Fic: I hate you, you bitch, Nathan Barley
Fandom: Nathan Barley
Title: I hate you, you bitch
Pairing: Dan Ashcroft/Jones
Rating: R for language
Word count: 1403
Summary: Jones confronts Nathan about the tape and the release form.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no sir.
Author's notes: The fifth in my Damanged series, written for un_love_you. Part 1: Self Loathing; Part 2: Broken Toys; Part 3: Distance; Part 4: I want you to hate me
Mad props to thieving_gypsy for her services as a beta.
x-posted to booshslashhaven and nakedskillsclub
Jones let himself into the Trashbat offices and sat down quietly, while Pingu glanced over at him curiously.
After some time, Nathan swaggered in adjusting his crotch.
“DJ Jones!” Nathan twat-head Barley called out enthusiastically, miming a turntable, while bleating some generic beat. “What's the fucking occasion? If you came for the job about the soundtrack, don't worry, mate, I'm mostly doing it myself, but I'll always need an assistant,” he went on, grinning stupidly.
“Actually, I'm here to sue you,” said Jones, with his fists clenched in his pockets.
Nathan blinked at him and then that ridiculous clown smile spread back over his bloated, hateful face.
“Good one,” he sniggered. “Seriously though, I'll need someone to do, y'know, most of the technical side of things and shit, while I'm focusing on the-”
“Dan was off his head on pain medication and severely concussed when you shoved that release form under his nose. He didn't recognise his own sister. I doubt that the legality of that signature will stand up in court,” Jones went on, in a tight little voice. “Even if it doesn't, I'll drag this thing out and bleed that fuckin' trust fund of yours dry in legal fees.”
The clown grin turned into a sneer.
“Oh yeah? Well, what if I'm not going to let you fuck with my creative vision, queer-boy?” he said, shoving Jones in the chest.
Jones looked down at his body and then back at Nathan, with a look of cold fury in his eyes. One second Nathan was staring arrogantly at Jones, and the next the room wheeled around and he was looking at the ceiling. Pain burst across his face and bright spots danced in front of his eyes as he looked back up at Jones, clustering around him like a techno Lucifer.
“Self defence,” said Jones, calmly. He was leaning over Nathan's prone body and his many necklaces were dangling and catching the sunlight. “Just so you know, Pingu actually gave me the tape and the papers before you came in. Lovely obliging lad you've got there. You can try and get them back, legal like, but you'll just look like another sell-out reality TV twunt, and I'll break my peace with every fucking bog-roll tabloid that'll have me. You're a shithead, Barley, but you want people to think you're not - and that's why you're going to let me leave now.”
With that he straightened his back and turned to walk out the door. Nathan stared blankly after him and pulled himself into a sitting position on the floor.
“What the fuck are you on, you spazz?” he turned and yelled at Pingu, a vein popping in his head.
Pingu looked at a space on the floor two feet away from Nathan. “He would've got them eventually, and Dan doesn't deserve what you were going to do to him. He's a dickhead, but he didn't deserve that. And I did say I'd get you back some day.”
Pingu stood up shakily, pulled his coat off his chair and left the Trashbat building for the last time. He didn't take any of his work with him; though it was his own and Nathan had no right to it, he didn't want to take anything with him from that place. He'd get a proper job with a pension, a water cooler, possibly some nice office girls and a boss who didn't fucking torture him for his own demented pleasure.
Jones whirled into House of Jones like a well-accessorised tornado and lit a cigarette. He barely smoked, but even thinking about Barley for any extended period of time left him itching for a nicotine fix. Talking to him left him ready to smoke a Cuban tobacco harvest.
He flicked his lighter on and off several times, before pulling the release form he'd sweet-talked out of Pingu (which hadn't been all that hard; the boy was a closet romantic and he was desperate to fuck Barley over) from the front of his shirt, where he'd stuffed it earlier.
With a grim look on his face, he flicked the lighter on again and watched the papers catch light. He was so intent on the flames, he forgot to let go and burnt his fingers. Dropping the last burning shred of paper and stamping on in, he stuck his fingers into his mouth. With his other hand, he pulled out the small tape from his back pocket. He'd watched Pingu delete all the digital copies Barley had. This was the last physical thing tying Dan to Nathan. He threw it on the ground and jumped on it, delighting in the crunch of the plastic shattering under his weight. After twenty minutes of this, he carefully unrolled the tape and cut it into tiny pieces with a pair of safety scissors.
He stood panting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by ashes and particles of plastic, paper and tiny confetti-like piece of tape.
He became aware of a dull throb in his hand and looked down at his blistered fingers. He'd already split his knuckles open on his other hand, hitting Nathan's stupid face in, and chewed half the skin from his cuticles with worrying over Dan. His hands looked like shit. He used to have pretty women's hands that Dan would kiss, when he thought Jones was sleeping.
