Fic: Flying Lessons (2/12)
Flying Lessons (2/12)
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: PG-13, this chapter
Word Count: 1344, this chapter (2558 so far)
Warnings: just the usual literary nonsense
Disclaimer: I own more pairs of skinny jeans than should be acceptable for someone of my income, but I don't own the Boosh or Nathan Barley.
Author's Notes: I was in need of Poncho Life so I decided to stick up another chapter. And wear my poncho.
Chapter One
On the train to the airport, Howard was busily leafing through his (deadly boring and no doubt largely useless, at least as far as Vince was concerned) A-Z guidebook of New York City, and noshing on the travel provisions he had picked up at the Marks and Spencer in Victoria station (a brie, basil, and tomato baguette and a packet of cheese and onion crisps). Vince had already finished his provisions (tuna and sweetcorn on white, a Mars bar, a large packet of foam shrimp, and a banana) and was now quietly refreshing his lipgloss. When he was fully satisfied with his appearance, he pulled out his passport to admire his photo - which was legendary among customs and government officials as the only flattering passport photo they had ever seen. He smiled at himself a moment, before he noticed something horribly, horribly wrong.
“Howard!” he cried out, eyes wide with horror and pointing frantically at his passport.
“What is it, little man?” asked Howard, not looking up from his reading.
“Howard, I don't think they'll let me into America,” said Vince, his voice quiet with panic and fear.
“Why” asked Howard, putting away his book in an exaggetatedly perturbed manner. “You're not a convicted felon, Vince. Are you hiding citrus fruit in your baggage?”
“No, it's worse,” said Vince. “There's something wrong with my passport.”
Vince handed the doubtful object to Howard, who examined it carefully. He could find no errors or mistakes within.
“What exactly am I meant to be looking for?” asked Howard.
“They've got the date wrong,” replied Vince. “They're going to arrest me for being a secret agent, aren't they? That's clearly not my birthdate!”
“Yes it is,” said Howard.
“But the year's all wrong, Howard,” protested Vince. “I mean, I'm only 21.”
“Vince,” sighed Howard, “you're the same age as me.”
Vince's eyes widened further in shock.
“But you're, what, like 60?” he cried.
“I'm 34,” corrected Howard. “Didn't you begin to become a little suspicious when your birthday cards this year read 'Happy 14th annual 21st birthday, Vince'?”
Vince blushed. “To be honest, I usually skip them and go straight to the presents. You know I'm not a big reader,” he sniffled.
“Vince, for God's sake,” sighed Howard.
“But I'm the Sunshine Kid! Sunshine Middle-Aged Man's not exactly got the same ring, does it?” lamented Vince.
“Don't be ridiculous, you silly bitch! We're in the prime of life, Little Man,” said Howard. “You're young, you're healthy, and you're bloody gorgeous. A little number on your passport is nothing to be concerned about!”
“So you at least still think I'm gorgeous, even though I'm all old?” asked Vince.
“I think I've made that abundantly clear,” replied Howard, smiling fondly at his distressed, but somewhat calmer, companion.
“I love you, you massive gayist,” whispered Vince, leaning across his seat to kiss Howard softly on the cheek. Howard blushed like 357039890.6 punnets of ripe summer strawberries. “Now, who do I talk to in the government about having my passport corrected, do you think?”
---
Jones sat restlessly in the airplane seat, fidgeting with his seatbelt as he waited for the airplane to stop circling round and park itself at the gate. The flight felt far too long, and he had been much too wired for sleep. The inflight movies were atrocious, as always, and the pasta they served for dinner was rubbery. The vegetarian meal was the regular meal, minus the chicken. La dee da. He looked over at Dan, who sat quietly beside him, watching the scenery go round and round out the window. Something about watching Dan watch the scenery calmed him, made his heart swell up and feel all squishy, like diving into the crowd at an underground club populated exclusively with dancing marshmallows. Dan brought that out in him for some reason, the need to nurture, for what it was worth.
“You ever thought about us having a kid, Dan?” asked Jones, as their airplane finally touched tarmac in New York.
“No,” said Dan, with an earnest matter-of-factness (or tactlessness, even) that signified the end of the conversation. Jones tucked the suggestion away in the back pocket of his mind. He would ask again in a few years' time.
---
It was early enough in the day - though neither man was quite sure what time it was anymore, what with the lengthy visits to airport security (it turns out that certain kinds of lipgloss can look an awful lot like a switchblade on airport x-rays) followed by who knows how many time zone changes, followed by a prolonged visit to the baggage reclaim, which entailed much sobbing and holding of one another when it seemed like Vince's emergency bag and Howard's rucksack (which, it turned out, was one inch too large to conform to the airline's draconian carry-on bag policy) had been misdirected to who knows where, or shot out into space, or sucked into a parallel dimension made entirely out of those old cassette tapes featuring all kinds of greatest hits you don't remember or lesser albums by poodle rock bands you sometimes still see on sale for 99p at less fashionable petrol stations. But after an inexplicable delay, their bags arrived and they stumbled, sleepy and bewildered, into America.
