardest part of the tour preparations, working out what he was going to say, went fairly easily, with the input of both Dara and Chris. It was the logistics, however, that took the longest. Booking venues was an absolute nightmare, he found. Getting a workable schedule, where he could go from gig to gig with relative ease, and quickly enough so that he wouldn’t forget his routine, would only be achievable towards the end of the year. The work certainly kept Milton busy up to the mid-year start of the new series of Mock the Week.

It was after the last recording session of the first block - the series would be cut in half this year because of the Edinburgh Comedy Festival - that Chris turned up at Milton’s house once more. Ignoring the half-written email in front of him (really, he was getting nowhere with this event management company), Milton let his old friend in. The routine cups of tea were made and drunk over casual chat, but it wasn’t until they were finished that Chris cleared his throat meaningfully.

“The reason I came over,” he began with a shy smile, “is because I’ve got a bit of news.”

“Go on…” Milton said encouragingly.

“Well, um, I don’t know how to say this, but - Dara asked me if I’d like to be a regular panellist, like Hugh and Andy, and, uh - well, I said yes!”

“That’s fantastic!” Milton said, a broad smile crossing his face. Admittedly, a stab of jealousy had gone through him, but he quickly dismissed it. Chris had worked up to the position on his own merits, with nobody from the show having any kind of obligation towards him. Milton, however, knew he wouldn’t be happy if Dara had asked him in Chris’s place - he would see it as some sort of charity. And really, he did appreciate the time it gave him to write his reports. The honour his friend had been awarded couldn’t have gone to a more deserving person.

“I’m still amazed that he asked me, you know?” Chris said, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“I’m not,” Milton smiled. “You’re really good at all this thing, you know.”

“Thanks,” the younger man replied sincerely, hazel eyes meeting blue-grey-green in a look of mutual respect. “So, the next time you’re on the show, we’ll be on it together, hey!”

“We definitely will,” Milton said, his face alight.

Together, the two of them would be a great team.

Chapter Text

True to his word, when Milton turned up at the Mock the Week set a couple of weeks later, Chris was waiting for him, already seated in the co-captain’s chair. Unusually for him, Milton was the last panellist to arrive, having been caught in the afternoon’s traffic. As well as the regulars, the panel was padded out by Holly Walsh and Ed Byrne. Milton had worked with the pair before, and been happy to make their acquaintance.

Ed, in particular, was a connection Milton was glad to have made. As a close friend of Dara’s, he had been introduced to the Irishman soon after starting on the show. Milton marveled at the similarity between the pair - both had a sharp sense of humour and an interest in the sciences. They’d known each other for years, both doing best man duty at the other’s wedding, and managed to maintain a sense of easy camaraderie through the ups and downs of life. However, before he could reflect further on their relationship, Milton was distracted by Dara’s heads-up that the show would be starting soon. With a smile, Milton slid into his seat across from Chris, ready to take whatever the episode threw at him.

-----------------------------------------------

The first half of the episode presented no problems for the pair. Even the dreaded Spinning the News went smoothly, with both Chris and Milton being called up to talk about ‘Weather’ and ‘Careers’ respectively. Their efforts won their team the round, and, back in his chair, Milton began to relax. The start of ‘If This Is The Answer, What Is The Question?’ was again, fairly easy going, Holly Walsh picking the topic of Foreign News.  

As the discussion turned to Putin and his rather suspect political tactics, Milton started to tune out. Chris, doing an impression of the Russian president with a facelift, seemed like a good ending for the segment.

“In other news, what have science- what have scientists been all worked up about this week?” Dara asked, moving the round along and startling Milton from his reverie.

“They’ve been worked up by the fact that apparently, Einstein might be wrong,” Andy replied. “And that maybe, something can travel faster than light. And I’m not surprised by this, because I have got those energy saving lightbulbs.”

He paused as the audience laughed. “And what I like to do,” he continued, “is I like to turn them all on at two o’clock in the afternoon, because that way, by the time it gets dark, they’re throwing out a bit of light!”

