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booshslashhavenTitle: Right Through My Head (1/?)
Author: Rose Ganymede
Pairings/Characters: Barratt/Noir (or, my characterization of Julian and Noel in the Mint Royale vid)
Rating: PGish (wee bit o' language)...hopefully NC-17ish smexin' at some point.
Word Count: 1482
Summary: Some things in life are even riskier than bank robbing. Maybe even more thrilling too.
Notes/Warnings: My crack at the budding Mint Royale genre. Everyone else is doing it, so why can’twe I? (The Cranberries had nothing to do with it). This is the vague first of I'm not sure how many parts (all of which bear the potential to be rather schmoopy). Feedback would be lovely.
Disclaimer: Mostly Mint Royale's, Julian's, and Noel's. The rest I take all the blame for...
The kid’s kind of adorable, if Barratt used words like that. In a weird sort of way. Like a baby bird that thinks it’s a flamingo, strutting about, and it’s proof positive Barratt’s been around the kid too much already if he’s even using words together like that.
That’s the thing, though. Noir’s near impossible to pin down, but against his better judgment - against his nature, against the voices nagging in his head all reproachful and disgusted - Barratt can’t seem to help but try.
It’s Marcus that brings him in. Barratt still has no idea why, something about a favor to some bloke or another. The first thing he notices about Noir is all the angles. The point of his nose, his lips, his teeth, his hips - Barratt wants to map him out on a grid. He’s reminded of the art classes he used to take up in school, before it mattered they wouldn’t take him anywhere. Because the second thing Barratt notices about Noir is the colors that make the angles work, and he finds himself cataloguing paints in his mind, wondering which could quite capture the redpink of Noir’s lips, and what to do about the texture. He’d have to feel them to know, and that’s about when Barratt realizes he’s fucked, completely and entirely fucked, and if he doesn’t get his mind off this kid and on the job quick, he’s going to fuck them all up, and this, what they’re doing here, is his number one priority.
This is the one that could make or break them, the one they’ve been working up to. All that matters is if the kid can drive, and as it turns out, he can, like a bat out of hell, crowing with childish glee all the while, thumping his hands on the steering wheel to what Barratt thinks must be a song only in Noir’s head. When Larson meets his eyes with that what the fuck have we got here? sort of raise to his brow, Barratt arches his in turn, but when he looks out his window, he can‘t help but smile just a little. Noir gets them to Marcus’s in one piece, though, which is what he‘s there for, isn’t it? They split up their shares, Barratt’s heart still beating a bit faster than usual - it hasn’t really sunk in yet that they got away with it - and somehow or another he ends up harboring Noir for the evening. The kid’s been living from handout to handout, couch to couch, ever since he got kicked out of his parents’ house for being a bender, Barratt finds out, as Noir’s pretty open with, well, just about everything. Barratt thinks he might know most of the kid’s life story before he even lets them into his flat, and Noir’s lived nothing if not a colorful life, it sounds like. Barratt suspects that he exaggerates a bit, but that doesn’t surprise him. It feels familiar, like Noir has always been this bright character in Barratt’s life, pulling faces and angling about and telling tales designed to make Barratt smile in spite of himself.
Or maybe Barratt’s the one telling himself tales, over-exaggerating all of this - it’s hard to say. With Noir around, Barratt can hardly get a word in his own head edgewise.
“This is great of you, you know,” Noir tells him, exploring the flat while Barratt puts on tea. The kid marvels over everything with the same sort of flitting curiosity, running his fingers over the fabric of the couch and eyeing Barratt’s scant possessions like they might hold some sort of secrets. He lingers at the bookcase long enough that Barratt notices the silence, the sudden absence of Noir’s constant chatter its own presence in the room.
Barratt starts when Noir turns around, a thin volume in his hands and a grin on his face. He’s holding up The Picture of Dorian Gray. “You’ve read this, then?” he asks, which seems an odd question, considering it’s come from Barratt’s shelf, but Barratt nods all the same.
“Have you?” he asks, his thoughts flipping back to the car and Noir’s apparently troubled relationship with numbers, and he brings two cups of tea over to the couch, gesturing for Noir to sit down. He does, closer to Barratt than he needs to, and he holds the book on his lap.
“Yeah. Took me a while, mind - I’m a little dyslexic, see.” Noir smiles wide and bright, like this is just another interesting aspect of life. “I liked it a lot, though. Sort of haunting, you know?”
Barratt nods, uncomfortable under Noir’s gaze, which suddenly seems to be measuring and weighing. “It is. Wilde was a brilliant writer.” Noir bobs his head in agreement, setting the book on the coffee table to take a sip of his tea. He pulls a face when it burns his tongue, which he then sticks out at Barratt when he sees he’s been smirking.