Their hotel was simply named Hotel. and was housed in an unassuming brick building in a quietly buzzing neighbourhood. The front lobby was sparse and white, and the first minute or so of a Sonic Youth song seemed to be playing over and over on the speaker system. Two women - one blonde, one brunette, wearing matching blasé expressions - sat side-by-side at the reception desk, apparently not doing anything except decidedly paying as little attention to Howard and Vince as possible as the pair approached to check-in.
“Alright,” smiled Vince, leaning his elbows on the counter. The two women looked up with much tired annoyance.
“What.” they spoke in unison.
“We'd like to check in, please,” said Howard.
“Name?” asked the blonde, staring him down with the sort of disdain typically reserved for paedophiles and tax auditors.
“I think it's under Ashcroft,” offered Vince.
“Dan Ashcroft?” asked the brunette.
“Yeah, that's it,” said Vince.
The two women wordlessly typed apparently random letters into their respective computers for about two and a half rotations of Teenage Riot.
“How many keys?” asked the blonde one, at long last.
“Four,” replied Howard, adding “but would you mind leaving two of them here at the desk? We're expecting two more guests.”
The blonde let out an exasperated sigh.
“Fine,” she said, as the brunette handed Vince two key-cards. “You're in the Fuck Suite, twenty-third floor.”
“The what?” stammered Howard, blushing like a greenhouse full of tomatoes.
The brunette sighed again. “Somebody requested our most soundproof room? Have a nice orgy.”
The two women went back to not working at anything but ignoring the two men, and the two men wandered off in search of the elevator. Howard paused a moment.
“Hang on, Vince,” he said, turning back toward reception. “Excuse me, ladies?”
“WHAT.” they said again, looking up from their busy nothing.
“I'll have you know that the soundproofing is because we're in a band, in case you were wondering,” he explained. They weren't. “We'll be rehearsing in the room. We're called Dancing Banana Trees and we play at Shit Mountain in two days. You should come.”
The two women looked at each other, scoffed, then looked back at Howard.
“Yeah, maybe,” they said, rolling their eyes.
“Think that went well, then?” asked Vince, as Howard caught up with him. “Would it really have been that bad if they thought we were up there having orgies? Now they probably think you were some big pervert who wanted them to be our groupies.”
“We are a self-contained band unit; we are our own groupies,” said Howard.
Vince could do nothing but nod sagely at Howard's observation and employ all the restraint available to him to keep from bursting into uncontrollable laughter.
Chapter Three
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: PG-13, this chapter
Word Count: 1344, this chapter (2558 so far)
Warnings: just the usual literary nonsense
Disclaimer: I own more pairs of skinny jeans than should be acceptable for someone of my income, but I don't own the Boosh or Nathan Barley.
Author's Notes: I was in need of Poncho Life so I decided to stick up another chapter. And wear my poncho.
Chapter One
On the train to the airport, Howard was busily leafing through his (deadly boring and no doubt largely useless, at least as far as Vince was concerned) A-Z guidebook of New York City, and noshing on the travel provisions he had picked up at the Marks and Spencer in Victoria station (a brie, basil, and tomato baguette and a packet of cheese and onion crisps). Vince had already finished his provisions (tuna and sweetcorn on white, a Mars bar, a large packet of foam shrimp, and a banana) and was now quietly refreshing his lipgloss. When he was fully satisfied with his appearance, he pulled out his passport to admire his photo - which was legendary among customs and government officials as the only flattering passport photo they had ever seen. He smiled at himself a moment, before he noticed something horribly, horribly wrong.
“Howard!” he cried out, eyes wide with horror and pointing frantically at his passport.
“What is it, little man?” asked Howard, not looking up from his reading.
“Howard, I don't think they'll let me into America,” said Vince, his voice quiet with panic and fear.
“Why” asked Howard, putting away his book in an exaggetatedly perturbed manner. “You're not a convicted felon, Vince. Are you hiding citrus fruit in your baggage?”
“No, it's worse,” said Vince. “There's something wrong with my passport.”
Vince handed the doubtful object to Howard, who examined it carefully. He could find no errors or mistakes within.
“What exactly am I meant to be looking for?” asked Howard.
“They've got the date wrong,” replied Vince. “They're going to arrest me for being a secret agent, aren't they? That's clearly not my birthdate!”
“Yes it is,” said Howard.
“But the year's all wrong, Howard,” protested Vince. “I mean, I'm only 21.”
“Vince,” sighed Howard, “you're the same age as me.”
Vince's eyes widened further in shock.
“But you're, what, like 60?” he cried.
“I'm 34,” corrected Howard. “Didn't you begin to become a little suspicious when your birthday cards this year read 'Happy 14th annual 21st birthday, Vince'?”
Vince blushed. “To be honest, I usually skip them and go straight to the presents. You know I'm not a big reader,” he sniffled.
“Vince, for God's sake,” sighed Howard.
