Fic: The Value of Nothing, Nathan Barley, PG
Posting it here for now because it's too long to post in comments. :P
Title: The Value of Nothing
Fandom: Nathan Barley
Pairing: Dan/Jones, a tiny tiny bit
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2600
Warnings: None
Summary: Jones comes into some money, and tries to make everything better. Answers the booshbattle prompt, “Nathan Barley, Jones, inheritance.” Um ... I wasn't sure if the prompter meant it literally, but that's how I decided to take it. :)
“Oi, Dan. I got a proposition for you.”
Gradually, Dan regained consciousness. He was stretched out on the settee, and he had been asleep; now he was staring groggily up at Jones’ face peering down at him from above, with an uncharacteristically shrewd expression.
“Bwuh?” Dan said eloquently.
“Get up, mate,” Jones said, and pulled him by the am until he flopped, limply, into a sitting position.
Jones stood before, his hands on his hips; the flat was unusually silent. At Jones’ feet there was a pile of suitcases.
“What is it?”
“You got a driver’s license, right, Dan?”
He did. “Don’t have a car though,” he said.
“Don’t worry about that. I need you to drive me to King’s Lynn.”
“King’s Lynn?” he said. “What’s there? And I can’t drive you anywhere, Jones. I have work.”
Jones rolled his eyes. “I’ll pay you.”
Dan took notice of that. “You’ll … pay me?”
Jones smiled, a smile that didn’t look anything like the myriad of different smiles Jones had given him over the years. “How does £2000 sound?”
Silly money, that’s how it sounded to Dan. Drive Jones to King’s Lynn, three hours away, spend two days there in a hotel (on Jones’ dime), then drive him back. £2000 for that? Dan didn’t really know what the hell was going on, but he decided he didn’t much care.
And so now here they were, on the M11, heading towards Norfolk in rather expensive and flashy car that had been parked outside. Dan had drunk approximately three cups of coffee before Jones had deemed him sober enough to drive. It had been awhile since Dan had driven anywhere, and the car felt strange under his hands. He expected Jones to queue up some of his music, but his normally boisterous flatmate was strangely quiet, his arms loosely crossed in his lap, and his gaze trained outside the window.
And even though silence was what Dan craved day and night - or told himself he did anyway - he found himself unnerved by this unnatural silence, so much so that he turned on the radio.
Jones looked at him and smiled, a smile that was more like him. “This stuff is well rubbish.”
“Driver controls the radio,” Dan said.
“Yeah?”
“Oh yes. It’s one of the most important rules of the road.”
“Oh, well. I guess I ain’t got a choice then, huh?”
“None at all,” Dan said, and popped open his window and lit up a cigarette.
They pulled into King’s Lynn around two o’clock, and Jones directed them to the hotel he’d booked a room at, near the banks of the river. When they got inside, Dan flopped on one of the beds and yawned. Jones opened up one of the suitcases and began to change. Right in front of him. This was not unusual for Jones, who seemed to have as little body shyness as Adam and Eve pre-serpent, and as usual, Dan turned away, uncomfortable. There was something almost invasive to Dan about Jones’ bountiful energy and ... generosity. It was like he had no boundaries, and didn’t acknowledge anyone else’s either. While this had worked in Dan’s favor many times - the fact that he even had a place to live right now was thanks to it - but this weird munificence of Jones’ was so alien and so overwhelming to Dan that at times it literally made his skin crawl.
When he was sure that Jones was mostly decent again, he risked a peek and was astounded at the sight of Jones wearing a suit.
A suit.
He rubbed his eyes and blinked, but Jones was still there, tying his tie.
“Uh,” Dan said, and decided to violate the one rule he’d set for himself on this trip. “What exactly is it you’re here for, Jones?”
Jones unraveled the tie and started again, frowning. “Got a funeral to go to.”
“… pardon?”
“Hate these things,” Jones muttered, and mimed hanging himself with his mangled tie.
“You’ve worn ties before,” Dan said, and took it from him and started tying it properly. Who am I? His mother?
“Yeah, but not the way you’re meant to,” Jones said with a wink.
Dan ignored him. “You’re going to a funeral?” he repeated.
“Yeah. Me grandad’s kicked it.”
“Jesus, Jones,” Dan said. He started to feel a bit guilty. “You should have said.”
Jones shrugged. “Haven’t seen him since I was a kid. I’m not torn up about it or anything. He was kind of a bastard.” He grinned. “What do you think? I look respectable enough?”
