the mighty boosh halloween special of doom- chapter 5
Sorry this one took so long, guys!
Title: The Mighty Boosh Halloween Special of Doom - Chapter 5
Pairing: Howard Moon/Vince Noir pre-slash
Summary: Howard is confronted by a denizen of the mirror world, and discovers someone else trapped there
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,127
Warnings: A bit of sexual aggression, but nothing worse than you'd see in the show
'What on earth...' Howard muttered. The mirror was clammy under his hand, and he eyed the hairline gap between where his fingertips pressed against the glass and their reflection.
The room was uncomfortably quiet. Howard was reminded of exam rooms at school when he was a kid, the particular press of silence that seemed to get right up against one's eardrums and make them whine. He rolled his shoulders; it made him feel itchy.
'You're dreaming, you muppet.'
The familiar voice shattered the silence like a thrown brick, and for a moment, whirling around in flailing startlement, Howard was surprised to see that none of the mirrors had broken with it. But none of them had; all over-seventeen of them remained, still and whole, reflecting each other and the white walls. And there, in the gap between a full-length bedroom mirror and a more modest front hallway affair, was Vince. He lounged with ludicrous cool, boots crossed at the ankle and idly inspecting his fingernails.
'Vince!' Howard yelped, flushing hot with relief. 'Am I? I mean, I am?'
Vince looked up from his nails and laughed. 'You were asleep, weren't you? And I'm pretty sure this ain't in the hotel.'
'I suppose,' Howard said, looking around the little room. While he supposed it wasn't inconceivable that the hotel might have a storeroom set aside especially for mirrors, or that Howard might have sleepwalked into it, the distinct lack of door made that eventuality seem unlikely.
That, and Vince was giving him one of those looks, like Howard had stumbled out of 1910 and was embarrassing him just by existing in the same air as him. 'Yeah,' he agreed hastily. 'Yeah, a dream, must be.'
Vince smirked a little, a satisfied sideways quirk of glossed lips at Howard's concession.
'So, um. What do I do, then? Doesn't seem much of a dream.'
Several years previous, Howard had tried to teach himself how to lucid dream. The notion of being able to wrest control of his dreams from his perversely self-defeating subconscious had been an immensely appealing one, and for a while, he'd entertained triumphant fantasies about all the things he'd do in his dreams once he'd mastered them. He never had managed it. He was somewhat at a loss now, to find himself suddenly self-aware, but in a dream with apparently no momentum of its own.
'Dunno, what d'you wanna do?'
'Um,' said Howard.
And that was another odd thing; even in his own mind, Howard was fairly certain that Vince in a room full of mirrors would be preening from every possible angle. Now, he seemed mainly to be alternating between inspecting his nails and eyeing up Howard. Howard shifted his weight, returning Vince's gaze and feeling like a bit of a tit.
'Oh!' Vince's eyes went wide and excited, and he pushed himself off the wall in a sinuous arc of motion that started at his hips. 'I know, lemme show you something.' He advanced on Howard, expression turning decidedly wicked.
Now, Howard would admit, if pressed, that he'd had those sorts of dreams about Vince before. Psychologically normal, certainly, for a man with no sexual outlet and an... unusually close relationship with his best mate, but otherwise meaningless. At least, that was what Howard had always told himself, and did his best not to think about it in the mornings.
So, breath catching up in his throat with anticipation and unease, he let Vince take his hand and press it to his crotch-- and then he pulled back slightly, giving a nervous little laugh. 'Have you, uh, got something in your pocket, Vince?'
Vince gave him a sly, knowing look, and Howard shifted uneasily. 'No, I mean--' I know what an erection feels like, and no-one's dick is that hard? Howard couldn't just say that. Vince seemed to take his silence as encouragement, and pressed his hand a little more firmly against him. Howard swallowed. 'What, um. What exactly did you want to show me?'
'Mirrorballs,' Vince grinned up at him. 'S genius, I want you to see.'
Howard had horrible images of surgical augmentation. 'Wha-- Vince, I'm not sure...'