“But I'm the Sunshine Kid! Sunshine Middle-Aged Man's not exactly got the same ring, does it?” lamented Vince.
“Don't be ridiculous, you silly bitch! We're in the prime of life, Little Man,” said Howard. “You're young, you're healthy, and you're bloody gorgeous. A little number on your passport is nothing to be concerned about!”
“So you at least still think I'm gorgeous, even though I'm all old?” asked Vince.
“I think I've made that abundantly clear,” replied Howard, smiling fondly at his distressed, but somewhat calmer, companion.
“I love you, you massive gayist,” whispered Vince, leaning across his seat to kiss Howard softly on the cheek. Howard blushed like 357039890.6 punnets of ripe summer strawberries. “Now, who do I talk to in the government about having my passport corrected, do you think?”
---
Jones sat restlessly in the airplane seat, fidgeting with his seatbelt as he waited for the airplane to stop circling round and park itself at the gate. The flight felt far too long, and he had been much too wired for sleep. The inflight movies were atrocious, as always, and the pasta they served for dinner was rubbery. The vegetarian meal was the regular meal, minus the chicken. La dee da. He looked over at Dan, who sat quietly beside him, watching the scenery go round and round out the window. Something about watching Dan watch the scenery calmed him, made his heart swell up and feel all squishy, like diving into the crowd at an underground club populated exclusively with dancing marshmallows. Dan brought that out in him for some reason, the need to nurture, for what it was worth.
“You ever thought about us having a kid, Dan?” asked Jones, as their airplane finally touched tarmac in New York.
“No,” said Dan, with an earnest matter-of-factness (or tactlessness, even) that signified the end of the conversation. Jones tucked the suggestion away in the back pocket of his mind. He would ask again in a few years' time.
---
It was early enough in the day - though neither man was quite sure what time it was anymore, what with the lengthy visits to airport security (it turns out that certain kinds of lipgloss can look an awful lot like a switchblade on airport x-rays) followed by who knows how many time zone changes, followed by a prolonged visit to the baggage reclaim, which entailed much sobbing and holding of one another when it seemed like Vince's emergency bag and Howard's rucksack (which, it turned out, was one inch too large to conform to the airline's draconian carry-on bag policy) had been misdirected to who knows where, or shot out into space, or sucked into a parallel dimension made entirely out of those old cassette tapes featuring all kinds of greatest hits you don't remember or lesser albums by poodle rock bands you sometimes still see on sale for 99p at less fashionable petrol stations. But after an inexplicable delay, their bags arrived and they stumbled, sleepy and bewildered, into America.
Their hotel was simply named Hotel. and was housed in an unassuming brick building in a quietly buzzing neighbourhood. The front lobby was sparse and white, and the first minute or so of a Sonic Youth song seemed to be playing over and over on the speaker system. Two women - one blonde, one brunette, wearing matching blasé expressions - sat side-by-side at the reception desk, apparently not doing anything except decidedly paying as little attention to Howard and Vince as possible as the pair approached to check-in.
“Alright,” smiled Vince, leaning his elbows on the counter. The two women looked up with much tired annoyance.
“What.” they spoke in unison.
“We'd like to check in, please,” said Howard.
“Name?” asked the blonde, staring him down with the sort of disdain typically reserved for paedophiles and tax auditors.
“I think it's under Ashcroft,” offered Vince.
“Dan Ashcroft?” asked the brunette.
“Yeah, that's it,” said Vince.
The two women wordlessly typed apparently random letters into their respective computers for about two and a half rotations of Teenage Riot.
“How many keys?” asked the blonde one, at long last.
“Four,” replied Howard, adding “but would you mind leaving two of them here at the desk? We're expecting two more guests.”
The blonde let out an exasperated sigh.
“Fine,” she said, as the brunette handed Vince two key-cards. “You're in the Fuck Suite, twenty-third floor.”
“The what?” stammered Howard, blushing like a greenhouse full of tomatoes.
The brunette sighed again. “Somebody requested our most soundproof room? Have a nice orgy.”
The two women went back to not working at anything but ignoring the two men, and the two men wandered off in search of the elevator. Howard paused a moment.
“Hang on, Vince,” he said, turning back toward reception. “Excuse me, ladies?”
“WHAT.” they said again, looking up from their busy nothing.
“I'll have you know that the soundproofing is because we're in a band, in case you were wondering,” he explained. They weren't. “We'll be rehearsing in the room. We're called Dancing Banana Trees and we play at Shit Mountain in two days. You should come.”
The two women looked at each other, scoffed, then looked back at Howard.
“Yeah, maybe,” they said, rolling their eyes.
“Think that went well, then?” asked Vince, as Howard caught up with him. “Would it really have been that bad if they thought we were up there having orgies? Now they probably think you were some big pervert who wanted them to be our groupies.”
“We are a self-contained band unit; we are our own groupies,” said Howard.
Vince could do nothing but nod sagely at Howard's observation and employ all the restraint available to him to keep from bursting into uncontrollable laughter.
Chapter Three