Dan nodded. He supposed he did. But in a Jonesy way. There was still something about him, more than just the hair, that made the suit look like a clever disguise.
Jones rifled through his luggage again and pulled out a bottle of gin. “Here,” he said. “Don’t forget to eat something.” That’s rich coming from you. “I’ll be back later tonight.”
Dan spent most of the next day drinking, watching TV, and sleeping, while Jones was out most of the time.
Whenever Dan stayed at hotels, he wondered what people had been doing in it before him. In his mind he imagined orgies on the bed, murders in the bathroom, drug deals carried out in the dim light of the bedside lamps. Hopefully no meth labs though.
In the haze before falling asleep that night, he plotted out an entire short story in his mind about a sentient hotel room that saved the memories of all of the events that took place in it, before he realized that in fact, Stephen King had written it already.
Never mind, then.
The next day he woke up feeling unusually at peace. By tomorrow he would have the money he owed Claire. That, at least, would be over and resolved. Maybe things would get better here on out.
He decided to take a shower and go outside. For about an hour he wandered aimlessly around Lynn, walking past big medieval churches and narrow little fishermen's cottages and bulky trading houses. He found a used bookstore and bought a copy of Lady Windemere’s Fan that he found tucked away on a low shelf. Wilde always made him feel comforted somehow.
He sat on the docks and smoked cigarette after cigarette and read the play in one long, satisfying gulp, like draining a glass of alcohol. His brain felt like it had been starving for the longest time.
LORD DARLINGTON. What cynics you fellows are!
CECIL GRAHAM. What is a cynic?
LORD DARLINGTON. A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.
CECIL GRAHAM. And a sentimentalist, my dear Darlington, is a man who sees an absurd value in everything, and doesn’t know the market price of any single thing.
Jones was waiting for him when he went back up to the hotel room. He looked extremely weary. It wasn’t surprising - he hadn’t slept as far as Dan knew the entire time they’d been in Lynn. The few times he’d woken up and Jones had been in his bed, he’d been sitting up and listening to his headphones, a weird and intense expression on his face.
“Time to get out of here,” Jones said now, and gave a big yawn.
“Everything’s been worked out?” Dan asked. He assumed that Jones had been dealing with the will or some other family matter. Jones simply nodded sleepily.
Before they left, Jones handed him an envelope. Inside it was the £2000, in cash. For a minute, Dan had a terrible urge to run off and do something totally irresponsible with the money - anything. Gambling. Hiring prostitutes. Investing in a pyramid scheme for moon tourism. For once in his life he told that voice in his head to stuff it, and put the money away.
Jones slept for much of the way back, propped up in his seat with his head just drooping forward slightly on his chest. He slept like a little kid, breathing in deeply but near-silently through his mouth. Dan felt a little bad waking him up when he had finally parked in front of the House of Jones.
He put a hand on his shoulder and shook him slightly. “Jones. Jones, wake up. We’re home.”
“H-home? Oh.” Jones stretched and rubbed his eyes sleepily. They staggered back inside the flat and Jones crawled onto one of the sofas. Dan thought he’d fallen asleep immediately; not sure what to do about the car keys, he at last slid them into the open palm of Jones’ hand.
He was just about to head off to bed himself when he heard Jones say,
“Dan? You need a computer, don’t ya?”
The laptop was extremely sleek and shiny, and very light. Two steps away from being a sheet of paper, Dan thought. He had a hard time believing it was real.
“Jones … what is this?”
“A laptop. Don’t you need one? For work?” Jones was seated at his decks, his tongue poking out in concentration as flipped through his vinyl records, not as if he’d just given his flatmate an expensive piece of technology for not discernible reason.
“Jones, I didn’t want you to buy me one! Where did you get the money for it?”
“I inherited some from my grandfather.”
“Well, don’t spend it all on me!”
Jones slipped one record onto the decks and raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t,” he said, and started mixing.
The next day he got a phone call from Claire. He’d given her the money and she had got her cameras back; he hadn’t expected to hear from her for a long time. She’d moved out a long time ago, and the only reason she’d come around since then was to bug him about money.
“Dan! Did you hear about Nathan?”
“No … and I don’t particularly want to.” He was trying to figure out his new laptop. It was a bit too shiny for him. It was a little intimidating.
“His self-facilitating media node is no longer self-facilitating nor a node. I went by to pick up something I’d left behind and he was moving out. Pingu told me he’d got evicted!”
Well. That was … kind of wonderful. Dan smiled. “Oh, dear.”
