Fic: Flying Lessons (10/12)
Flying Lessons (10/12)
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: PG-13, this chapter
Word Count: 1020, this chapter (12623 so far)
Warnings: I'm disabled
Disclaimer: I own Holy Fuck's most recent album. I don't own none of these dudes.
Author's Notes: Shrug.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
The band finished their set, and were met with a combination of polite applause, an occasional cough or two, and disaffected mumbling, as the crowd stood, confused or indifferent, and sipped their conspicuously working-class beers. Jones bounced over to the couch, shaking Dan back into the world of the waking.
“Dan, it was amazing!” he enthused, draping his arms over Dan's shoulders, kissing him voraciously, as DJ Fillermusic faded some lousy, generic techno back in through the venue's speakers. Dan blushed.
“So... it went well?” he asked when Jones finally came up for air.
Vince and Howard seemed mildly less enthusiastic about things, smooshing in beside Dan and Jones on the couch, shoulders slumped, staring at their shoes (green suede with silver lightning bolts, and Birkenstocks - with socks, again - respectively).
“That was a grotesquely spectacular failure!” moaned Vince, still crackling with residual static. “They probably would have started chucking vegetables if they weren't so confused. Gift of noise my arse.”
“So much for taking America by storm,” sighed Howard.
“What are you talking about?” asked Jones. “We were fucking transcendent, lads!”
“They hated us,” said Howard.
“Nah, it just hasn't sunk in yet,” smiled Jones. “In like three days, they'll love us! Dunno about anybody else, but I’m well keen for a dance!”
Jones stood, an almost devious glint in his eye, nodding expectantly at the other three men.
“Yeah, all right,” shrugged Vince, standing.
One song transitioned to another, and Jones crossed his arms, screwing his face up in consternation.
“This set is powerful weak, though. I can't handle this,” moaned Jones, pushing his way through the crowd in search of the DJ.
Whatever Jones shouted to the DJ had had some significant impact on the musical turn the room had taken. The manic, grating beats of a Holy Fuck song thrummed into his chest, propelling him forward on pure momentum as he returned to the others.
“Let's get our dance on, lads!” he beamed expectantly at his companions. Neither Howard nor Dan seemed particularly inclined to dance - Howard looked mildly uncomfortable, and Dan just kind of held up his cane and shrugged.
He didn't even really need the cane much anymore - it was just a dull ache in the one leg that he carried with him now, mostly when he was tired or on especially damp days - but he persisted in using it for the following reasons: a) there remained a chance that walking without it for any distance could exacerbate his old injuries; and b) Jones once said “You look well dignified with that cane, babe.”
(Dan would never admit how much he liked it when Jones called him babe, but he did. A lot.)
For some reason, having a cane lent him an appearance of clout in meetings and interviews. Or maybe the appearance of disability made people take pity on him. Or maybe being crippled was in fashion, and by this time next week half the staff of Sugarape will have broken several limbs and be rolling around in flashy Japanese wheelchairs with their iPhones wired directly into their eyepatches. The iPatch. Dan laughed derisively at the notion.
Sometimes, it felt like having the cane made him a member of some exclusive little club, albeit a sad exclusive little club, admittedly. He'd get knowing smiles and nods from other limping strangers; some even tried to stop and chat, asking about what was wrong with his leg, where he got his cane, and so forth.
It was creepy.
It wasn't exactly fun, the cane. It meant he only ever had one free hand, and he had pains in his other knee that he could never quite seem to yoga out. Not that he lasted more than a week or two in yoga, mind you; Jones, on the other hand, took to it quite readily, though Jones was admittedly much more naturally flexible.
This was something Dan knew well.
At least Jones was positively humming with dance energy. Jones was always up for a dance, if the music was decent. He grabbed Vince by the hand, and pulled him into the sea of people. Within an instant, they were swept away in the tide, and neither Howard nor Dan could see them among the pumping fists and myriad shapes being thrown around them. They swayed and floated together, jumping and jumping until their surroundings fell away and all that was left, beyond time, space, and thought, was them and the music. They had ascended to a state of pure being.
Until Jones accidentally brushed against Vince’s arm. Crackle, static, buzz.
“What the hell was that?” he shouted.
“That’s the noise!” replied Vince. “You heard that?”
“Felt it, more like,” giggled Jones. “That’s amazing!”
Vince had, it seemed, passed on his gift.
Vince and Jones emerged from the pulsating throng, arms linked, glowing.
“Dan, check this out,” said Jones, running his hand over Dan’s arm. Dan flinched.
“What the fuck just - “
Twitch. Crackle. Hum.
“Gift of noise,” grinned Vince. “Pretty genius, yeah?”
“Have you gone all wacky?” twitched Dan, shaking his fingers in an attempt to convey crazy, but that looked more like perturbed jazzhands.
“Oh yeah, you slept through that bit before the show, didn’t you babe?” nodded Jones, taking Dan by the hand and leading him off into the sunset. “See, Vince was visited by the Spirit of Noise in the toilets - I’ll just show you where they were...”
Howard eyed Vince suspiciously.
“You don’t suppose this gift is... permanent, do you?” he asked.
“I dunno, I didn’t ask,” said Vince, reaching out toward Howard, who leapt backwards, adopting a defensive stance.
“Don’t touch me, sir!” he exclaimed. “That gift could be dangerous.”
“Or it could turn you into a musical superhero,” enthused Vince.
“But, we failed really, really horribly,” said Howard.
“Oh yeah,” nodded Vince. “Let’s just... go get some sleep.”
Without thinking, Howard patted Vince gently on the shoulder. Howard jumped slightly at the accompanying distortion that hummed through him.
“Did you hear that?” he asked, staring dreamily off into the distance as they exited the club.
“Yeah,” smiled Vince. “Genius!”
