Fic: Flying Lessons (7/12)
Flying Lessons (7/12)
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: PG-13, this chapter
Word Count: 1371, this chapter (8826 so far)
Warnings: mobile phone peripheral bullshit
Disclaimer: Gee, I wonder if I own any of the characters in this story. SADLY NO D:
Author's Notes: So on Monday, my friend and I went out for Chinese. I had the broccoli and tofu in red pepper sauce. SO. GOOD.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Several drinks in, Jones had insisted on taking over for the party's (apparently deficient) DJ, and Howard had taken it upon himself to show the bartender how best to organize the bar's impressive collection of whiskeys in order from lightest (which he described as a Subdued Mudpuddle) to darkest (Self-Loathing Treacle). Dan and Vince were engaged in a conversation that Dan hoped seemed so fascinating that no-one would dare attempt to interrupt them, until such time as he was no longer contractually obligated to be present.
All of a sudden, however, Dan's expression sunk to a level of pain that was somehow even more pained than usual, a level that - in spite of his taken Dan shopping - Vince had hitherto not witnessed. Vince wasn't sure what - or who - it was that Dan had seen.
“Alright, Dan? You look like you've just seen a nearsighted hobo that mistook you for his estranged wife and tried to rape you in back of a coach station in Portugal,” said Vince, concerned.
“What? No, this is worse, trust me,” muttered Dan, downing the last third of his beer in a single, desperate gulp.
“Dan fucking Ashcroft! Well fucking breezy to see you, you wankstain!” exclaimed Nathan fucking Barley, slapping Dan much too hard on his shoulder, very nearly leading him to lose his cane-compromised balance. Since last they saw each other (a considerable time ago, mercifully), Nathan had apparently grown a) a handlebar moustache that made him look like either a pro wrestler from the eighties, a paedophile, or both; and b) an embarrassing pair of sideburns that connected strangely to the ends of his handlebars, making his face look like an incorrectly-arranged jigsaw puzzle of hipster-irony failure; and c) about three or four extra mobile phone peripherals, arranged apparently at random on his person.
Dan grimaced. Vince smiled politely, adjusting his cape about his shoulders defensively.
“Still writing, yeah?” said Nathan.
“Uhh, yep... obviously. Still a self-abusing media whore?” asked Dan.
“This your new bird? What's your name, dollsnatch?” he flashed Vince a nauseating smile. Vince cocked a bemused eyebrow at him, followed by a look of mild disgust.
“This is Vince,” said Dan. “He's one of Jones' bandmates.”
“That DJ flatmate of yours? You two still bumming each other, then?” Nathan was grinning like an idiot.
“Yes,” said Dan unflinchingly, and stared Nathan down for an uncomfortably long time. Nathan was visibly unnerved. Dan did a mental victory lap.
“Oh,” said Nathan, smiling nervously.
“Was there something you wanted, or...?” asked Dan, having long lost patience with this exchange.
“Preach. Trashbat. Wants to make your book. Into a movie,” said Nathan.
Dan laughed disdainfully. “You're full of shit,” he said, pulling his cigarette pack from his pocket.
“No shit, Preach. I've got a team set up, the publishers are well keen. It is gonna be well Paraguay!” said Nathan.
“Nathan, have you read my book? There is nothing about A Point of Light at an Impossible Distance that is remotely filmic,” mumbled Dan, cigarette hanging between his lips as he lit up.
Just then, Jones could be heard over the music, shouting “Dan Ashcroft is the greatest literary voice of his generation!”
“Seriously, I read almost all of it on the plane, and it was a fucking riot!” enthused Nathan.
“You do know it's not a comedy, right?” sighed Dan. “I really don't think - “
“Did I mention that the publishers were well keen?” reiterated Nathan. There was no way, absolutely no way, that Dan was going to let his novel be turned into a piece of juvenile cinematic wank by Nathan fucking Barley, of all people. He would sooner go back to tossing off builders for a living, and that was saying something indeed.