“Yeah.” She laughed. “I thought you’d agree.”
Dan had managed to tame the new laptop and wrote an article on it. He went into work the next day feeling a lot better for it. He even shaved.
When he rang the bell at SugarApe, though, he didn’t get the customary (and annoying) response. There was silence, and he rang it again. Finally, Sasha’s voice came on the other hand. “Sorry, Dan, I’ll let you in.”
He trotted up the stairs and walked into the office and found it in chaos. People were packing up boxes and talking on their cell phones or looking dazed and perplexed. Only Sasha was sitting at her reception desk, as though it were a normal day.
“Er … Sash, what’s going on?”
She smiled. “You’ll never guess, Dan. Someone bought up the magazine today.”
“Who?”
“Dunno. But they’ve fired almost everybody. Not me though … I don’t think you’re fired, either.”
Dan stared at her, and then looked around at the office. He frowned.
It … couldn’t possibly be …
That’s mad. And completely impossible. Stop thinking the world revolves around you, Dan, said a voice in his head that sounded a lot like Claire.
“Nice laptop,” Sasha said, and winked.
When he got back to the flat, Jones was sitting on the couch, texting. “Oh, hey Dan,” he said, and looked up at him with a weird and slightly nervous glance.
That glance told him everything. It was ridiculous, but … “Did you buy SugarApe?”
Jones blinked. “You mean the latest issue?”
“No! The fucking magazine, the whole damn thing! That’s what I mean!”
“Uh … I dunno what you’re on about …” But good God. Jones was the worst liar in the entire world. It was as if his whole face fell apart when he lied, like all the bits in it were doing different things at once - one side of his mouth twitching, his left eye spasming a little, his brow wrinkling and smoothing …
“How the hell did you do it?”
Jones closed his eyes and groaned, and sort of sagged in his seat, like a marionette with its strings cut. “I got money from me granddad … like I told you.”
“How much?”
“A lot.”
“How much?”
“A lot!” Jones put his phone away and pulled his knees up to his chin. “He was a rich old bastard, and I got nearly everything.”
Dan sat down on the couch opposite him. He felt like he was in a Frank Capra film. “Why? There was nobody else?”
“Oh, is that the only reason you think I’d be someone’s heir?” Jones smirked. “But you’re right, anyway. Well, it wasn’t that there was nobody else, it’s just he hated everyone. Hated me too, but nobody else in the family likes me, either, so I guess he left it all to me just to spite the rest of ‘em.”
“You’re kidding.”
Jones simply smiled.
“So … your first actions as a filthy rich asshole was to … buy me a computer? And Nathan Barley’s building and evict him? And buy the magazine I work for and fire all of the idiots?”
“And buy a new set of decks. It’s gonna be well wicked.”
“Jones.”
“What? I hate Barley, too. And the people at that magazine make you so miserable, Dan. Why wouldn’t I want to fix that?” He stopped for a minute and tilted his head. “You want to be editor?”
“Jones! You’re not … Richie Rich! You can’t go around doing this.”
“Why the hell not?” Jones looked a little irritated now.
“Because --” he licked his lips. Because it’ll ruin everything. His face went red. He put his head in his hands. He hated feeling like other people were controlling his life. Even if they were trying to do something nice for him. Which Jones certainly was trying to do, in his own, weird, excessive way.
“Dan …” Jones got up and sat next to him. “Dan, what’s the matter with you? I’m just trying to make you happy.”
Dan just groaned.
“Dan, don’t you get it? I …” he trailed off for a minute. When Dan sneaked a glance, he saw that Jones’ own face was very red. “I … I like you, Dan. A lot. I don’t want you to be so sad all the time.” And then … tentatively … he rested his head against Dan’s arm.
Dan just sat there for a moment, mulling it over. “Money isn’t going to fix all of my problems, Jones. You can’t just throw cash at it and make it all go away.”
Jones laughed. “You sounded pretty cool there, just now.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Jones sat up. “I just … wanted to give you something you’d really value, Dan.” He ruffled up his hair, looking abashed.
Dan sighed. “What if I find value in nothing?”
Jones crinkled his brow, and then smiled. “Then I’ll give you nothing.”
Dan shook his head. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”
“Better an idiot than a grumpy old man.” Jones sat back against the couch and put his feet up on Dan’s lap, kicking at Dan’s elbows until they were out of the way.
“Do you mind?”
“No, not at all.”
“So, what are you going to do with all of your money, Mr. Jones?”