As the crowd applauded, Ed noticed the famous photo of Einstein with his tongue out that was being shown on the screens.

“I love that picture of Einstein,” he said, pointing with his pen. “I just- I always think that they’ve just airbrushed Marilyn Monroe out of the photo.”

“I think what they’ve, they’ve airbrushed out of that,” Andy remarked, “is a 9-volt battery, and he’s having a fantastic time!”

Milton laughed at that - the scientist’s hair was as chaotic as his own. But the way the discussion was going was slightly worrying. He knew where human technology was meant to have progressed to, he thought. However, he didn’t trust himself to comment directly - if he referenced something as-of-yet undiscovered by this civilisation, he’d be in trouble. For now, he preferred to sit back and listen to the others.

“But the- this whole thing about Einstein, and the speed of light,” Ed started. “Here’s, here’s- here’s what I don’t get, Dara, you know about this?”

“I know a little bit about this, but not- yeah,” his friend replied.

“The whole thing is apparently ‘time isn’t constant’. That if you- If you’re travelling, like, time slows down,” Ed said. “Time is different if you’re travelling. And the way that he proved it is based on the fact that the speed of light is constant. So, maybe- how can the speed of something be constant, if time itself is not? When speed is measured using time?”

“Yeah, but the time- this is the time outside the frame of reference of the thing that’s travelling,” Dara answered. “Ehhm, for example-”

“Is there anybody in the audience whose brain is currently hurting?” Andy cut in.

As the audience laughed, Dara tried to explain further. “For, for if you’re a- If you’re a beam of light- if you’re- If you’re the beam of light-”

“I am,” Ed said, mock sincerely. “I am a shining beam of light.”

“No, Ed, you’re a beautiful snowflake,” Dara replied to applause from the crowd.

“It’s all gonna kick off later on,” Andy said with a grin.

“If you’re a beam of light, there is no time for you,” Dara finally managed to say. “Every- a beam of light appears everywhere simultaneously.”

“What do you mean, there’s no time for you?” Ed burst out, outraged. “If you’re a- If you’re a beam of light, it is your time to shine!”

“Okay, okay, I’m not turning this into Glee, right?” Dara said, waving his hands to emphasise his point. “That’s where you want to go with this, right, so just dig your-”

Like Milton, Chris had noticed the direction the conversation was heading in, which would be a problem if a question was aimed directly at them. Seeing that Dara was trying to have a serious discussion about the subject, he quickly tried to distract the Irishman.

“Are you saying that the speed of light- The speed of light,” he interrupted. “How fast is the speed of light relative to, say, hotcakes? Uh, is it faster or- what about a rat up a drainpipe? Is it… faster or slower than shit off a shovel?”

“It’s only marginally slower than the shit off a shovel,” Dara replied, trying not to laugh. “But, ehh, but rats still can’t quite match it.”

“I heard that the neutrinos travelled from Switzerland to Italy faster than Nazi gold at the end of the World War,” Chris said quickly, pleased that Dara had taken up the new thread of the conversation.

However, as it turned out, nothing could stop Ed.

“While they were travelling, was time not different for them?” the Irishman asked.

“For them , but not- Oh, f- Jesus,” Dara burst out, annoyed at the prospect of having to explain it all again.

“Don’t worry your head about it, you’re a beautiful snowflake,” Andy said to Ed with a smirk.

“What I like about this,” Holly said, “is that loads of people who have absolutely no understanding of physics, have had to sit down and try and work out really complicated things! Like, previously to this, I thought that Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, and Einstein’s Theory of Special Relativity, meant cousins no; second cousins yes!”

“I don’t think light actually travels that fast,” Milton remarked as Chris looked at him curiously. “I don’t know if you’ve tried running with a torch…”

The audience laughed.

“It’s- It’s all very complicated, isn’t it,” Ed said. “I don’t - I don’t profess-”

“Yes, Ed,” Dara interrupted.  “Yes, Ed, it is. I would love- I would love that! I’ll leave this segment, but I would love that to be the people’s final word on the whole thing.” He turned to look directly into the camera with an expression of wide-eyed sincerity. “It’s all very complicated, so don’t worry your pretty little head. At the end of that round, the points go to Chris, Hugh and Milton!”