“Actually,” interjected Vince, “maybe they haven't got round to letting you know yet, but the publishers are looking to have Laser MacDonald do the film. Sorry, dollsnatch!”
“Laser MacDonald? Brain-damaged tosser from Edinburgh, with the short-term memory loss?” asked Nathan with a nervous laugh. He appeared visibly wounded by Vince's revelation.
“Completely,” nodded Vince. “It's gonna be well genius.”
“Yeah, fucking plastic,” added Dan quietly through gritted teeth.
“Oh. Well, never mind, yeah? If, no, when the MacDonald thing falls through, gimme a jingle, yeah? Keep it foolish, you glorious poofter!” said Nathan, disappearing back into the throng of idiots. Dan stuck his tongue out after him, flipping the two-fingered salute and pulling a la-dee-da face of epic mockery.
“Fuck, you saved my life, Vince. You have no idea how much I owe you. Thank you so much, I can’t even... I... Vince, I could kiss you right now,” said Dan, radiant with gratitude, hand on Vince's shoulder a little too long and too close. Vince blushed.
“Dan...” he began, raising a hand in gentle protest.
“But I won't,” said Dan, turning away, staring sheepishly at his fancy-dress party shoes. “I'm not that drunk, or that stupid.”
“It's all right,” laughed Vince. “Everyone fancies me, Dan. It's my superpower!”
Dan squinted, shaking his head. “I'm getting another drink,” he said, turning toward the bar.
---
Nathan fucking Barley, meanwhile, took this opportunity to ring Dan's sister Claire back in England. Given that England is five time zones ahead of New York City, Claire was not amused.
“Hello?” she said sleepily.
“Hey Claire babes,” said Nathan. Claire could barely heard him over the sound of the crowd and the thump of the music.
“Nathan, is that you?” she asked, bewildered. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“I’m at your brother’s book launch! They’ve got Laser fucking MacDonald on board to do the film, do you believe it? You know he's still with that DJ? I thought the whole gay thing was well out by now,” said Nathan.
“Has it occurred to you that maybe they're just legitimately in love with each other?” asked Claire.
He thought very hard about that for a moment, before shaking his head in dismissal. She had him going there for a minute.
“Fuck off,” he laughed.
“Ugh, whatever,” she said, hanging up on him.
If Nathan had been just a little more perceptive, he would have been able to hear Claire rolling her eyes through the phone, but he wasn't.
---
Vince spied Howard making a nuisance of himself at the bar and decided it was time to get him back to the suite before things got out of hand.
“Howard,” he beckoned, hopping up slightly to lean over the bar, “let's get out of here.”
“Oh, hey Little Man,” smiled Howard. “I'm just a little busy at the - “
“I really think we should get out of here,” replied Vince, giving Howard the most sexually convincing look he could muster. It was the kind of look that made Howard blush until steam began to filter out of his ears like a sexual tea kettle.
“Oh I see,” said Howard quietly, blushing from the very tippy-top of his woolly head to the ends of his sock-and-sandal-swathed toes. “Yes. Let's go, then.”
“We'll see you back at the hotel, Dan,” shouted Vince, as he and his companion made their way out of the room. “Good book, and all that!”
Some blocks down the road, between some numbered street and some other numbered street, it occurred to Vince that he had no idea where they were.
“Hey Howard, how's your keen sense of direction doing?” he asked, with no small measure of trepidation.
Howard stopped dead in his tracks. “Uhh, Vince, I was following you,” he said.
“Oh for fuck's sake,” facepalmed Vince. “What the hell do we do now?”
“Never fear, Little Man,” Howard resolved, “I will use my fierce skills of deduction... and ask someone for directions.”
The first person they encountered was a pigeon, who told Vince in no uncertain terms just where he could insert his could-you-show-us-the-way-to-the-nearest-subway-station. As if that wasn't bad enough, the next person they encountered was a harmless-looking granddad in a dusty old blue cardigan sat on the front steps of a modest brownstone. This couldn't possibly end well.
