![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
but_can_i_be_trusted posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
adventdrabblesTitle: 'A Ghost Of A Chance'
Fandom: The Monkees
Characters: Mike Nesmith, Davy Jones, Micky Dolenz, Peter Tork, Henry Babbitt
Rating: G
Notes: Sorry it's so late; I'm doing my best to catch up. :(
Just as Mike was tacking the last Christmas stocking onto the inside of the front door, said door burst open, smacking his arms.
"Ow! Gosh darn it," he shouted, backing away and rubbing a bruised elbow. "What gives you the right to go bargin' in like that?!"
Davy's head peeped around the edge of the door. "I live here," he defensively declared. "That gives me plenty of right!" He grinned then, sheepishly apologetic. "I didn't hurt you too badly, did I?"
Mike couldn't help returning the grin. "Ah, I'll live. Where's the fire, Shorty?"
Ignoring the gentle jab at his height, Davy came the rest of the way into the Pad. "I got us a Christmas tree," he proudly announced, hoisting up a mass of pine boughs.
His bandmates stared for a moment or two, unimpressed. The "tree" came only about to knee-height on any of them, and looked scraggly, its needles faintly browned.
"I guess it's better than no tree at all," Micky finally decided. "Once it's decorated, it should be alright."
"I'd say it's not too bad, considering I got it for free."
"For free?" Amazed, Peter gawked between the miniscule Englishman, and his miniature tree. "How did you manage that?"
Davy shrugged, smiling. "It was simple, really. The manager of the Christmas tree farm promised to let me have it for nothing, if I promised to stop flirting with his daughter."
At that, Micky clapped his hands, laughing. "Oho! The truth comes out! This isn't a Christmas tree--it's a bribe!"
"Or blackmail," Peter agreed. His tone was grim, but his eyes sparkled in delight. "Depending on how you look at it."
Mike, meanwhile, had already pulled out a box of ornaments, almost bouncing with enthusiasm. "Never mind how it got here, fellahs; a tree's a tree! Let's get to work."
They quickly set to it, chattering happily about what they wanted for Christmas. Now and then, someone would start singing a carol, the others readily chiming in. Pretty soon, the small tree was festooned in ornaments and tinsel, now looking a far cry from shoddy. That task completed, the quartet turned their attentions to decorating the Pad.
All festivities were brought to an abrupt halt at the sound of a loud and ominous banging on the front door. Exchanging knowing glances, the foursome let out a collective sigh of dismay. The door swung open, their Christmas spirit escaping through it as the landlord entered.
"Gentlemen," Babbitt snarled, fixing each of them with an acidic glare, "your rent for December is a week and a half late! Just what do you have to say for yourselves this month?"
Swallowing, Micky gamely decided to make a go at winning him over. "Well, uh, you see...we...that is, uhm..." Weakly, he tried to chuckle, before scuttling away to hide as well as he could behind his drum kit.
Quickly, Peter stepped in, smiling warmly. "We're terribly sorry that the rent is late, Mister Babbitt," he began. "But we'll have it for you soon. There's this Christmas party we've been hired to play for, and--"
"And that won't make your rent any less late, Tork," the surly landlord growled.
"Well...no. We know it won't. But..."
"You see," Mike picked up, "it's the holidays. We're not gettin' hired as much as we'd like. People ain't thinkin' of spendin' their money on bands. They're goin' outta town to see family, buyin' Christmas presents--and there ain't enough regular jobs to go around this time of year," he swiftly added as Babbitt went to interrupt him. "Anybody who's stickin' around is tryin' to make all the money they can to buy presents for their families."
"If they can afford presents," Davy muttered under his breath, giving voice to a fact that none of them had wanted to face: With their gig, they'd be lucky if there would be anything left over after paying the overdue rent. Any surplus would have to go toward utilities and food. Gifts were a luxury that no one expected to receive or give.