-----------------------------------------------

With the topic of conversation going as it had been in his last recording session, Milton had to wait for a fortnight before being able to conduct a little experiment he had planned. Having established himself as a master of the surreal, he’d decided to see how far he could go before people started to find his actions jarring. Milton had had the experiment in mind for a while now, but the topics discussed whenever he was a panellist had never been appropriate enough for a natural-seeming segue. However, this week’s episode looked like it would be perfect.

Adam Werritty was the focus of the conversation between the other panellists - the best man of the Defence Secretary, Liam Fox, he had been using a card that portrayed him as an adviser to the minister. As a result of this, both he and his ministerial mate were in quite a bit of hot water. The whole thing was quite farcical, really, and Chris and Dara were happy to riff on the theme for as long as the producers would let them.

The time was right, it seemed.

“Do you want to say hello to the boys and girls?” Milton said, pretending to speak to a bogeyman-like Werritty creature under the panel. Gruffly, out of the corner of his mouth, he replied to himself: “No, I’m depressed.”

With a slight shrug and an expression of mild interest, Milton reached into his breast pocket. To the bemused laughter of the audience, as they realised what he was doing, he pulled out a carrot and calmly placed it under the desk. Having done so, the researcher settled back in his chair with a look of perfect contentment.

Even Dara, who of the human panellists had known him the longest, was looking at him strangely. “If you hadn’t have got that joke in, how long would you have kept the carrot in your pocket?”

Milton paused, looking down at his notepad, then back up again. “Been there since last series,” he was able to reply with perfect honesty.

Dara merely laughed in response, and seconds later, Andy took the conversation in a new direction. Just like that, the incident was forgotten.

<Experiment successful,> Milton wrote in his notepad with an amazed smile. It seemed that as long as you were accepted by the community - albeit with a reputation for being unusual - you could manage to get away with almost anything.

If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t expected to have been accepted like that at all. His smile broadened as he realised that he’d found a second home on this planet.

Chapter Text

As the years passed, with Milton and Chris comfortable within their own routine, the previously worrying activities of Mock the Week, touring and acting were now just a part of their daily life. While Milton sent his reports back to base on a weekly basis, all thought of hearing from his colleagues in regards to Chris’s situation had been forgotten. It had been so long now that his young friend’s presence in his life on Earth was something to be expected.

Of course, all good things had to come to an end, and this was no exception.

For Milton, the first warning sign was an urgent-sounding knock at his door one morning in the summer of 2013. Milton opened it to find none other than Chris, who asked to come in with an intense light in his hazel eyes.

The young man was shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, looking clearly distracted.

“Chris?” Milton said, surprised and slightly worried. “Of course, come in!”

After his friend had been properly set up with a mug of tea and was looking much calmer, Milton turned to him once more.

“Now, what’s the problem?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

In response, Chris merely held up his device, disguised as it was as an ordinary biro, albeit with the clip that would secure it to a notebook spine now upraised. A faint amber light shone steadily from its underside - a light Milton hadn’t seen since the interplanetary communications relay had burnt itself out years before.

“That’s not…” he breathed.

Chris’s answering smile was lopsided. “Oh, yes. It’s time.”

----------------------------------------------------

The light, Chris said, had suddenly activated during the previous day’s Mock the Week recording session. It acted almost like a tracker, illuminating when in the vicinity of objects that emitted a certain signal. Its presence was the clearest sign Chris could have that the replacement fuse had arrived, and it took every ounce of self control he had not to shout it out to the entire studio. The probe that brought the component would have landed near his house - it was small enough, and packed with enough shielding, to risk a physical drop.

As soon as recording finished, Chris had raced off like a shot. Sure enough, the pen in his hand started vibrating when he reached his front gate. In answer, a faint wobble in the air just above the driveway, like a heat shimmer, resolved itself into a small metal sphere that glinted in the glow from the streetlights. Quickly, Chris snatched it up and carried it inside, locking the front door firmly behind him. Confident that he was now hidden from the world, Chris opened the sphere to find a circuitboard about as big as a fingernail, and a list of instructions written in his own language.