Jones shrugged. “Dunno.” He looked at Dan. “I guess … share it.”
The end.
Title: The Value of Nothing
Fandom: Nathan Barley
Pairing: Dan/Jones, a tiny tiny bit
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2600
Warnings: None
Summary: Jones comes into some money, and tries to make everything better. Answers the booshbattle prompt, “Nathan Barley, Jones, inheritance.” Um ... I wasn't sure if the prompter meant it literally, but that's how I decided to take it. :)
“Oi, Dan. I got a proposition for you.”
Gradually, Dan regained consciousness. He was stretched out on the settee, and he had been asleep; now he was staring groggily up at Jones’ face peering down at him from above, with an uncharacteristically shrewd expression.
“Bwuh?” Dan said eloquently.
“Get up, mate,” Jones said, and pulled him by the am until he flopped, limply, into a sitting position.
Jones stood before, his hands on his hips; the flat was unusually silent. At Jones’ feet there was a pile of suitcases.
“What is it?”
“You got a driver’s license, right, Dan?”
He did. “Don’t have a car though,” he said.
“Don’t worry about that. I need you to drive me to King’s Lynn.”
“King’s Lynn?” he said. “What’s there? And I can’t drive you anywhere, Jones. I have work.”
Jones rolled his eyes. “I’ll pay you.”
Dan took notice of that. “You’ll … pay me?”
Jones smiled, a smile that didn’t look anything like the myriad of different smiles Jones had given him over the years. “How does £2000 sound?”
Silly money, that’s how it sounded to Dan. Drive Jones to King’s Lynn, three hours away, spend two days there in a hotel (on Jones’ dime), then drive him back. £2000 for that? Dan didn’t really know what the hell was going on, but he decided he didn’t much care.
And so now here they were, on the M11, heading towards Norfolk in rather expensive and flashy car that had been parked outside. Dan had drunk approximately three cups of coffee before Jones had deemed him sober enough to drive. It had been awhile since Dan had driven anywhere, and the car felt strange under his hands. He expected Jones to queue up some of his music, but his normally boisterous flatmate was strangely quiet, his arms loosely crossed in his lap, and his gaze trained outside the window.
And even though silence was what Dan craved day and night - or told himself he did anyway - he found himself unnerved by this unnatural silence, so much so that he turned on the radio.
Jones looked at him and smiled, a smile that was more like him. “This stuff is well rubbish.”
“Driver controls the radio,” Dan said.
“Yeah?”
“Oh yes. It’s one of the most important rules of the road.”
“Oh, well. I guess I ain’t got a choice then, huh?”
“None at all,” Dan said, and popped open his window and lit up a cigarette.
They pulled into King’s Lynn around two o’clock, and Jones directed them to the hotel he’d booked a room at, near the banks of the river. When they got inside, Dan flopped on one of the beds and yawned. Jones opened up one of the suitcases and began to change. Right in front of him. This was not unusual for Jones, who seemed to have as little body shyness as Adam and Eve pre-serpent, and as usual, Dan turned away, uncomfortable. There was something almost invasive to Dan about Jones’ bountiful energy and ... generosity. It was like he had no boundaries, and didn’t acknowledge anyone else’s either. While this had worked in Dan’s favor many times - the fact that he even had a place to live right now was thanks to it - but this weird munificence of Jones’ was so alien and so overwhelming to Dan that at times it literally made his skin crawl.
When he was sure that Jones was mostly decent again, he risked a peek and was astounded at the sight of Jones wearing a suit.
A suit.
He rubbed his eyes and blinked, but Jones was still there, tying his tie.
“Uh,” Dan said, and decided to violate the one rule he’d set for himself on this trip. “What exactly is it you’re here for, Jones?”
Jones unraveled the tie and started again, frowning. “Got a funeral to go to.”
“… pardon?”
“Hate these things,” Jones muttered, and mimed hanging himself with his mangled tie.
“You’ve worn ties before,” Dan said, and took it from him and started tying it properly. Who am I? His mother?
“Yeah, but not the way you’re meant to,” Jones said with a wink.
Dan ignored him. “You’re going to a funeral?” he repeated.
“Yeah. Me grandad’s kicked it.”
“Jesus, Jones,” Dan said. He started to feel a bit guilty. “You should have said.”
Jones shrugged. “Haven’t seen him since I was a kid. I’m not torn up about it or anything. He was kind of a bastard.” He grinned. “What do you think? I look respectable enough?”
Dan nodded. He supposed he did. But in a Jonesy way. There was still something about him, more than just the hair, that made the suit look like a clever disguise.
