Fic: Another Sky (11/11)
Another Sky (11/11)
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Nathan Barley
Pairing: Dan/Jones
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1278, this chapter (14206 in total)
Warnings: Cute
Disclaimer: I own more Haribo Fried Eggs than I know what to do with, but I still don't own Nathan Barley. I just borrow these characters at weekends and take them out to Golden Griddle for all-day breakfast.
Author's Notes: Ok, so I've been actively living with this fic for months, and this is the last chapter of it, but I honestly didn't think I'd feel this emotional when I got to the end of it. I'm feeling a little bit weepy, guys. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Five years previous, Dan Ashcroft had jumped out of a window. Five years had gone by, he was older: he was undoubtedly now residing in the territory of the middle-aged. This was something easy enough to forget for him, for he was not sure he felt older. He was not sure what older was meant to feel like, but surely, on some level, he seemed to hold onto the notion that in order to qualify as being middle-aged at all, you had to be the sort of person who drove a Saab and read the newspaper while eating breakfast. You had to be the sort of person who ate breakfast. Dan, on the other hand, had at least moved on from having a breakfast of whatever dregs of the previous night’s drinks remained watered down by melted ice in their glasses on the kitchen counter. That and the fact that he was a bit softer in places, admittedly, less of the broad beanpole he was at university, and more sad brown bear.
But Jones said it suited him.
Jones seemed not to change at all: he was, as always, a blur of fuzzy flailing limbs, a ruffled mop of feathery plumage in ever-changing colours, a cacophony of sounds at once undeniably jarring and absolutely beautiful, possessed simultaneously with ruthless elitism and childlike wonder. He was like a dozen animals whizzed together in a blender and poured into a Jones-shaped smoothie. Maybe it was just that they grew together so long and so slowly that the ways they changed seemed almost imperceptible, but were nonetheless present. You know, like being ready to want to have a kid. That was kind of a big one.
---
Carys practiced unhelpful rhythmic breaths and screamed obscenities well into the night, nearly breaking Jones’ hand, then Dan’s, then the hand of an attending nurse. She was dismayed to discover that, in spite of having known a good dozen women who had given birth themselves, no one thought to tell her of the probability that she would at some point have to go to the toilet, and it would be gross.
This was one of apparently many things that polite mothers did not mention. Such bullshit illusions we perpetuated about the glowing, magical experience of childbirth, she thought - where with just a little bit of a strenuous push and a dab of sweat mopped from the happy mother’s brow, a beautiful baby emerges sparkling and clean from her lady garden, no muss, no fuss, no screaming for drugs or shitting the bed - when she could think things beyond get me another fucking cup of ice chips and just get this kid out of me already.
And in spite of all that, when it was done, it was all beautiful.
Sometime in the late morning, a little girl named Felicity Ashcroft-Jones was welcomed into the world. She was tiny and squidgy and pink and mostly slept, and Dan and Jones loved her very much.
“Alright, Peanut,” Jones smiled, as Dan held her. “We’re going to be your dads, if that’s cool.”
Felicity yawned, scrunching her tiny hand into a tiny fist beside her very serious face.
“I hope that means it’s cool,” puzzled Jones, gently stroking Felicity’s dark, downy hair.
“Uhh, yeah love, I think it’s cool,” nodded Dan.
---
Neither Claire nor Nathan could say how many hours had gone by. They had long since allowed themselves to slip back into the dark sea of unconsciousness, waves of sleep flowing gently over them, blanketed under a twinkling sky of dreams.
“Yeahhhhhhhh!” the shout of Jones was a tidal wave of excitement, and Claire and Nathan’s sleepy naptime boat crashed against the rough, jarring cliffs of sudden wakefulness.
“What?” mumbled Claire, rubbing her eyes.
“She’s a baby!” shouted Jones, crashing into Nathan and Claire with hugs.
“You mean it’s a girl?” squinted Claire.
“Yeah, she’s beautiful!” beamed Jones.
“That’s well fucking... well,” mumbled Nathan, barely conscious.
“Just... just let him know she’s called Felicity when he wakes up, yeah?” Jones shrugged. Claire nodded.
Jones was exhausted. Even his highlights looked tired. When he was back in the room, he flopped into Dan’s lap, who received him with a loud grunt, and an appreciative arm round his middle.
“We did it,” smiled Jones, caressing the back of Dan’s neck.
“Congratulations,” whispered Dan, meeting his lips in a soft, happily tired kiss.