With nothing more than a screwdriver and an overwhelming amount of nervous energy, Chris picked up his device and started to work.

----------------------------------------------------

“Did you get any sleep at all last night?” Milton asked his friend, concerned.

Chris merely rolled his eyes. “Could you have, in my position?”

Milton inclined his head with a faint smile, acknowledging the point.

“Honestly, though, the internal mechanics are that fiddly, it took me all this time to get it running properly,” Chris continued wryly. “I came as soon as it was done - I thought you’d want to know straight away.”

“You’re right about that,” the older man said, smiling. “So… what’s the plan now?” he asked hesitantly. “Does it all work?”

“Well, they sent out some tests to try in the instruction manual, and those went smoothly,” Chris replied. “But whether or not it really works properly, I won’t know until I’ve done it.”

“You’re leaving soon, then.”

It wasn’t a question. The scouting trip had gone on for almost four times as long as planned, and since Chris’s tests would have verified to the base that his device was once again operational, they would be expecting him back without further delay.

“As soon as I can, yeah,” Chris affirmed. “I just came by to let you know the situation, and then I was going to go.”

Milton nodded sadly, his friend’s answer merely confirming what he already knew. “I won’t say I’m not sad to see you go,” the researcher said, his voice quiet.

“Yeah. I know how you feel,” Chris replied, equally soft. “It’s nice here. But - it’s time for me to leave, I think. I liked it, but it’s never felt like home, not really. And I miss everyone back on base, you know?”

A corner of his mouth quirked up self-deprecatingly. “It’s funny, isn’t it. I was so reluctant to go, last time we were in this situation. And now? It’s sad, of course, but I’m much more ready for it.”

“You should suggest that to the regulations committee,” Milton said with a twist of a smile. “I’m sure that would go down well - ‘don’t leave before you get attached, wait a while and leave when you’re thoroughly sick of the place!’”

“Yeah, that’s about right,” Chris said sardonically, before his expression turned serious once more. “Jokes aside, Milton, I’m actually quite jealous. You’ve managed to make such a good connection with this place - I’m impressed!”

Milton frowned in disbelief. “Really?”

“It’s pretty obvious how comfortable you feel here,” Chris replied. Forestalling Milton’s imminent protests, he continued quickly. “Not in every situation, okay, but most of the time, I look at you and you’re as relaxed as you’d be back home. I like it here, sure, but really, it’s just a job for me. And I can tell you feel like it’s more than that.”

“I wouldn’t have put it like that, but…” Milton trailed off, re-examining his feelings. He sighed, and ran a hand through his wild hair. “No, you’re right,” he said eventually. “It is more than just a job, now.”

“You see?” Chris said with a gentle smile. “You’d be happy to stay here, but I don’t mind leaving - and now, I have to.”

A worried crease appeared between Milton’s eyebrows as he remembered something important. “Did you say anything to people? To explain why you’re going?”

“I told Dara and the production team that some personal stuff has come up, and that I probably won’t be around to make the rest of the series,” Chris replied. “I hope that’ll be enough.”

“It should be okay,” Milton said. “But if not, I’ll cover for you as much as I can.”

“Thanks,” Chris said, a sincere light in his hazel eyes. “I really should be going now, though. The longer I wait, the harder it’ll be.”

“Good luck,” Milton said simply. It would be harder for him after Chris left, but what could he say? They both knew it - and they both knew the younger man had to leave, regardless.

“I’m heading out to the same place as last time,” Chris said hesitantly. “Do you want to come?”

Milton smiled softly, looking at his friend. “Of course.”

----------------------------------------------------

“Tell me I’m not the only one feeling deja vu,” Chris said with a flash of his open grin. The pair were standing in the same field as the last time the younger man had attempted to leave, and it looked unchanged in every detail.