Jones rifled through his luggage again and pulled out a bottle of gin. “Here,” he said. “Don’t forget to eat something.” That’s rich coming from you. “I’ll be back later tonight.”
Dan spent most of the next day drinking, watching TV, and sleeping, while Jones was out most of the time.
Whenever Dan stayed at hotels, he wondered what people had been doing in it before him. In his mind he imagined orgies on the bed, murders in the bathroom, drug deals carried out in the dim light of the bedside lamps. Hopefully no meth labs though.
In the haze before falling asleep that night, he plotted out an entire short story in his mind about a sentient hotel room that saved the memories of all of the events that took place in it, before he realized that in fact, Stephen King had written it already.
Never mind, then.
The next day he woke up feeling unusually at peace. By tomorrow he would have the money he owed Claire. That, at least, would be over and resolved. Maybe things would get better here on out.
He decided to take a shower and go outside. For about an hour he wandered aimlessly around Lynn, walking past big medieval churches and narrow little fishermen's cottages and bulky trading houses. He found a used bookstore and bought a copy of Lady Windemere’s Fan that he found tucked away on a low shelf. Wilde always made him feel comforted somehow.
He sat on the docks and smoked cigarette after cigarette and read the play in one long, satisfying gulp, like draining a glass of alcohol. His brain felt like it had been starving for the longest time.
LORD DARLINGTON. What cynics you fellows are!
CECIL GRAHAM. What is a cynic?
LORD DARLINGTON. A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.
CECIL GRAHAM. And a sentimentalist, my dear Darlington, is a man who sees an absurd value in everything, and doesn’t know the market price of any single thing.
Jones was waiting for him when he went back up to the hotel room. He looked extremely weary. It wasn’t surprising - he hadn’t slept as far as Dan knew the entire time they’d been in Lynn. The few times he’d woken up and Jones had been in his bed, he’d been sitting up and listening to his headphones, a weird and intense expression on his face.
“Time to get out of here,” Jones said now, and gave a big yawn.
“Everything’s been worked out?” Dan asked. He assumed that Jones had been dealing with the will or some other family matter. Jones simply nodded sleepily.
Before they left, Jones handed him an envelope. Inside it was the £2000, in cash. For a minute, Dan had a terrible urge to run off and do something totally irresponsible with the money - anything. Gambling. Hiring prostitutes. Investing in a pyramid scheme for moon tourism. For once in his life he told that voice in his head to stuff it, and put the money away.
Jones slept for much of the way back, propped up in his seat with his head just drooping forward slightly on his chest. He slept like a little kid, breathing in deeply but near-silently through his mouth. Dan felt a little bad waking him up when he had finally parked in front of the House of Jones.
He put a hand on his shoulder and shook him slightly. “Jones. Jones, wake up. We’re home.”
“H-home? Oh.” Jones stretched and rubbed his eyes sleepily. They staggered back inside the flat and Jones crawled onto one of the sofas. Dan thought he’d fallen asleep immediately; not sure what to do about the car keys, he at last slid them into the open palm of Jones’ hand.
He was just about to head off to bed himself when he heard Jones say,
“Dan? You need a computer, don’t ya?”
The laptop was extremely sleek and shiny, and very light. Two steps away from being a sheet of paper, Dan thought. He had a hard time believing it was real.
“Jones … what is this?”
“A laptop. Don’t you need one? For work?” Jones was seated at his decks, his tongue poking out in concentration as flipped through his vinyl records, not as if he’d just given his flatmate an expensive piece of technology for not discernible reason.
“Jones, I didn’t want you to buy me one! Where did you get the money for it?”
“I inherited some from my grandfather.”
“Well, don’t spend it all on me!”
Jones slipped one record onto the decks and raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t,” he said, and started mixing.
The next day he got a phone call from Claire. He’d given her the money and she had got her cameras back; he hadn’t expected to hear from her for a long time. She’d moved out a long time ago, and the only reason she’d come around since then was to bug him about money.
“Dan! Did you hear about Nathan?”
“No … and I don’t particularly want to.” He was trying to figure out his new laptop. It was a bit too shiny for him. It was a little intimidating.
“His self-facilitating media node is no longer self-facilitating nor a node. I went by to pick up something I’d left behind and he was moving out. Pingu told me he’d got evicted!”
Well. That was … kind of wonderful. Dan smiled. “Oh, dear.”
“Yeah.” She laughed. “I thought you’d agree.”