Chapter Eight
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: PG-13, this chapter
Word Count: 1371, this chapter (8826 so far)
Warnings: mobile phone peripheral bullshit
Disclaimer: Gee, I wonder if I own any of the characters in this story. SADLY NO D:
Author's Notes: So on Monday, my friend and I went out for Chinese. I had the broccoli and tofu in red pepper sauce. SO. GOOD.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Several drinks in, Jones had insisted on taking over for the party's (apparently deficient) DJ, and Howard had taken it upon himself to show the bartender how best to organize the bar's impressive collection of whiskeys in order from lightest (which he described as a Subdued Mudpuddle) to darkest (Self-Loathing Treacle). Dan and Vince were engaged in a conversation that Dan hoped seemed so fascinating that no-one would dare attempt to interrupt them, until such time as he was no longer contractually obligated to be present.
All of a sudden, however, Dan's expression sunk to a level of pain that was somehow even more pained than usual, a level that - in spite of his taken Dan shopping - Vince had hitherto not witnessed. Vince wasn't sure what - or who - it was that Dan had seen.
“Alright, Dan? You look like you've just seen a nearsighted hobo that mistook you for his estranged wife and tried to rape you in back of a coach station in Portugal,” said Vince, concerned.
“What? No, this is worse, trust me,” muttered Dan, downing the last third of his beer in a single, desperate gulp.
“Dan fucking Ashcroft! Well fucking breezy to see you, you wankstain!” exclaimed Nathan fucking Barley, slapping Dan much too hard on his shoulder, very nearly leading him to lose his cane-compromised balance. Since last they saw each other (a considerable time ago, mercifully), Nathan had apparently grown a) a handlebar moustache that made him look like either a pro wrestler from the eighties, a paedophile, or both; and b) an embarrassing pair of sideburns that connected strangely to the ends of his handlebars, making his face look like an incorrectly-arranged jigsaw puzzle of hipster-irony failure; and c) about three or four extra mobile phone peripherals, arranged apparently at random on his person.
Dan grimaced. Vince smiled politely, adjusting his cape about his shoulders defensively.
“Still writing, yeah?” said Nathan.
“Uhh, yep... obviously. Still a self-abusing media whore?” asked Dan.
“This your new bird? What's your name, dollsnatch?” he flashed Vince a nauseating smile. Vince cocked a bemused eyebrow at him, followed by a look of mild disgust.
“This is Vince,” said Dan. “He's one of Jones' bandmates.”
“That DJ flatmate of yours? You two still bumming each other, then?” Nathan was grinning like an idiot.
“Yes,” said Dan unflinchingly, and stared Nathan down for an uncomfortably long time. Nathan was visibly unnerved. Dan did a mental victory lap.
“Oh,” said Nathan, smiling nervously.
“Was there something you wanted, or...?” asked Dan, having long lost patience with this exchange.
“Preach. Trashbat. Wants to make your book. Into a movie,” said Nathan.
Dan laughed disdainfully. “You're full of shit,” he said, pulling his cigarette pack from his pocket.
“No shit, Preach. I've got a team set up, the publishers are well keen. It is gonna be well Paraguay!” said Nathan.
“Nathan, have you read my book? There is nothing about A Point of Light at an Impossible Distance that is remotely filmic,” mumbled Dan, cigarette hanging between his lips as he lit up.
Just then, Jones could be heard over the music, shouting “Dan Ashcroft is the greatest literary voice of his generation!”
“Seriously, I read almost all of it on the plane, and it was a fucking riot!” enthused Nathan.
“You do know it's not a comedy, right?” sighed Dan. “I really don't think - “
“Did I mention that the publishers were well keen?” reiterated Nathan. There was no way, absolutely no way, that Dan was going to let his novel be turned into a piece of juvenile cinematic wank by Nathan fucking Barley, of all people. He would sooner go back to tossing off builders for a living, and that was saying something indeed.
