26 Fics in 26 Minutes

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A story for a song by a band starting with every letter of the alphabet. Ranging from angst to fluff to humour to porn to general whimsy. Encompassing Boosh, RPS, Nathan Barley, Robots in Disguise, and Asylum, and probably a few other things too.

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Length: words

Yann Tiersen – Soir de Fete

Contents

Yann Tiersen – Soir de Fete – roughly translated as ‘Party Night’

Dan Ashcroft regarded his face in the mirror of the gents, and winced. He removed the stupid bloody Preacher Man hat and sailed it across the room, where it came to rest in a urinal. Jones watched it fly by, his back against the wall next to the mirror, and nudged Dan with his foot.

“Won’t you have to wear that again?”

“Not ever. Not if I can help it,” Dan muttered, splashing cold water on his face. Jones nudged him again, and he looked up, dripping from the nose and chin.

“Won’t they want it back then?”

Dan looked him straight in the eye. “Fuck them,” he said, except a drop of water fell onto his lips and made it sound more like ‘Fargle them’, but Jones knew what he meant.

“Yeah, but really?” he said sympathetically.

Dan sighed, resting his head on the sink, and Jones retrieved his hat for him, holding it against his chest.

“I don’t think you look too bad, Dan. It could be a good look for you.”

“Shut up,” Dan muttered into the sink.

Jones put the hat on, tipped it back, and made his best serious face in the mirror over

Dan’s shoulder. “So say Brother Na–” The rest of the words were stopped from coming out by Dan’s hand fisted in his top and his finger on his lips.

“Don’t,” Dan said firmly, and Jones nodded, swallowing, reaching up to take off the hat. Dan took his finger away from Jones’ lips, but couldn’t seem to let go of his shirt. Jones blinked at him, waiting for the red mist to subside, but that didn’t seem to be it.

“Dan, are you o–”

Dan span him around and pushed him against the wall, kissing him firmly, pushing him against the tiles. Jones’ eyes widened, and for a moment he fought with Dan’s hands holding him down, keeping him there, he struggled. But then Dan’s tongue was in his mouth, his fingers at Jones’ waistband, and all rational thought simply went out the window.

Dan’s mouth left his and slipped to his neck, and Jones tried to pull him back up, but Dan smacked his hand away. “Don’t fucking move, Barley,” he snarled.

Jones froze, feeling suddenly cold.

“Ooh dear,” came a voice from the wide open door that led into the club, came a voice from the mouth of Jonatton Yeah? “The Preacher Man secretly wants to bum his disciple, etc? Well Catholic.”

Jones slapped Dan’s hands away from his, and kicked him in the shins until he stepped away, eyes pleading but mouth silent.

Jonatton looked between them both. “Write an article on it?”

“Fuck off,” Dan spat at him, but Jonatton just grinned.

“Poor Ashcroft. Not talking to you, yeah?” He winked at Jones. “Thousand words, usual rate?”

Jones just blinked, head swimming. He heard Jonatton laughing as he pushed past him into the club and lost himself in the crowd, trying not to look at or listen to the cretin spinning the decks and photographing the crowd with his Wasp T10.