“Have you ever read any of his fairy tales?” Barratt asks, his own voice startling him. Noir makes him think of a fairy tale creature, only he can’t work out which one. There’s just something not quite real about Noir - not like it’s fake, but just - something he can’t quite place. Barratt pictures Noir with ram’s legs, and a Pan pipe, and tries not to choke on his tea.
Noir claps him on the back, harder than Barratt would’ve figured on. When he’s satisfied Barratt isn’t about to asphyxiate on his own Tetley’s, he leans forward excitedly. “No, I didn’t know he wrote any. D’you have them?” Noir’s eyes go wide like a child’s, his right knee jiggling, and it’d be funny if it weren’t so…well, there’s that word again.
Barratt bypasses it in his mind and settles on “Yes, I do. I think you’d like them.”
“Can I borrow?” Noir asks, before Barratt can offer. He strokes a long finger down the spine of the book, and Barratt almost shivers.
“Uh, yeah, sure. It’s back in my room, actually.” Noir grins, and Barratt coughs, feeling another choking fit coming on. “I’ll get it for you then.”
He makes no move to go, though, and Noir seems content to run his hands over Dorian and sip at his tea. It seems so intimate to Barratt, this scene, which is maybe why he spills his own cup of tea, on the table and the book and Noir’s hands. It’s not that hot anymore, but it takes its toll all the same.
“Fuck!” Noir cries out, leaping up from the couch, just about kicking over the table with a red pointy boot in the process.
“I’m so sorry,” Barratt goes to say, immediately reaching for Noir without thinking, but Noir has his arms hugged to his chest, and then Barratt sees what’s under them.
“Your book!” Noir’s face is crumpled in something like distress, and there’s that word again, Barratt thinks, taking him in. This half-man, half-mystical creature jumping about Barratt’s flat, shaking up everything, and now he looks like someone just kicked his puppy. Like Noir himself had something to do with it.
“It’s all right,” Barratt tells him, taking the book and setting it on the couch. He leads Noir by the arm to the kitchen, turns on the faucet and guides the kid’s hands under it. He leaves him to it while he goes to clean up the mess in the room.
Barratt busies himself wiping up the coffee table, dabbing at the spilt tea with a towel. It keeps his hands occupied, or they’d be shaking, and he realizes he hasn’t felt this out of his element in a long while. Barratt’s line of business is meticulous by nature - by necessity - and sure, things might go wrong now and again, but there’s always a plan B and a plan C and an escape route and a cover story, and this? Is not like that at all. This is something entirely different. This is not something that Barratt had ever planned on.
This - Noir - is unpredictable, and Barratt’s not sure that he likes it. Or rather, he’s fairly sure that he does, and that’s what’s most frightening.
Strike that - what’s most frightening is when Noir comes back into the room with tears streaming down his face, snatching up the soiled book and clutching it close, cradling it almost, like a fragile bird. What the fuck? This is all too much.
Barratt’s not sure whether to draw the kid into his arms himself or throw his hands up in pure and utter confusion. So, instead, he walks carefully and quietly out of the flat, and for all the softer he closes it, the door sounding hard and loud behind him.
*
Why on earth is Noir crying over spiltmilk tea? Where in the hell does Barratt think he's going? Is there going to be a point to all this? Maybe. Stay tuned...
Author: Rose Ganymede
Pairings/Characters: Barratt/Noir (or, my characterization of Julian and Noel in the Mint Royale vid)
Rating: PGish (wee bit o' language)...hopefully NC-17ish smexin' at some point.
Word Count: 1482
Summary: Some things in life are even riskier than bank robbing. Maybe even more thrilling too.
Notes/Warnings: My crack at the budding Mint Royale genre. Everyone else is doing it, so why can’t
Disclaimer: Mostly Mint Royale's, Julian's, and Noel's. The rest I take all the blame for...
The kid’s kind of adorable, if Barratt used words like that. In a weird sort of way. Like a baby bird that thinks it’s a flamingo, strutting about, and it’s proof positive Barratt’s been around the kid too much already if he’s even using words together like that.
That’s the thing, though. Noir’s near impossible to pin down, but against his better judgment - against his nature, against the voices nagging in his head all reproachful and disgusted - Barratt can’t seem to help but try.
It’s Marcus that brings him in. Barratt still has no idea why, something about a favor to some bloke or another. The first thing he notices about Noir is all the angles. The point of his nose, his lips, his teeth, his hips - Barratt wants to map him out on a grid. He’s reminded of the art classes he used to take up in school, before it mattered they wouldn’t take him anywhere. Because the second thing Barratt notices about Noir is the colors that make the angles work, and he finds himself cataloguing paints in his mind, wondering which could quite capture the redpink of Noir’s lips, and what to do about the texture. He’d have to feel them to know, and that’s about when Barratt realizes he’s fucked, completely and entirely fucked, and if he doesn’t get his mind off this kid and on the job quick, he’s going to fuck them all up, and this, what they’re doing here, is his number one priority.
