Fic: Another Sky (10/11)
Another Sky (10/11)
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Nathan Barley
Pairing: Dan/Jones
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1152, this chapter (12928 so far)
Warnings: Nathan Barley
Disclaimer: I own a jumper with caravans printed on it (which I have named "Clarkson's Nightmare") but I sure don't own the folks from this show from which I somehow managed to pull out this wacky adventure.
Author's Notes: Crap, it's almost done. This means I'm totally not writing the other stories I'm working on fast enough. Guys, make me write! Also, so yeah, this is second-last chapter. Yep.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Jones was not sleeping. This was normal. They had returned an hour ago from a wedding reception, and Dan had immediately collapsed, face first, on top of their duvet. Jones would join him, he thought, in another hour and a half or so. He stood at his turntables amid flashing lights and piles of wires and buttons, composing his cacophonous masterpieces. It was no small miracle that he actually heard the phone ring.
Moments later, Dan was roused from his peaceful, noise-induced hibernation by Jones who leapt onto the bed and clung to him in a panicked snuggle.
“Jones?” groaned Dan. “What time is it?”
“Gotta get up, Babe,” flailed Jones. “Hospital! Major contractions! Hospital! Baby coming out... of... lady! We have to go!”
Dan sat bolt upright.
“Oh,” he said, rubbing a sleepy hand over his sleepy face. “I just... put pants on, then... we... you drive.”
Dan rolled out of bed, and onto the floor, where he lay motionless for about ten seconds - which felt like either a split second, or a good few hours - before getting up and feeling about for a cleanish pair of jeans.
The gravity, the realness of what they were doing, became increasingly realer with every day that passed. Dan had no confidence in his parenting skills; hell, he thought, he was unsure as to whether he even liked children. But asking oneself if one liked children was, he thought, about as ludicrous as asking oneself if one liked adults. He could conceivably like some of them, he supposed, and he supposed he would like his own, because his own would be, well, his. It was much too late to change his mind, regardless. Not that he would have: five years previous, he never would have imagined Jones getting excited about tiny baby-sized overalls, but ever since Jones gathered up his turntables and took up residence in Dan’s heart, life was a festival of the unexpected.
Jones worried that Dan worried that he would fail at being a father. Jones knew better. To Jones, Dan was wonderful. He loved the way Dan would laugh proudly at his own (often terrible) jokes, the way he would snuggle in his sleep like a hibernating bear, the way he looked in that striped cardigan he bought for times when he had to look sort of nice. It suited him. As did the idea of Dan attempting to feed Cheerios to a very small person in tiny overalls. It was not something he could explain. It was the just the kind of tacit knowledge that needed no words.
---
The dark was nice. Unconsciousness was nice: it crept in through a crack in the bedroom window like a benevolent fog, and blanketed them both. Nathan dreamed of nice things like coffee and blowjobs and MP3 release parties. Somewhere, as he was floating through a house made of neon pillows, there was a phone ringing. No, no, that was an actual phone, in the real, waking world, he thought. Nathan squinted through the dark, fumbling blindly for the source of the offending noise. He found it, and grudgingly answered.
“Claire Ashcroft’s phone,” he said.
“Nathan?”
“Carys, you fertile goddess!” exclaimed Nathan. “What’s happening?”
“Would you just let Claire know my contractions started about half an hour ago? Owfuck,” she cried, so loudly that for a moment, Nathan thought she had punctured his eardrum.
“Sure thing, Welshy knickers,” said Nathan, holding the reciever as far from his ear as he could, wincing. “Oi Claire babes, Carys is about to pop out the nipper!”
“What?” moaned Claire, now grudgingly conscious.
“She’s contracting and shit?” he offered.
“Ugh, fuck’s sake, all right,” mumbled Claire. “Tell her I’m on my way.”
“We’re on our way,” Nathan shouted reassuringly into the phone. “Just, sort of, hold the kid in there until we come round, yeah?”
“Thanks Nathan,” said Carys. “Tell Claire that Dan and Jones are meeting us at the hospital, yeah?”
“Yeah, futures Mama muff!” Nathan hung up the phone, springing into action, throwing a clean jumper at Claire, who had fallen back asleep.
---
Nathan Barley was a cock. This was something about which Dan was unwavering in his certainty. Why Claire insisted on spending any of her free time with him, Dan could not say. It was not out of over-protective older brother instinct, either; rather, Dan knew that Claire was an intelligent, interesting woman, with typically little patience for Idiocy, and Nathan Barley was, well, a cock. He tried to find some redeeming value in the man, some ounce of common ground, a smidge of understanding, something that made him a potentially tolerable human being. He tried and tried and tried. But nope, he concluded: cock.