Dan had managed to tame the new laptop and wrote an article on it. He went into work the next day feeling a lot better for it. He even shaved.
When he rang the bell at SugarApe, though, he didn’t get the customary (and annoying) response. There was silence, and he rang it again. Finally, Sasha’s voice came on the other hand. “Sorry, Dan, I’ll let you in.”
He trotted up the stairs and walked into the office and found it in chaos. People were packing up boxes and talking on their cell phones or looking dazed and perplexed. Only Sasha was sitting at her reception desk, as though it were a normal day.
“Er … Sash, what’s going on?”
She smiled. “You’ll never guess, Dan. Someone bought up the magazine today.”
“Who?”
“Dunno. But they’ve fired almost everybody. Not me though … I don’t think you’re fired, either.”
Dan stared at her, and then looked around at the office. He frowned.
It … couldn’t possibly be …
That’s mad. And completely impossible. Stop thinking the world revolves around you, Dan, said a voice in his head that sounded a lot like Claire.
“Nice laptop,” Sasha said, and winked.
When he got back to the flat, Jones was sitting on the couch, texting. “Oh, hey Dan,” he said, and looked up at him with a weird and slightly nervous glance.
That glance told him everything. It was ridiculous, but … “Did you buy SugarApe?”
Jones blinked. “You mean the latest issue?”
“No! The fucking magazine, the whole damn thing! That’s what I mean!”
“Uh … I dunno what you’re on about …” But good God. Jones was the worst liar in the entire world. It was as if his whole face fell apart when he lied, like all the bits in it were doing different things at once - one side of his mouth twitching, his left eye spasming a little, his brow wrinkling and smoothing …
“How the hell did you do it?”
Jones closed his eyes and groaned, and sort of sagged in his seat, like a marionette with its strings cut. “I got money from me granddad … like I told you.”
“How much?”
“A lot.”
“How much?”
“A lot!” Jones put his phone away and pulled his knees up to his chin. “He was a rich old bastard, and I got nearly everything.”
Dan sat down on the couch opposite him. He felt like he was in a Frank Capra film. “Why? There was nobody else?”
“Oh, is that the only reason you think I’d be someone’s heir?” Jones smirked. “But you’re right, anyway. Well, it wasn’t that there was nobody else, it’s just he hated everyone. Hated me too, but nobody else in the family likes me, either, so I guess he left it all to me just to spite the rest of ‘em.”
“You’re kidding.”
Jones simply smiled.
“So … your first actions as a filthy rich asshole was to … buy me a computer? And Nathan Barley’s building and evict him? And buy the magazine I work for and fire all of the idiots?”
“And buy a new set of decks. It’s gonna be well wicked.”
“Jones.”
“What? I hate Barley, too. And the people at that magazine make you so miserable, Dan. Why wouldn’t I want to fix that?” He stopped for a minute and tilted his head. “You want to be editor?”
“Jones! You’re not … Richie Rich! You can’t go around doing this.”
“Why the hell not?” Jones looked a little irritated now.
“Because --” he licked his lips. Because it’ll ruin everything. His face went red. He put his head in his hands. He hated feeling like other people were controlling his life. Even if they were trying to do something nice for him. Which Jones certainly was trying to do, in his own, weird, excessive way.
“Dan …” Jones got up and sat next to him. “Dan, what’s the matter with you? I’m just trying to make you happy.”
Dan just groaned.
“Dan, don’t you get it? I …” he trailed off for a minute. When Dan sneaked a glance, he saw that Jones’ own face was very red. “I … I like you, Dan. A lot. I don’t want you to be so sad all the time.” And then … tentatively … he rested his head against Dan’s arm.
Dan just sat there for a moment, mulling it over. “Money isn’t going to fix all of my problems, Jones. You can’t just throw cash at it and make it all go away.”
Jones laughed. “You sounded pretty cool there, just now.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Jones sat up. “I just … wanted to give you something you’d really value, Dan.” He ruffled up his hair, looking abashed.
Dan sighed. “What if I find value in nothing?”
Jones crinkled his brow, and then smiled. “Then I’ll give you nothing.”
Dan shook his head. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”
“Better an idiot than a grumpy old man.” Jones sat back against the couch and put his feet up on Dan’s lap, kicking at Dan’s elbows until they were out of the way.
“Do you mind?”
“No, not at all.”
“So, what are you going to do with all of your money, Mr. Jones?”
Jones shrugged. “Dunno.” He looked at Dan. “I guess … share it.”
The end.