This is the one that could make or break them, the one they’ve been working up to. All that matters is if the kid can drive, and as it turns out, he can, like a bat out of hell, crowing with childish glee all the while, thumping his hands on the steering wheel to what Barratt thinks must be a song only in Noir’s head. When Larson meets his eyes with that what the fuck have we got here? sort of raise to his brow, Barratt arches his in turn, but when he looks out his window, he can‘t help but smile just a little. Noir gets them to Marcus’s in one piece, though, which is what he‘s there for, isn’t it? They split up their shares, Barratt’s heart still beating a bit faster than usual - it hasn’t really sunk in yet that they got away with it - and somehow or another he ends up harboring Noir for the evening. The kid’s been living from handout to handout, couch to couch, ever since he got kicked out of his parents’ house for being a bender, Barratt finds out, as Noir’s pretty open with, well, just about everything. Barratt thinks he might know most of the kid’s life story before he even lets them into his flat, and Noir’s lived nothing if not a colorful life, it sounds like. Barratt suspects that he exaggerates a bit, but that doesn’t surprise him. It feels familiar, like Noir has always been this bright character in Barratt’s life, pulling faces and angling about and telling tales designed to make Barratt smile in spite of himself.
Or maybe Barratt’s the one telling himself tales, over-exaggerating all of this - it’s hard to say. With Noir around, Barratt can hardly get a word in his own head edgewise.
“This is great of you, you know,” Noir tells him, exploring the flat while Barratt puts on tea. The kid marvels over everything with the same sort of flitting curiosity, running his fingers over the fabric of the couch and eyeing Barratt’s scant possessions like they might hold some sort of secrets. He lingers at the bookcase long enough that Barratt notices the silence, the sudden absence of Noir’s constant chatter its own presence in the room.
Barratt starts when Noir turns around, a thin volume in his hands and a grin on his face. He’s holding up The Picture of Dorian Gray. “You’ve read this, then?” he asks, which seems an odd question, considering it’s come from Barratt’s shelf, but Barratt nods all the same.
“Have you?” he asks, his thoughts flipping back to the car and Noir’s apparently troubled relationship with numbers, and he brings two cups of tea over to the couch, gesturing for Noir to sit down. He does, closer to Barratt than he needs to, and he holds the book on his lap.
“Yeah. Took me a while, mind - I’m a little dyslexic, see.” Noir smiles wide and bright, like this is just another interesting aspect of life. “I liked it a lot, though. Sort of haunting, you know?”
Barratt nods, uncomfortable under Noir’s gaze, which suddenly seems to be measuring and weighing. “It is. Wilde was a brilliant writer.” Noir bobs his head in agreement, setting the book on the coffee table to take a sip of his tea. He pulls a face when it burns his tongue, which he then sticks out at Barratt when he sees he’s been smirking.
“Have you ever read any of his fairy tales?” Barratt asks, his own voice startling him. Noir makes him think of a fairy tale creature, only he can’t work out which one. There’s just something not quite real about Noir - not like it’s fake, but just - something he can’t quite place. Barratt pictures Noir with ram’s legs, and a Pan pipe, and tries not to choke on his tea.
Noir claps him on the back, harder than Barratt would’ve figured on. When he’s satisfied Barratt isn’t about to asphyxiate on his own Tetley’s, he leans forward excitedly. “No, I didn’t know he wrote any. D’you have them?” Noir’s eyes go wide like a child’s, his right knee jiggling, and it’d be funny if it weren’t so…well, there’s that word again.
Barratt bypasses it in his mind and settles on “Yes, I do. I think you’d like them.”
“Can I borrow?” Noir asks, before Barratt can offer. He strokes a long finger down the spine of the book, and Barratt almost shivers.
“Uh, yeah, sure. It’s back in my room, actually.” Noir grins, and Barratt coughs, feeling another choking fit coming on. “I’ll get it for you then.”
He makes no move to go, though, and Noir seems content to run his hands over Dorian and sip at his tea. It seems so intimate to Barratt, this scene, which is maybe why he spills his own cup of tea, on the table and the book and Noir’s hands. It’s not that hot anymore, but it takes its toll all the same.
“Fuck!” Noir cries out, leaping up from the couch, just about kicking over the table with a red pointy boot in the process.
“I’m so sorry,” Barratt goes to say, immediately reaching for Noir without thinking, but Noir has his arms hugged to his chest, and then Barratt sees what’s under them.
“Your book!” Noir’s face is crumpled in something like distress, and there’s that word again, Barratt thinks, taking him in. This half-man, half-mystical creature jumping about Barratt’s flat, shaking up everything, and now he looks like someone just kicked his puppy. Like Noir himself had something to do with it.