“No, it’s not just you,” Milton agreed. “But hopefully it works this time,” he added, his eyes sparkling with faint amusement.

“You’re telling me,” Chris replied with a roll of his eyes.

“Now, you have all the recordings you made?” Milton asked anxiously. There wouldn’t be another chance to easily pick up anything left behind after this.

“Yes, mum ,” Chris answered with an exaggerated sigh.

Milton smiled at that as his friend continued. “I’ve got everything I need, don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon, anyway.”

“Soon is relative,” Milton said dryly, before frowning in concern as he saw a flash of worry on Chris’s face. “Chris? What’s the matter?”

“I nearly forgot,” the younger man said with a shake of his head. “Do you mind me asking something?”

“Of course not!” Milton replied. “What is it?”

“When you left, you said that you wanted to be switched out with one of the regular scouts as soon as it was possible,” Chris began. “Are you - Do you still want to do that?”

After their conversation earlier, Milton knew in his heart that there was only one response he could honestly give - and he knew, too, that his friend suspected as much.

“No. No,” he repeated, his voice stronger as he finally put what he had felt for a long time now into words. “I’m happy here - you’ve noticed it yourself. Yes, I’ll stay the full term.”

Chris’s hazel eyes brightened at hearing the confirmation. “I’ll pass it on,” he said warmly. “I should really get going now, though,” he continued, looking at his feet. “I guess it’s goodbye for now.”

Milton nodded shortly. “It was good to see you again, 1-7,” he said sincerely.

Briefly, the pair shared a farewell embrace before Milton stepped back, looking at his friend in human form for what could quite possibly be the last time.

“I’ll see you when I get back,” he said. “Safe journey.”

“Thanks,” Chris replied. “Bye, Milton.”

Milton took a deep breath and released it slowly, steeling himself for the inevitable. “Bye.”

----------------------------------------------------

With one last smile, Chris pressed the button on his device, and vanished. For a moment, Milton could only stare at the empty space where his friend had been, his eyes shining blue-green-grey with unshed tears before he blinked them away, resolute.

Alone once again, Milton Jones squared his shoulders and headed back to the train.

Chapter Text

It had been about a week since Chris had left with just a reference to a personal crisis, and Milton was beginning to realise that the excuse his friend had given to the Mock the Week production team was just as vague as it had seemed in summary. Nobody seemed satisfied with the information they had been given - least of all Dara, who had arrived at Milton’s door with a determined look in his eyes that meant he was going to get answers, no matter what.

“Can I come in?” he asked as soon as Milton opened the door. “I’d like to talk to you about something.”

Milton felt his heart stop momentarily. While he had been expecting a conversation like this at some point, he was a long way from being prepared to have it - and it seemed like flimsy excuses wouldn’t cut it any longer. Forcing himself to keep breathing calmly, he tried to force down the rising panic. The last time something this happened, it was all a case of misinterpretation - nothing serious after all, he reminded himself.

“Of course,” he said, his smile perhaps a hair too brittle. “Please, come in.”

------------------------------------------------------------------

After Milton had made the customary cups of tea and Dara had made himself comfortable, Milton found his barrage of small talk could hold his friend off no longer. The Irishman shifted in his seat slightly, before clearing his throat uncomfortably.

“Chris disappeared really suddenly after the recording a couple of weeks ago,” he started. “I know he was a close friend of yours, and I hate to ask, but did he tell you anything about what was happening? Where he was going? Because if he’s in trouble or anything, I’d like to know - if I know what’s going on, then I could help, potentially.”

“Uh, he didn’t really say much,” Milton stammered, scrambling for ideas. Even though Chris wouldn’t be coming back any time soon, he still didn’t want to blow his old friend’s cover. “I think it was some kind of family issue - he didn’t give me many details, but he’s had to go away for a while.”

One of Dara’s eyebrows shot up. “Milton. I’ve known you for five years now, and I can tell when you’re not giving me the whole story.”

Milton’s answering smile was lopsided. “I’m sure you can.”