“Check it out, well fucking carnage!” shouted Nathan, pointing his camera phone in Dan’s face. “Aww, it’s disgusting! You must be chuffed to bits, proud papa!”
“This is not going on Trashbat, Nathan,” glared Dan. “Who let you in here?”
“Oh come on Preach, I - ”
“Nope,” said Dan, pointing toward the door. “Out. Now.”
Nathan’s smile waned slightly as he left.
“So what’s going on in there?” asked Claire, as Nathan sat beside her on the uncomfortable waiting area sofa.
“Loads of screaming and pushing,” said Nathan. “Well fucking gruesome! Didn’t get to see anything coming out her clunge, but - ”
“That’s... enough, Nathan” said Claire. “Everything all right, though?”
“Think so, lovelycakes,” he nodded.
A minute - or a few minutes, who knows - passed in uncomfortable silence. Both felt the need to fill the air with something, words, something, but neither did. They shifted, staring at the clock, staring at the door, avoiding eye contact, until finally
“Fancy a coffee?” asked Claire, standing, fishing through her jacket pockets for coins.
“Only if they’ve got organic fair-trade,” said Nathan. “Don’t drink that exploitive Republican shit anymore, yeah? That’s, like, what terrorists and oil companies and the government want you to drink, and shit?”
“Nathan, it’s instant,” Claire rolled her eyes with obvious exasperation. “It comes from that machine.”
“Yeah, go on, then,” he shrugged.
“Fuck, I’m not even awake yet,” moaned Claire, as the machine went wrrrrrrrrrzhhhhhhhhhhhh and somehow magically produced two cups of what purported to be “cappuccino”. She collapsed beside Nathan and handed over his drink.
“Cheers, fuzzy knickers,” he grinned, raising his cup in a feeble attempt at a toast. Claire let out a loud yawn in response.
“Oi Clare babes?” he said.
“What?” she replied.
“Now that your big bruv’s gone all parental, you ever think about, maybe, you know, you and - ”
“Shit off,” she scoffed. “If I’m not ready to go there, there’s no fucking way you are.”
“Oh,” he said quietly.
They sipped their coffees, and waited.
Chapter Eleven
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Nathan Barley
Pairing: Dan/Jones
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1152, this chapter (12928 so far)
Warnings: Nathan Barley
Disclaimer: I own a jumper with caravans printed on it (which I have named "Clarkson's Nightmare") but I sure don't own the folks from this show from which I somehow managed to pull out this wacky adventure.
Author's Notes: Crap, it's almost done. This means I'm totally not writing the other stories I'm working on fast enough. Guys, make me write! Also, so yeah, this is second-last chapter. Yep.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Jones was not sleeping. This was normal. They had returned an hour ago from a wedding reception, and Dan had immediately collapsed, face first, on top of their duvet. Jones would join him, he thought, in another hour and a half or so. He stood at his turntables amid flashing lights and piles of wires and buttons, composing his cacophonous masterpieces. It was no small miracle that he actually heard the phone ring.
Moments later, Dan was roused from his peaceful, noise-induced hibernation by Jones who leapt onto the bed and clung to him in a panicked snuggle.
“Jones?” groaned Dan. “What time is it?”
“Gotta get up, Babe,” flailed Jones. “Hospital! Major contractions! Hospital! Baby coming out... of... lady! We have to go!”
Dan sat bolt upright.
“Oh,” he said, rubbing a sleepy hand over his sleepy face. “I just... put pants on, then... we... you drive.”
Dan rolled out of bed, and onto the floor, where he lay motionless for about ten seconds - which felt like either a split second, or a good few hours - before getting up and feeling about for a cleanish pair of jeans.
The gravity, the realness of what they were doing, became increasingly realer with every day that passed. Dan had no confidence in his parenting skills; hell, he thought, he was unsure as to whether he even liked children. But asking oneself if one liked children was, he thought, about as ludicrous as asking oneself if one liked adults. He could conceivably like some of them, he supposed, and he supposed he would like his own, because his own would be, well, his. It was much too late to change his mind, regardless. Not that he would have: five years previous, he never would have imagined Jones getting excited about tiny baby-sized overalls, but ever since Jones gathered up his turntables and took up residence in Dan’s heart, life was a festival of the unexpected.