“It’s all right,” Barratt tells him, taking the book and setting it on the couch. He leads Noir by the arm to the kitchen, turns on the faucet and guides the kid’s hands under it. He leaves him to it while he goes to clean up the mess in the room.
Barratt busies himself wiping up the coffee table, dabbing at the spilt tea with a towel. It keeps his hands occupied, or they’d be shaking, and he realizes he hasn’t felt this out of his element in a long while. Barratt’s line of business is meticulous by nature - by necessity - and sure, things might go wrong now and again, but there’s always a plan B and a plan C and an escape route and a cover story, and this? Is not like that at all. This is something entirely different. This is not something that Barratt had ever planned on.
This - Noir - is unpredictable, and Barratt’s not sure that he likes it. Or rather, he’s fairly sure that he does, and that’s what’s most frightening.
Strike that - what’s most frightening is when Noir comes back into the room with tears streaming down his face, snatching up the soiled book and clutching it close, cradling it almost, like a fragile bird. What the fuck? This is all too much.
Barratt’s not sure whether to draw the kid into his arms himself or throw his hands up in pure and utter confusion. So, instead, he walks carefully and quietly out of the flat, and for all the softer he closes it, the door sounding hard and loud behind him.
*
Why on earth is Noir crying over spilt
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no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 01:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 03:53 am (UTC)Actually, this whole little universe is whirling about in my head for these two, but these pieces aren't quite together yet, and I figured I should post something, or else I might never post anything! If people like, hopefully the inspiration will come together in some sort of solid mass...
Do feel free to set up camp. I've got s'mores. And sleeping bags - nicked from the hut at the Zooniverse ;) Mmmm, mine smells like jazzz...
Heh. Anywho, thanks for reading and commenting - I'm glad you liked it!
no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 01:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 03:54 am (UTC)Helps to be bipolar oneself, I guess ;)
no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 07:02 am (UTC)I like this interpretation a lot. Looking forward to the next bit ;-)
no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 08:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 09:13 am (UTC)I love this.
I'd quote my favourite bits.
But there are too many.
So I'll just say "ram's legs" and leave it at that ;o)
This whole thing is yummy.
Please may I have some more?
no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 08:18 pm (UTC)And oh, glad you liked the "ram's legs" bit, hee. I really want a children's book with ram's legs!Vince/Noel as main character...
<3
no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 08:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 11:01 pm (UTC)It *is* a bit Julian, isn't it? Now I keep thinking back to someone's post of an article recently where Noel is talking how Julian is always running away from encounters with fans and such...
He's such a lovely odd bird.
But yeah, thanks so much for reading and for your comments! I hope you'll enjoy the next part :)
no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 10:44 pm (UTC)XD
no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 11:10 pm (UTC)I'm pretty new to the Boosh and have been commenting on fics and other posts here and there for the last...hmmm...month, maybe? The show and all of the boys' projects and all of the lovely fanfic has become increasingly addictive...
I plan to settle in and stay for a while ;)
Thank you again for reading and commenting - I think you just made my day.
no subject
Date: 2008-07-13 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 11:32 pm (UTC)*Pulls up a chair*
I think I may stay a while... where are those s'mores? :D
xx
no subject
Date: 2008-07-13 02:00 am (UTC)Glad to hear you'll be hanging around. *passes s'mores materials on over* Maybe we can engage in some campfire crimping!
Thanks again for reading and commenting <3
LULZ, MY CAPSLOCK KEY IS JAMMED, SORRY! I'M NOT ACTUALY SHOUTING AT YOU. :(
Date: 2008-07-13 08:14 am (UTC)Re: LULZ, MY CAPSLOCK KEY IS JAMMED, SORRY! I'M NOT ACTUALY SHOUTING AT YOU. :(
Date: 2008-07-13 05:32 pm (UTC)I'm glad you like! Intrigued is good...I like intrigued...Hopefully you'll enjoy the next bit. Thanks so much for reading and commenting :)
And you know the capslock key jam is a lie. You were shouting in pure and utter amazement, right? (Kidding, kidding...I'm not that self-absorbed or assured!)
no subject
Date: 2008-07-13 08:19 am (UTC)For some reason, A Picture of Dorian Gray has always reminded me of Noel and Julian.
Like Noel is Dorian and Ju is the artist whos name I can never remember.
no subject
Date: 2008-07-13 05:35 pm (UTC)That's so interesting that you see a connection there too...Noel is very much Dorian, so young and beautiful and a bit naive and under Ju's care, and oh, the homoerotic subtext! That'd be an awesome fic for someone to write, a Boosh RPS version of the book...
But this one will continue to involve Mr. Wilde, and hopefully you'll continue to enjoy it. Thanks for reading and commenting <3
no subject
Date: 2008-07-13 10:45 pm (UTC)you juicy dangler
no subject
Date: 2008-07-14 02:49 am (UTC)