Not that Dan was sleeping with him for his hands, but still.
He sat down heavily on the floor, and laughed. He laughed until there were tears running down his face, and his lungs were burning, and he didn't even know if he was laughing or crying.
Fours hours later, Claire came through the door and walked straight towards him.
“Pingu told me,” she said simply, and helped him up.
Jones nodded and allowed Claire to bandage his hands and clean up the mess he'd made.
“Dan cares about you,” she said quietly, standing up holding a long-disused dustpan and brush. “He hates his life and his job and almost everyone else in the world.” She drew in a shaky breath. “But you're special to him and that means you're special to me, too. I love him more than I'll ever tell him, and you make him a little less fucked-up. Don't let yourself get hurt like that again, Jones.” She walked into the kitchen slowly, cradling the dustpan like a child.
Jones rubbed his cheeks with his sleeves. He was always crying these days. He felt like such a new-age “experience your inner child” twat.
Claire re-emerged from the kitchen, wiping her own eyes. “I'm going to see him again today. You should come with me,” she said holding out her hand. Jones nodded slowly and shuffled next to her. Claire suddenly burst into tears and buried her head in his chest, thumping his shoulder weakly until he put his arms around her and gave her a little squeeze. She took a few deep breaths and stayed still in his embrace for a few minutes, then looked up at him with wet eyes and said, “We should go now. Bus'll be gone in ten minutes.”
They left the flat, clutching each other around the waist, and walked briskly towards the bus stop.
When they walked into the clean white hospital room, Dan looked up. He seemed confused to see them together, but didn't remark on it. When they were standing on either side of his bed, his eyes flicked to Jones' hands and he took them gently.
“You're hurt,” he said, worriedly.
“I'm fine,” Jones replied in a whisper
Wordlessly Dan rubbed his thumbs lightly over Jones' bandaged hands and raised them to his lips. He looked Jones in the eyes.
“You have to look after yourself,” he said, and Jones laughed quietly at the irony.
“Says the man in the hospital bed,” he said, smiling .
“It makes me sad when you're hurting,” said Dan quietly.
Jones sat down in the chair beside him and laid his head down next to Dan, who petted his hair. Claire leaned down and kissed her brother on the cheek.
“What was that for?” he said, looking at her for the first time since she came in.
“I'm just glad you're getting better,” she replied.
Title: I hate you, you bitch
Pairing: Dan Ashcroft/Jones
Rating: R for language
Word count: 1403
Summary: Jones confronts Nathan about the tape and the release form.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no sir.
Author's notes: The fifth in my Damanged series, written for un_love_you. Part 1: Self Loathing; Part 2: Broken Toys; Part 3: Distance; Part 4: I want you to hate me
Mad props to thieving_gypsy for her services as a beta.
x-posted to booshslashhaven and nakedskillsclub
Jones let himself into the Trashbat offices and sat down quietly, while Pingu glanced over at him curiously.
After some time, Nathan swaggered in adjusting his crotch.
“DJ Jones!” Nathan twat-head Barley called out enthusiastically, miming a turntable, while bleating some generic beat. “What's the fucking occasion? If you came for the job about the soundtrack, don't worry, mate, I'm mostly doing it myself, but I'll always need an assistant,” he went on, grinning stupidly.
“Actually, I'm here to sue you,” said Jones, with his fists clenched in his pockets.
Nathan blinked at him and then that ridiculous clown smile spread back over his bloated, hateful face.
“Good one,” he sniggered. “Seriously though, I'll need someone to do, y'know, most of the technical side of things and shit, while I'm focusing on the-”
“Dan was off his head on pain medication and severely concussed when you shoved that release form under his nose. He didn't recognise his own sister. I doubt that the legality of that signature will stand up in court,” Jones went on, in a tight little voice. “Even if it doesn't, I'll drag this thing out and bleed that fuckin' trust fund of yours dry in legal fees.”
The clown grin turned into a sneer.
“Oh yeah? Well, what if I'm not going to let you fuck with my creative vision, queer-boy?” he said, shoving Jones in the chest.
Jones looked down at his body and then back at Nathan, with a look of cold fury in his eyes. One second Nathan was staring arrogantly at Jones, and the next the room wheeled around and he was looking at the ceiling. Pain burst across his face and bright spots danced in front of his eyes as he looked back up at Jones, clustering around him like a techno Lucifer.
“Self defence,” said Jones, calmly. He was leaning over Nathan's prone body and his many necklaces were dangling and catching the sunlight. “Just so you know, Pingu actually gave me the tape and the papers before you came in. Lovely obliging lad you've got there. You can try and get them back, legal like, but you'll just look like another sell-out reality TV twunt, and I'll break my peace with every fucking bog-roll tabloid that'll have me. You're a shithead, Barley, but you want people to think you're not - and that's why you're going to let me leave now.”