“And when you try and avoid the question rather than giving me a direct answer, I know you’re hiding something,” Dara said with a crooked smile of his own. His expression turned serious. “I’m just worried about him - we all are. And if there’s something I need to know so I can help him out, please say.”

Chris is probably never coming back, Milton thought. And Dara’s never told anyone about me, about what I am. He seems genuinely concerned about Chris, too. Yes. Yes, I can probably trust him.

“You’re not going to believe me,” he said.

“Try me,” Dara replied, his wry grin taking in Milton and the strange story he’d told the Irishman all those years ago. “I’ve heard a lot of strange shit in my time.”

“Well,” Milton started, running a hand through his wild hair. “Chris is - uh, well - an alien. Like me.”

“Really?” Dara said incredulously.

Milton nodded earnestly in response.

“No,” the Irishman scoffed, a sarcastic smile on his features. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“It’s true. I did tell you that you probably wouldn’t believe it.”

“You’re right, I sure don’t,” Dara replied, shaking his head. “Only - and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but - I do, sort of. It makes sense, in a strange kind of way. He always seemed to be just a tiny bit off. Too enthusiastic about the little things, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s him, alright,” Milton said with a smile. “Even at home, he was interested in all the details. He’s my research assistant, back on base,” Milton explained as Dara looked at him in confusion. “The protocol when a scout gets sent out is that another scout or researcher comes to check up on them - to make sure that everything is going okay, confirm our reports are correct, all that kind of thing. And it’s usually someone who the scout knows. So, for me, Chris got sent out. He was meant to leave at the end of the 2010 series, and go back to base quietly without anyone knowing any better. But his device malfunctioned, and he was stuck here. That was the problem, see - the longer you stay somewhere, the more you get attached, and the harder it is to leave.”

Dara smiled wryly at that, and motioned for Milton to continue.

“He couldn’t get back, so he just tried to keep going with what he was doing. And of course, when the new fuse for the relay arrived, he had to go as soon as he could - they’d be expecting him.”

He shrugged. “That’s why it was all so sudden. I had about as much warning as you did, actually. And of course, the problem with staying for an extended period of time is that more people notice when you’ve gone. And they want answers,” he said with a meaningful glance in Dara’s direction.

Dara had the grace to smile at the pointed remark. “They do indeed,” he agreed. “So, he’s gone, then? For long, or…?”

“Indefinitely,” Milton replied. “It’s standard procedure for the scout checking in to take a pretty important role in compiling and collating data that gets sent back, seeing as they have experience of the societies and phenomena we report on. It’s useful like that, to have a researcher who you can ask questions to in person, rather than just relying on reports. So, generally, they stay back on base after they come back.”

“I see,” Dara nodded thoughtfully. “You did say generally, though?”

“Ye-es,” Milton said slowly. “Some come back, but it’s not common. Normally, there’s only one visit during the whole scouting period. It’s easier that way.”

Dara’s expression was pensive. “He’s really not coming back, then.”

“Probably not,” Milton replied, his voice tinged with sadness. “I’m on my own from now on in. And I’m not sure how long I’m going to be here for.” He shrugged, resigned. “As long as it takes, I imagine. But really,” he continued, perking up, “I’m enjoying it here. It’s certainly been an experience. It’s more than a job now, more than just research - it’s you guys. Your culture, your humour, the fact that, for the most part, you’re so willing to accept an outsider - this is something I’ve been proud to be a part of. And the same goes for Chris, I know.”

“I’m glad,” Dara said with a broad smile. “And can I say, on behalf of the human race, that we’ve been very happy to have you here.”

Try as he might, Milton couldn’t stop his lips twitching at the thought of Dara as the spokesman for humanity. “Thank you,” he replied with a mock bow.

“On a more serious note, though,” Dara said, “how are we going to explain why Chris has disappeared? People are getting worried, and I’m not the only one who would think of asking you about it.”

Milton’s eyes were hopeful. “We?”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, Milton, your bluffing is shite,” Dara teased. “And I don’t think you can tell the general public what you’ve just told me, do you? I’ll give you a hand working out what to say.”

