British comedian oneshots

Strike Day (Greg Davies x you)

This was requested by @davidbowie8395 :-)

"Oh, God," You groan, waking up to the familiar feel of your husband's bed sheets. After a long night of drinking, your hangover was immense. A painful headache began to cloud your brain, as you attempted to remember last night's events. You remember a very drunk Ed Gamble and an even drunker Greg Davies standing on tables at bars and downing shots as if they were ribena; other than that, though, nothing else came to mind.

You stretch your arms out, wider than usual, seeing as the double bed didn't have two people in it. You figured Greg had already gone to work. (By work, you mean going to Ed's house. God knows what he does there.) Unlike you, your husband handled his drink very well. Too well, in fact. You know that he'll be relentlessly bothering you as soon as he gets home. You sink into the covers peacefully, comfortable in the knowledge that you won't have to deal with Greg for another few hours.

Just as you started to drift off to sleep again, the bedroom door flew open with a bang, and in stumbled your 6 foot 8" magnificent beast. Oh, god.

" Morning, babe!" He said, enthusiastically. Too enthusiastically for someone who had drank about a gallon of vodka the night before.

"I thought you were working with Ed. What are you doing home?"

"Teachers' strike today."

"You haven't been a teacher for like, 20 years Greg,"

"Y/n, what the fuck are you talking about? Once in the union, always in the union." He says, punching his chest twice as a symbol of 'respect'.

"Whatever," You reply, "You just don't want to admit you're hungover."

"Shut it, woman." He smirks, slapping your shoulder playfully. You smile, before sinking back under the covers, Whilst Greg takes himself downstairs again.

After a few minutes of peace and quiet, you hear Greg's footsteps trample up the stairs again, and your mind fills with dread about what he might walk in with. Unfortunately for you, he'd been doing some digging through old boxes.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" You exclaim, as he bursts in clutching his old acoustic guitar, a massive grin plastered on his face.

"What do you mean, for fuck's sake? You love my songs!" He replies, before blowing a large puff of dust from the guitar into the air, causing you to cough.

The next few hours were filled with horrible renditions of Greg's favourite songs, along with some awful, awful originals. You attempted to block out the noise by covering your face and ears with a pillow, but soon realised it was fairly difficult to breathe like that. Although the tunes were terrible, they were nothing worth dying for.

After Greg had finished his last song ( a collection of all the chords he knew how to play) He stood up and bowed proudly, guitar in one hand, makeshift microphone (hairbrush) in the other.

"Greg,"

"Yes?"

"Have you done any work today?"

"Of course I have. Songwriting is my new profession, Y/n," He jokes.

"I'm being serious, Greg. Why don't you call Alex? See if there's anything you can do to help out with the new series." You wave the phone in his face, trying to get him to take it.

He whines at you like a child, before finally dialling the number and letting the phone ring.

"Ah, Rachel! Hello," He starts. "No, I know I haven't phoned in a while. Yes, I know how much Alex misses me. I simply don't care" He paused, rolling his eyes. "Oh don't be like that Rachel. I can't talk to him all the time. You know how high maintenance my wife is." You shoot him a dirty look from the bed, and he cheekily winks back. "Alex isn't here at the moment? Oh. Oh. Yes. Well, I do apologise Rachel. I'll speak to you later. Yep. Bye. Byebye. Bye."

His polite smile drops as soon as he hangs up the phone. "She says I'm 'inconsiderate'. I mean, how rude is that? Surely Alex could step away from the funeral for just a few seconds to talk to me about work. How very rude. Honestly, how does he expect me to run this whole show by myself? He created the thing, the basta-"

"Greg." You say sternly. For the first time today, he shuts up. "Come and lay in bed with me." He smiles sweetly, walking round to the other side of the bed to lie with you. He picks up his guitar on the way.

"Put. The guitar. Down, Greg." He slowly sets it down on the floor, a bit more worried about the anger in your tone now. He lifts up the covers and gently lays beside you, before wrapping you both up again in a mountain of blankets. he cradles you in his arms, kissing your temples as he does so.

"Y/n?"

You huff, "Yes, Greg?"

"Are you angry at me?"

"Maybe, a little bit." You replied.

"Oh." He sounds slightly hurt, and for a moment, you begin to feel bad for him.

"I mean, I know I'm a bit irritating sometimes," He continues, "But it's only because I love you. You know that, right?"

"Of course I do." You kiss him sweetly, before resting your head on his chest. You hear him hum as he smiles.

After a few more minutes of holding each other, he speaks again.

"Hey, Y/n?"

"What, Greg?"

"I've been thinking of a new song on guitar, can I-"

"No." You say, stopping him from leaving the bed by snaking your arms around his waist.

"Just 5 more minutes."