Babbitt took a good, long look at the Pad and his tenants. Gazing at their decorations, he saw ornaments and tinsel that had lost their luster from having been saved over from Christmases past. He took note of a tiny clump of pine that barely answered for a tree, with little likelihood of even one present being placed beneath it. And he noticed blank despair in the eyes of four young men who expected eviction in their immediate future.
From the looks of things, the Monkees' Christmas didn't stand a ghost of a chance.
"Boys," he said after a lengthy and uncomfortable silence, "I suppose you think of me as a hard-hearted man. You think that I'm cold and uncaring, that all I care about is squeezing the last penny out of each and every one of you."
"Oh, Mister Babbitt, we'd never say a thing like that," Peter gasped.
"Even if it's true," Micky muttered--less quietly than he'd thought, as the landlord glared at him.
"What was that, Dolenz," he asked, his tone dripping with false sweetness.
"I...I was only, uh, saying that...even if it was the truth--which it isn't--we'd never say that about you," Micky nervously stammered, trying to grin reassuringly--though it was more of a frightened grimace.
"Guys, we all know the other shoe's gonna drop," Mike sighed, resigned. "Let's just get it over with." He nodded to the landlord. "Go on."
"Thank you. Now, where was I? Oh, yes." Smiling widely, Babbitt continued. "I know the truth, so don't bother denying it: You think that my only concern is the almighty dollar. But I'm not the ogre you think I am. I was young once, just like you. With dreams, and hopes, and wishes of my own. Boys, I am not going to throw you out of this lovely apartment at Christmastime. Furthermore," he added, taking a secret delight out of the sight of his tenants' shocked expressions, "I feel generous. Generous enough to let you pay only half of the rent for this month."
Hesitantly, Davy spoke up, trying to keep casual. "I don't suppose there's a chance that we could charm you into letting that be the bargain every month?"
Narrowing his eyes, Babbitt glared in his direction. "Don't press your luck, Jones. Merry Christmas."
With that, he was gone. And, strangely, it felt like a mild hint of Christmas spirit remained in his wake. Amazed at what had just transpired, the guys stared at each other.
"I guess he's not the Scrooge we thought he was," Micky said at last.
Fandom: The Monkees
Characters: Mike Nesmith, Davy Jones, Micky Dolenz, Peter Tork, Henry Babbitt
Rating: G
Notes: Sorry it's so late; I'm doing my best to catch up. :(
Just as Mike was tacking the last Christmas stocking onto the inside of the front door, said door burst open, smacking his arms.
"Ow! Gosh darn it," he shouted, backing away and rubbing a bruised elbow. "What gives you the right to go bargin' in like that?!"
Davy's head peeped around the edge of the door. "I live here," he defensively declared. "That gives me plenty of right!" He grinned then, sheepishly apologetic. "I didn't hurt you too badly, did I?"
Mike couldn't help returning the grin. "Ah, I'll live. Where's the fire, Shorty?"
Ignoring the gentle jab at his height, Davy came the rest of the way into the Pad. "I got us a Christmas tree," he proudly announced, hoisting up a mass of pine boughs.
His bandmates stared for a moment or two, unimpressed. The "tree" came only about to knee-height on any of them, and looked scraggly, its needles faintly browned.
"I guess it's better than no tree at all," Micky finally decided. "Once it's decorated, it should be alright."
"I'd say it's not too bad, considering I got it for free."
"For free?" Amazed, Peter gawked between the miniscule Englishman, and his miniature tree. "How did you manage that?"
Davy shrugged, smiling. "It was simple, really. The manager of the Christmas tree farm promised to let me have it for nothing, if I promised to stop flirting with his daughter."
At that, Micky clapped his hands, laughing. "Oho! The truth comes out! This isn't a Christmas tree--it's a bribe!"
"Or blackmail," Peter agreed. His tone was grim, but his eyes sparkled in delight. "Depending on how you look at it."
Mike, meanwhile, had already pulled out a box of ornaments, almost bouncing with enthusiasm. "Never mind how it got here, fellahs; a tree's a tree! Let's get to work."