“Thanks,” Milton said, genuinely relieved. The Irishman would have a much better idea of what would be plausible, in any case. “Not just for this, but generally, too.”

Dara tilted his head, slightly perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“For giving me a chance with all of this,” Milton elaborated. “I don’t know where I’d be right now if we hadn’t ran into you - literally - that day. And it still amazes me that you believed me, what with my crazy story that probably didn’t make a lot of sense. And on top of that, you had enough faith in me to suggest that I should go on Mock the Week - and to put my name forward to your producer, and to even call me in as a last-minute replacement for Frankie. All the times when I didn’t think I could manage, you were always so encouraging and supportive. You’ve always been there for me when I needed it, when I was first starting out with all of this, with the show, and with touring - and honestly, I don’t think I could have got anywhere near this far if you hadn’t taken a chance on me.”  

“Are you serious?” Dara asked, his eyes wide. “It’s been a pleasure, all of it. And it certainly wasn’t hard to have faith in you - you’re a natural comic, Milton. I didn’t do anything special, I just gave you an opportunity so you could see for yourself what I knew you could really do. If anything, I feel like I should be the one thanking you. You’ve certainly made my life a lot more interesting since you came here, that’s for sure.”

Milton half-smiled at that as Dara went on.

“It’s been an honour to get to know you and watch you come into your own,” the Irishman said. “And it’s going to be a shame to see you go.” He sighed. “I suppose now Chris has gone, you don’t have much of your term left?”

“Not necessarily,” Milton replied. “Usually there’s quite a while longer to go, even after the secondary scout leaves.”

Dara smiled, slow and broad. Seeing his friend’s expression, Milton grinned too.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Dara’s reply was relieved. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Milton felt himself relax fully at that, a far cry from his earlier nervous tension. Even though Chris was gone, he wasn’t completely alone on this planet. He still had his research, his job - and most importantly, his friends.

Chapter Text

Life carried on, as it always did. That was the beauty of it. Everything kept going forwards, bringing new experiences with every passing moment. And in the summer of 2014, before the start of the new series of Mock the Week, Milton Jones was feeling perfectly content. Even with Chris’s absence, he was more than accustomed to the routines of life on Earth, and happy to carry them out himself. The thought that he might be discovered only rarely came to mind nowadays - particularly after seeing that his more bizarre moments were viewed with nothing more than indulgent tolerance. His slips in judgement were few and far between, nowadays - but the boost of confidence that came from knowing that if they happened, it wouldn’t completely blow his cover, was certainly not unwelcome.

Touring, too, was a far more comfortable activity than it had been. With a large stockpile of jokes and references to popular culture that he had compiled through the course of his research, Milton almost looked forward to the opportunity to show off his newly-discovered skill. He would never be entirely at ease with talking in front of an audience, but it was certainly something he appreciated now in a way he never could have imagined back on base. Making others laugh was an entirely different skillset from the one he needed for researching, but the warm sense of pleasure he now gained from both was the same.

And even though Chris had left, Milton was a long way from being alone on this planet. While Dara was still the only one who knew the full truth about him, Milton had formed close friendships with a number of his colleagues, including Hugh, Ed, and Andy. He still kept in touch with Russell, too - while the young man had struck off on his own, and was doing very well with his show, he certainly hadn’t left his friends from Mock the Week behind. The two of them caught up for coffee every so often, swapping anecdotes and debating points from any one of the many areas of pop culture that Russell had introduced Milton to. He had even made friends who weren’t connected to his working life, and moved in different social circles.

The best part of these friendships was that Milton no longer felt like he had to pretend. He knew that he was liked for being the person he was, now, not for some manufactured backstory. He could be himself with people - talk about his interests and share stories, as much a part of this world as back on base.

Now, more than ever, he knew who he was, and felt comfortable in his own skin. Earth was more than just an assignment - it was a home. And in this moment, backstage before a stand-up show, he truly felt like he was in his element.

Yes, he thought to himself. All is well. With a smile, he pushed open the door and headed into the bright lights of the stage.