---
Carys cried more than she thought she would when Felicity went home with Dan and Jones and she went home alone. It was, it turned out, one thing to say she would do something and one thing to be truly glad to do it, and another altogether to actually do it and, in spite of herself and all her intentions, feel that emptiness, the loss that followed. Claire stayed with her and held her and could not say much that was comforting in any meaningful way.
“You’ll come back and visit, right?” asked Claire.
“Course I will,” said Carys, blotting at the corners of her bloodshot eyes with the sleeve of her jumper. “You don’t think they’d mind, do you?”
“I think they’d really appreciate it if you did,” smiled Claire.
“Me too,” said Carys, breaking down again. “Why is this so fucking hard? It wasn’t supposed to be this fucking hard, Claire.”
“I know,” said Claire.
Claire held her until she tired herself out, and slept.
---
This was odd.
Jones was awake. He was very much awake, but the only sounds in the room were a pair of hushed voices. This time, the relative silence signaled that everything was all right. The last light of the evening had faded quietly down, and the flashing lights of the House of Jones twinkled and illuminated the stars and planets and whooshing rocket ships of the new nursery. There was an extra little safety seat in the car and a kitchen full of formula. The ashtray had been moved from the coffee table to a special space just outside the front door. Dan’s guitar sat in the corner of the living room, and he promised Jones that he would learn something more gently happy than his standard sombre fare, something to play for Felicity. It felt surreal, magical, beautiful, to be home, the three of them. This was their family.
“It’s time to go to sleep, it’s time to go to sleep,” Jones sang quietly, swaying gently from side to side.
“It’s time to go to sleep,” whispered Dan. Jones nodded.
He placed the tuckered-out little bundle in her bed among the planets and stars, and allowed himself to be led to the bedroom. Barely able to lift his arms far enough to pull off his shirt, he collapsed into bed, and he and Dan tangled themselves under the duvet, and he allowed himself to be carried off to sleep, while visions of melodies appeared in his dreams, set to the beating of Dan’s heart.
Dan’s sleep came a little less easily than Jones’. He was well out of his depth and he knew it. This was something for which no amount of experience in literature and journalism could ever have prepared him. Dan did not know how not to be terrified, but Jones’ love was infinite and without condition, and he had long since learned it was best to trust him. This was good. Five years previous, Dan Ashcroft would never have seen this coming.
This was going to be the beginning of something beautiful.
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Nathan Barley
Pairing: Dan/Jones
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1278, this chapter (14206 in total)
Warnings: Cute
Disclaimer: I own more Haribo Fried Eggs than I know what to do with, but I still don't own Nathan Barley. I just borrow these characters at weekends and take them out to Golden Griddle for all-day breakfast.
Author's Notes: Ok, so I've been actively living with this fic for months, and this is the last chapter of it, but I honestly didn't think I'd feel this emotional when I got to the end of it. I'm feeling a little bit weepy, guys. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Five years previous, Dan Ashcroft had jumped out of a window. Five years had gone by, he was older: he was undoubtedly now residing in the territory of the middle-aged. This was something easy enough to forget for him, for he was not sure he felt older. He was not sure what older was meant to feel like, but surely, on some level, he seemed to hold onto the notion that in order to qualify as being middle-aged at all, you had to be the sort of person who drove a Saab and read the newspaper while eating breakfast. You had to be the sort of person who ate breakfast. Dan, on the other hand, had at least moved on from having a breakfast of whatever dregs of the previous night’s drinks remained watered down by melted ice in their glasses on the kitchen counter. That and the fact that he was a bit softer in places, admittedly, less of the broad beanpole he was at university, and more sad brown bear.
But Jones said it suited him.
Jones seemed not to change at all: he was, as always, a blur of fuzzy flailing limbs, a ruffled mop of feathery plumage in ever-changing colours, a cacophony of sounds at once undeniably jarring and absolutely beautiful, possessed simultaneously with ruthless elitism and childlike wonder. He was like a dozen animals whizzed together in a blender and poured into a Jones-shaped smoothie. Maybe it was just that they grew together so long and so slowly that the ways they changed seemed almost imperceptible, but were nonetheless present. You know, like being ready to want to have a kid. That was kind of a big one.
---
Carys practiced unhelpful rhythmic breaths and screamed obscenities well into the night, nearly breaking Jones’ hand, then Dan’s, then the hand of an attending nurse. She was dismayed to discover that, in spite of having known a good dozen women who had given birth themselves, no one thought to tell her of the probability that she would at some point have to go to the toilet, and it would be gross.