Chapter Eleven
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: PG-13, this chapter
Word Count: 1020, this chapter (12623 so far)
Warnings: I'm disabled
Disclaimer: I own Holy Fuck's most recent album. I don't own none of these dudes.
Author's Notes: Shrug.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
The band finished their set, and were met with a combination of polite applause, an occasional cough or two, and disaffected mumbling, as the crowd stood, confused or indifferent, and sipped their conspicuously working-class beers. Jones bounced over to the couch, shaking Dan back into the world of the waking.
“Dan, it was amazing!” he enthused, draping his arms over Dan's shoulders, kissing him voraciously, as DJ Fillermusic faded some lousy, generic techno back in through the venue's speakers. Dan blushed.
“So... it went well?” he asked when Jones finally came up for air.
Vince and Howard seemed mildly less enthusiastic about things, smooshing in beside Dan and Jones on the couch, shoulders slumped, staring at their shoes (green suede with silver lightning bolts, and Birkenstocks - with socks, again - respectively).
“That was a grotesquely spectacular failure!” moaned Vince, still crackling with residual static. “They probably would have started chucking vegetables if they weren't so confused. Gift of noise my arse.”
“So much for taking America by storm,” sighed Howard.
“What are you talking about?” asked Jones. “We were fucking transcendent, lads!”
“They hated us,” said Howard.
“Nah, it just hasn't sunk in yet,” smiled Jones. “In like three days, they'll love us! Dunno about anybody else, but I’m well keen for a dance!”
Jones stood, an almost devious glint in his eye, nodding expectantly at the other three men.
“Yeah, all right,” shrugged Vince, standing.
One song transitioned to another, and Jones crossed his arms, screwing his face up in consternation.
“This set is powerful weak, though. I can't handle this,” moaned Jones, pushing his way through the crowd in search of the DJ.
Whatever Jones shouted to the DJ had had some significant impact on the musical turn the room had taken. The manic, grating beats of a Holy Fuck song thrummed into his chest, propelling him forward on pure momentum as he returned to the others.
“Let's get our dance on, lads!” he beamed expectantly at his companions. Neither Howard nor Dan seemed particularly inclined to dance - Howard looked mildly uncomfortable, and Dan just kind of held up his cane and shrugged.
He didn't even really need the cane much anymore - it was just a dull ache in the one leg that he carried with him now, mostly when he was tired or on especially damp days - but he persisted in using it for the following reasons: a) there remained a chance that walking without it for any distance could exacerbate his old injuries; and b) Jones once said “You look well dignified with that cane, babe.”
(Dan would never admit how much he liked it when Jones called him babe, but he did. A lot.)
For some reason, having a cane lent him an appearance of clout in meetings and interviews. Or maybe the appearance of disability made people take pity on him. Or maybe being crippled was in fashion, and by this time next week half the staff of Sugarape will have broken several limbs and be rolling around in flashy Japanese wheelchairs with their iPhones wired directly into their eyepatches. The iPatch. Dan laughed derisively at the notion.
Sometimes, it felt like having the cane made him a member of some exclusive little club, albeit a sad exclusive little club, admittedly. He'd get knowing smiles and nods from other limping strangers; some even tried to stop and chat, asking about what was wrong with his leg, where he got his cane, and so forth.
It was creepy.
It wasn't exactly fun, the cane. It meant he only ever had one free hand, and he had pains in his other knee that he could never quite seem to yoga out. Not that he lasted more than a week or two in yoga, mind you; Jones, on the other hand, took to it quite readily, though Jones was admittedly much more naturally flexible.
This was something Dan knew well.
At least Jones was positively humming with dance energy. Jones was always up for a dance, if the music was decent. He grabbed Vince by the hand, and pulled him into the sea of people. Within an instant, they were swept away in the tide, and neither Howard nor Dan could see them among the pumping fists and myriad shapes being thrown around them. They swayed and floated together, jumping and jumping until their surroundings fell away and all that was left, beyond time, space, and thought, was them and the music. They had ascended to a state of pure being.
Until Jones accidentally brushed against Vince’s arm. Crackle, static, buzz.
“What the hell was that?” he shouted.
“That’s the noise!” replied Vince. “You heard that?”
“Felt it, more like,” giggled Jones. “That’s amazing!”
Vince had, it seemed, passed on his gift.
Vince and Jones emerged from the pulsating throng, arms linked, glowing.
“Dan, check this out,” said Jones, running his hand over Dan’s arm. Dan flinched.
“What the fuck just - “
Twitch. Crackle. Hum.
“Gift of noise,” grinned Vince. “Pretty genius, yeah?”
“Have you gone all wacky?” twitched Dan, shaking his fingers in an attempt to convey crazy, but that looked more like perturbed jazzhands.
“Oh yeah, you slept through that bit before the show, didn’t you babe?” nodded Jones, taking Dan by the hand and leading him off into the sunset. “See, Vince was visited by the Spirit of Noise in the toilets - I’ll just show you where they were...”
Howard eyed Vince suspiciously.
“You don’t suppose this gift is... permanent, do you?” he asked.
“I dunno, I didn’t ask,” said Vince, reaching out toward Howard, who leapt backwards, adopting a defensive stance.
“Don’t touch me, sir!” he exclaimed. “That gift could be dangerous.”
“Or it could turn you into a musical superhero,” enthused Vince.
“But, we failed really, really horribly,” said Howard.
“Oh yeah,” nodded Vince. “Let’s just... go get some sleep.”
Without thinking, Howard patted Vince gently on the shoulder. Howard jumped slightly at the accompanying distortion that hummed through him.
“Did you hear that?” he asked, staring dreamily off into the distance as they exited the club.
“Yeah,” smiled Vince. “Genius!”
Chapter Eleven