They quickly set to it, chattering happily about what they wanted for Christmas. Now and then, someone would start singing a carol, the others readily chiming in. Pretty soon, the small tree was festooned in ornaments and tinsel, now looking a far cry from shoddy. That task completed, the quartet turned their attentions to decorating the Pad.
All festivities were brought to an abrupt halt at the sound of a loud and ominous banging on the front door. Exchanging knowing glances, the foursome let out a collective sigh of dismay. The door swung open, their Christmas spirit escaping through it as the landlord entered.
"Gentlemen," Babbitt snarled, fixing each of them with an acidic glare, "your rent for December is a week and a half late! Just what do you have to say for yourselves this month?"
Swallowing, Micky gamely decided to make a go at winning him over. "Well, uh, you see...we...that is, uhm..." Weakly, he tried to chuckle, before scuttling away to hide as well as he could behind his drum kit.
Quickly, Peter stepped in, smiling warmly. "We're terribly sorry that the rent is late, Mister Babbitt," he began. "But we'll have it for you soon. There's this Christmas party we've been hired to play for, and--"
"And that won't make your rent any less late, Tork," the surly landlord growled.
"Well...no. We know it won't. But..."
"You see," Mike picked up, "it's the holidays. We're not gettin' hired as much as we'd like. People ain't thinkin' of spendin' their money on bands. They're goin' outta town to see family, buyin' Christmas presents--and there ain't enough regular jobs to go around this time of year," he swiftly added as Babbitt went to interrupt him. "Anybody who's stickin' around is tryin' to make all the money they can to buy presents for their families."
"If they can afford presents," Davy muttered under his breath, giving voice to a fact that none of them had wanted to face: With their gig, they'd be lucky if there would be anything left over after paying the overdue rent. Any surplus would have to go toward utilities and food. Gifts were a luxury that no one expected to receive or give.
Babbitt took a good, long look at the Pad and his tenants. Gazing at their decorations, he saw ornaments and tinsel that had lost their luster from having been saved over from Christmases past. He took note of a tiny clump of pine that barely answered for a tree, with little likelihood of even one present being placed beneath it. And he noticed blank despair in the eyes of four young men who expected eviction in their immediate future.
From the looks of things, the Monkees' Christmas didn't stand a ghost of a chance.
"Boys," he said after a lengthy and uncomfortable silence, "I suppose you think of me as a hard-hearted man. You think that I'm cold and uncaring, that all I care about is squeezing the last penny out of each and every one of you."
"Oh, Mister Babbitt, we'd never say a thing like that," Peter gasped.
"Even if it's true," Micky muttered--less quietly than he'd thought, as the landlord glared at him.
"What was that, Dolenz," he asked, his tone dripping with false sweetness.
"I...I was only, uh, saying that...even if it was the truth--which it isn't--we'd never say that about you," Micky nervously stammered, trying to grin reassuringly--though it was more of a frightened grimace.
"Guys, we all know the other shoe's gonna drop," Mike sighed, resigned. "Let's just get it over with." He nodded to the landlord. "Go on."
"Thank you. Now, where was I? Oh, yes." Smiling widely, Babbitt continued. "I know the truth, so don't bother denying it: You think that my only concern is the almighty dollar. But I'm not the ogre you think I am. I was young once, just like you. With dreams, and hopes, and wishes of my own. Boys, I am not going to throw you out of this lovely apartment at Christmastime. Furthermore," he added, taking a secret delight out of the sight of his tenants' shocked expressions, "I feel generous. Generous enough to let you pay only half of the rent for this month."
Hesitantly, Davy spoke up, trying to keep casual. "I don't suppose there's a chance that we could charm you into letting that be the bargain every month?"
Narrowing his eyes, Babbitt glared in his direction. "Don't press your luck, Jones. Merry Christmas."
With that, he was gone. And, strangely, it felt like a mild hint of Christmas spirit remained in his wake. Amazed at what had just transpired, the guys stared at each other.
"I guess he's not the Scrooge we thought he was," Micky said at last.