This was one of apparently many things that polite mothers did not mention. Such bullshit illusions we perpetuated about the glowing, magical experience of childbirth, she thought - where with just a little bit of a strenuous push and a dab of sweat mopped from the happy mother’s brow, a beautiful baby emerges sparkling and clean from her lady garden, no muss, no fuss, no screaming for drugs or shitting the bed - when she could think things beyond get me another fucking cup of ice chips and just get this kid out of me already.
And in spite of all that, when it was done, it was all beautiful.
Sometime in the late morning, a little girl named Felicity Ashcroft-Jones was welcomed into the world. She was tiny and squidgy and pink and mostly slept, and Dan and Jones loved her very much.
“Alright, Peanut,” Jones smiled, as Dan held her. “We’re going to be your dads, if that’s cool.”
Felicity yawned, scrunching her tiny hand into a tiny fist beside her very serious face.
“I hope that means it’s cool,” puzzled Jones, gently stroking Felicity’s dark, downy hair.
“Uhh, yeah love, I think it’s cool,” nodded Dan.
---
Neither Claire nor Nathan could say how many hours had gone by. They had long since allowed themselves to slip back into the dark sea of unconsciousness, waves of sleep flowing gently over them, blanketed under a twinkling sky of dreams.
“Yeahhhhhhhh!” the shout of Jones was a tidal wave of excitement, and Claire and Nathan’s sleepy naptime boat crashed against the rough, jarring cliffs of sudden wakefulness.
“What?” mumbled Claire, rubbing her eyes.
“She’s a baby!” shouted Jones, crashing into Nathan and Claire with hugs.
“You mean it’s a girl?” squinted Claire.
“Yeah, she’s beautiful!” beamed Jones.
“That’s well fucking... well,” mumbled Nathan, barely conscious.
“Just... just let him know she’s called Felicity when he wakes up, yeah?” Jones shrugged. Claire nodded.
Jones was exhausted. Even his highlights looked tired. When he was back in the room, he flopped into Dan’s lap, who received him with a loud grunt, and an appreciative arm round his middle.
“We did it,” smiled Jones, caressing the back of Dan’s neck.
“Congratulations,” whispered Dan, meeting his lips in a soft, happily tired kiss.
---
Carys cried more than she thought she would when Felicity went home with Dan and Jones and she went home alone. It was, it turned out, one thing to say she would do something and one thing to be truly glad to do it, and another altogether to actually do it and, in spite of herself and all her intentions, feel that emptiness, the loss that followed. Claire stayed with her and held her and could not say much that was comforting in any meaningful way.
“You’ll come back and visit, right?” asked Claire.
“Course I will,” said Carys, blotting at the corners of her bloodshot eyes with the sleeve of her jumper. “You don’t think they’d mind, do you?”
“I think they’d really appreciate it if you did,” smiled Claire.
“Me too,” said Carys, breaking down again. “Why is this so fucking hard? It wasn’t supposed to be this fucking hard, Claire.”
“I know,” said Claire.
Claire held her until she tired herself out, and slept.
---
This was odd.
Jones was awake. He was very much awake, but the only sounds in the room were a pair of hushed voices. This time, the relative silence signaled that everything was all right. The last light of the evening had faded quietly down, and the flashing lights of the House of Jones twinkled and illuminated the stars and planets and whooshing rocket ships of the new nursery. There was an extra little safety seat in the car and a kitchen full of formula. The ashtray had been moved from the coffee table to a special space just outside the front door. Dan’s guitar sat in the corner of the living room, and he promised Jones that he would learn something more gently happy than his standard sombre fare, something to play for Felicity. It felt surreal, magical, beautiful, to be home, the three of them. This was their family.
“It’s time to go to sleep, it’s time to go to sleep,” Jones sang quietly, swaying gently from side to side.
“It’s time to go to sleep,” whispered Dan. Jones nodded.
He placed the tuckered-out little bundle in her bed among the planets and stars, and allowed himself to be led to the bedroom. Barely able to lift his arms far enough to pull off his shirt, he collapsed into bed, and he and Dan tangled themselves under the duvet, and he allowed himself to be carried off to sleep, while visions of melodies appeared in his dreams, set to the beating of Dan’s heart.
Dan’s sleep came a little less easily than Jones’. He was well out of his depth and he knew it. This was something for which no amount of experience in literature and journalism could ever have prepared him. Dan did not know how not to be terrified, but Jones’ love was infinite and without condition, and he had long since learned it was best to trust him. This was good. Five years previous, Dan Ashcroft would never have seen this coming.
This was going to be the beginning of something beautiful.