Jones worried that Dan worried that he would fail at being a father. Jones knew better. To Jones, Dan was wonderful. He loved the way Dan would laugh proudly at his own (often terrible) jokes, the way he would snuggle in his sleep like a hibernating bear, the way he looked in that striped cardigan he bought for times when he had to look sort of nice. It suited him. As did the idea of Dan attempting to feed Cheerios to a very small person in tiny overalls. It was not something he could explain. It was the just the kind of tacit knowledge that needed no words.
---
The dark was nice. Unconsciousness was nice: it crept in through a crack in the bedroom window like a benevolent fog, and blanketed them both. Nathan dreamed of nice things like coffee and blowjobs and MP3 release parties. Somewhere, as he was floating through a house made of neon pillows, there was a phone ringing. No, no, that was an actual phone, in the real, waking world, he thought. Nathan squinted through the dark, fumbling blindly for the source of the offending noise. He found it, and grudgingly answered.
“Claire Ashcroft’s phone,” he said.
“Nathan?”
“Carys, you fertile goddess!” exclaimed Nathan. “What’s happening?”
“Would you just let Claire know my contractions started about half an hour ago? Owfuck,” she cried, so loudly that for a moment, Nathan thought she had punctured his eardrum.
“Sure thing, Welshy knickers,” said Nathan, holding the reciever as far from his ear as he could, wincing. “Oi Claire babes, Carys is about to pop out the nipper!”
“What?” moaned Claire, now grudgingly conscious.
“She’s contracting and shit?” he offered.
“Ugh, fuck’s sake, all right,” mumbled Claire. “Tell her I’m on my way.”
“We’re on our way,” Nathan shouted reassuringly into the phone. “Just, sort of, hold the kid in there until we come round, yeah?”
“Thanks Nathan,” said Carys. “Tell Claire that Dan and Jones are meeting us at the hospital, yeah?”
“Yeah, futures Mama muff!” Nathan hung up the phone, springing into action, throwing a clean jumper at Claire, who had fallen back asleep.
---
Nathan Barley was a cock. This was something about which Dan was unwavering in his certainty. Why Claire insisted on spending any of her free time with him, Dan could not say. It was not out of over-protective older brother instinct, either; rather, Dan knew that Claire was an intelligent, interesting woman, with typically little patience for Idiocy, and Nathan Barley was, well, a cock. He tried to find some redeeming value in the man, some ounce of common ground, a smidge of understanding, something that made him a potentially tolerable human being. He tried and tried and tried. But nope, he concluded: cock.
“Check it out, well fucking carnage!” shouted Nathan, pointing his camera phone in Dan’s face. “Aww, it’s disgusting! You must be chuffed to bits, proud papa!”
“This is not going on Trashbat, Nathan,” glared Dan. “Who let you in here?”
“Oh come on Preach, I - ”
“Nope,” said Dan, pointing toward the door. “Out. Now.”
Nathan’s smile waned slightly as he left.
“So what’s going on in there?” asked Claire, as Nathan sat beside her on the uncomfortable waiting area sofa.
“Loads of screaming and pushing,” said Nathan. “Well fucking gruesome! Didn’t get to see anything coming out her clunge, but - ”
“That’s... enough, Nathan” said Claire. “Everything all right, though?”
“Think so, lovelycakes,” he nodded.
A minute - or a few minutes, who knows - passed in uncomfortable silence. Both felt the need to fill the air with something, words, something, but neither did. They shifted, staring at the clock, staring at the door, avoiding eye contact, until finally
“Fancy a coffee?” asked Claire, standing, fishing through her jacket pockets for coins.
“Only if they’ve got organic fair-trade,” said Nathan. “Don’t drink that exploitive Republican shit anymore, yeah? That’s, like, what terrorists and oil companies and the government want you to drink, and shit?”
“Nathan, it’s instant,” Claire rolled her eyes with obvious exasperation. “It comes from that machine.”
“Yeah, go on, then,” he shrugged.
“Fuck, I’m not even awake yet,” moaned Claire, as the machine went wrrrrrrrrrzhhhhhhhhhhhh and somehow magically produced two cups of what purported to be “cappuccino”. She collapsed beside Nathan and handed over his drink.
“Cheers, fuzzy knickers,” he grinned, raising his cup in a feeble attempt at a toast. Claire let out a loud yawn in response.
“Oi Clare babes?” he said.
“What?” she replied.
“Now that your big bruv’s gone all parental, you ever think about, maybe, you know, you and - ”
“Shit off,” she scoffed. “If I’m not ready to go there, there’s no fucking way you are.”
“Oh,” he said quietly.
They sipped their coffees, and waited.
Chapter Eleven