“Actually,” interjected Vince, “maybe they haven't got round to letting you know yet, but the publishers are looking to have Laser MacDonald do the film. Sorry, dollsnatch!”
“Laser MacDonald? Brain-damaged tosser from Edinburgh, with the short-term memory loss?” asked Nathan with a nervous laugh. He appeared visibly wounded by Vince's revelation.
“Completely,” nodded Vince. “It's gonna be well genius.”
“Yeah, fucking plastic,” added Dan quietly through gritted teeth.
“Oh. Well, never mind, yeah? If, no, when the MacDonald thing falls through, gimme a jingle, yeah? Keep it foolish, you glorious poofter!” said Nathan, disappearing back into the throng of idiots. Dan stuck his tongue out after him, flipping the two-fingered salute and pulling a la-dee-da face of epic mockery.
“Fuck, you saved my life, Vince. You have no idea how much I owe you. Thank you so much, I can’t even... I... Vince, I could kiss you right now,” said Dan, radiant with gratitude, hand on Vince's shoulder a little too long and too close. Vince blushed.
“Dan...” he began, raising a hand in gentle protest.
“But I won't,” said Dan, turning away, staring sheepishly at his fancy-dress party shoes. “I'm not that drunk, or that stupid.”
“It's all right,” laughed Vince. “Everyone fancies me, Dan. It's my superpower!”
Dan squinted, shaking his head. “I'm getting another drink,” he said, turning toward the bar.
---
Nathan fucking Barley, meanwhile, took this opportunity to ring Dan's sister Claire back in England. Given that England is five time zones ahead of New York City, Claire was not amused.
“Hello?” she said sleepily.
“Hey Claire babes,” said Nathan. Claire could barely heard him over the sound of the crowd and the thump of the music.
“Nathan, is that you?” she asked, bewildered. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“I’m at your brother’s book launch! They’ve got Laser fucking MacDonald on board to do the film, do you believe it? You know he's still with that DJ? I thought the whole gay thing was well out by now,” said Nathan.
“Has it occurred to you that maybe they're just legitimately in love with each other?” asked Claire.
He thought very hard about that for a moment, before shaking his head in dismissal. She had him going there for a minute.
“Fuck off,” he laughed.
“Ugh, whatever,” she said, hanging up on him.
If Nathan had been just a little more perceptive, he would have been able to hear Claire rolling her eyes through the phone, but he wasn't.
---
Vince spied Howard making a nuisance of himself at the bar and decided it was time to get him back to the suite before things got out of hand.
“Howard,” he beckoned, hopping up slightly to lean over the bar, “let's get out of here.”
“Oh, hey Little Man,” smiled Howard. “I'm just a little busy at the - “
“I really think we should get out of here,” replied Vince, giving Howard the most sexually convincing look he could muster. It was the kind of look that made Howard blush until steam began to filter out of his ears like a sexual tea kettle.
“Oh I see,” said Howard quietly, blushing from the very tippy-top of his woolly head to the ends of his sock-and-sandal-swathed toes. “Yes. Let's go, then.”
“We'll see you back at the hotel, Dan,” shouted Vince, as he and his companion made their way out of the room. “Good book, and all that!”
Some blocks down the road, between some numbered street and some other numbered street, it occurred to Vince that he had no idea where they were.
“Hey Howard, how's your keen sense of direction doing?” he asked, with no small measure of trepidation.
Howard stopped dead in his tracks. “Uhh, Vince, I was following you,” he said.
“Oh for fuck's sake,” facepalmed Vince. “What the hell do we do now?”
“Never fear, Little Man,” Howard resolved, “I will use my fierce skills of deduction... and ask someone for directions.”
The first person they encountered was a pigeon, who told Vince in no uncertain terms just where he could insert his could-you-show-us-the-way-to-the-nearest-subway-station. As if that wasn't bad enough, the next person they encountered was a harmless-looking granddad in a dusty old blue cardigan sat on the front steps of a modest brownstone. This couldn't possibly end well.
Chapter Eight