With that he straightened his back and turned to walk out the door. Nathan stared blankly after him and pulled himself into a sitting position on the floor.
“What the fuck are you on, you spazz?” he turned and yelled at Pingu, a vein popping in his head.
Pingu looked at a space on the floor two feet away from Nathan. “He would've got them eventually, and Dan doesn't deserve what you were going to do to him. He's a dickhead, but he didn't deserve that. And I did say I'd get you back some day.”
Pingu stood up shakily, pulled his coat off his chair and left the Trashbat building for the last time. He didn't take any of his work with him; though it was his own and Nathan had no right to it, he didn't want to take anything with him from that place. He'd get a proper job with a pension, a water cooler, possibly some nice office girls and a boss who didn't fucking torture him for his own demented pleasure.
Jones whirled into House of Jones like a well-accessorised tornado and lit a cigarette. He barely smoked, but even thinking about Barley for any extended period of time left him itching for a nicotine fix. Talking to him left him ready to smoke a Cuban tobacco harvest.
He flicked his lighter on and off several times, before pulling the release form he'd sweet-talked out of Pingu (which hadn't been all that hard; the boy was a closet romantic and he was desperate to fuck Barley over) from the front of his shirt, where he'd stuffed it earlier.
With a grim look on his face, he flicked the lighter on again and watched the papers catch light. He was so intent on the flames, he forgot to let go and burnt his fingers. Dropping the last burning shred of paper and stamping on in, he stuck his fingers into his mouth. With his other hand, he pulled out the small tape from his back pocket. He'd watched Pingu delete all the digital copies Barley had. This was the last physical thing tying Dan to Nathan. He threw it on the ground and jumped on it, delighting in the crunch of the plastic shattering under his weight. After twenty minutes of this, he carefully unrolled the tape and cut it into tiny pieces with a pair of safety scissors.
He stood panting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by ashes and particles of plastic, paper and tiny confetti-like piece of tape.
He became aware of a dull throb in his hand and looked down at his blistered fingers. He'd already split his knuckles open on his other hand, hitting Nathan's stupid face in, and chewed half the skin from his cuticles with worrying over Dan. His hands looked like shit. He used to have pretty women's hands that Dan would kiss, when he thought Jones was sleeping.
Not that Dan was sleeping with him for his hands, but still.
He sat down heavily on the floor, and laughed. He laughed until there were tears running down his face, and his lungs were burning, and he didn't even know if he was laughing or crying.
Fours hours later, Claire came through the door and walked straight towards him.
“Pingu told me,” she said simply, and helped him up.
Jones nodded and allowed Claire to bandage his hands and clean up the mess he'd made.
“Dan cares about you,” she said quietly, standing up holding a long-disused dustpan and brush. “He hates his life and his job and almost everyone else in the world.” She drew in a shaky breath. “But you're special to him and that means you're special to me, too. I love him more than I'll ever tell him, and you make him a little less fucked-up. Don't let yourself get hurt like that again, Jones.” She walked into the kitchen slowly, cradling the dustpan like a child.
Jones rubbed his cheeks with his sleeves. He was always crying these days. He felt like such a new-age “experience your inner child” twat.
Claire re-emerged from the kitchen, wiping her own eyes. “I'm going to see him again today. You should come with me,” she said holding out her hand. Jones nodded slowly and shuffled next to her. Claire suddenly burst into tears and buried her head in his chest, thumping his shoulder weakly until he put his arms around her and gave her a little squeeze. She took a few deep breaths and stayed still in his embrace for a few minutes, then looked up at him with wet eyes and said, “We should go now. Bus'll be gone in ten minutes.”
They left the flat, clutching each other around the waist, and walked briskly towards the bus stop.
When they walked into the clean white hospital room, Dan looked up. He seemed confused to see them together, but didn't remark on it. When they were standing on either side of his bed, his eyes flicked to Jones' hands and he took them gently.
“You're hurt,” he said, worriedly.
“I'm fine,” Jones replied in a whisper
Wordlessly Dan rubbed his thumbs lightly over Jones' bandaged hands and raised them to his lips. He looked Jones in the eyes.
“You have to look after yourself,” he said, and Jones laughed quietly at the irony.
“Says the man in the hospital bed,” he said, smiling .
“It makes me sad when you're hurting,” said Dan quietly.
Jones sat down in the chair beside him and laid his head down next to Dan, who petted his hair. Claire leaned down and kissed her brother on the cheek.
“What was that for?” he said, looking at her for the first time since she came in.
“I'm just glad you're getting better,” she replied.