'Aw, c'mon, Howard, just a look? You'll like 'em, I promise, all glittery, and, mmm.'
He gave a little shiver, demonstrative and full-bodied, like the mere notion gave him a sexual thrill, pressing Howard's hand more insistently against him, and Howard looked down-- and froze. He could feel Vince's jeans under his palm, the too-smooth texture of denim that was more spandex than actual denim, the weird, hard lumps of his so-called mirrorballs, but he wasn't touching him. Not really, not quite; he could see. There was a gap, the faintest hairline pause between Howard's hand and the fabric. Like the reflection in the mirror.
He licked his lips.
‘I’m not dreaming, am I?’
Howard’s voice came out on a rasp, and Vince’s expression flickered. For a moment, all the wicked provocation in his face gave way like it had tripped, wobbling into a flash of annoyance and uncertainty. Then he pressed forward.
‘Don’t be daft, ‘course you’re dreaming.’
‘Yeahhh, I don’t think think I am, though.’
The nebulous discomfort he’d felt since he woke up here was coalescing sickly, at last, into actual fear. Howard felt cold. There was nowhere to retreat to, in a tiny room with no doors, but Howard retreated anyway, wrenching his hand out of Vince’s grip and stumbling back, away from Vince, or-- whatever he was. A projection of the mirrors? A reflection? If there was anyone whose reflection could develop sentience, he thought slightly hysterically, it’d be Vince.
‘C’mon, Howard,’ Vince was following after him, rolling his eyes like Howard was just being stupid and overreacting. ‘I’m not gonna hurt you, am I? Just calm dow-- oi, don’t touch that!’
Howard froze, heart pounding, arm outstretched behind him, and turned to see what he wasn’t supposed to be touching. It was another mirror-- of course, what else-- a large one with an elaborately gilded frame, but this time, there was no gap; his fingers had sunk into the mirror, up to the knuckle, and Howard hadn’t felt a thing.
A door.
‘Hah!’ Howard shouted, and hurled himself backwards.
In the weightless, terrified moment before gravity took him and he fell through the mirror, several things happened. Vince vanished, a slewing skid of air snapping back into place, like a tape skipping, and behind him, in one of the other mirrors, Howard got a glimpse of powder blue, and a familiar voice, as small as he'd ever heard it: 'Mommy? Is that you? How much longer do I gotta stay here? You said, if I was good--'
Title: The Mighty Boosh Halloween Special of Doom - Chapter 5
Pairing: Howard Moon/Vince Noir pre-slash
Summary: Howard is confronted by a denizen of the mirror world, and discovers someone else trapped there
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,127
Warnings: A bit of sexual aggression, but nothing worse than you'd see in the show
'What on earth...' Howard muttered. The mirror was clammy under his hand, and he eyed the hairline gap between where his fingertips pressed against the glass and their reflection.
The room was uncomfortably quiet. Howard was reminded of exam rooms at school when he was a kid, the particular press of silence that seemed to get right up against one's eardrums and make them whine. He rolled his shoulders; it made him feel itchy.
'You're dreaming, you muppet.'
The familiar voice shattered the silence like a thrown brick, and for a moment, whirling around in flailing startlement, Howard was surprised to see that none of the mirrors had broken with it. But none of them had; all over-seventeen of them remained, still and whole, reflecting each other and the white walls. And there, in the gap between a full-length bedroom mirror and a more modest front hallway affair, was Vince. He lounged with ludicrous cool, boots crossed at the ankle and idly inspecting his fingernails.
'Vince!' Howard yelped, flushing hot with relief. 'Am I? I mean, I am?'
Vince looked up from his nails and laughed. 'You were asleep, weren't you? And I'm pretty sure this ain't in the hotel.'
'I suppose,' Howard said, looking around the little room. While he supposed it wasn't inconceivable that the hotel might have a storeroom set aside especially for mirrors, or that Howard might have sleepwalked into it, the distinct lack of door made that eventuality seem unlikely.
That, and Vince was giving him one of those looks, like Howard had stumbled out of 1910 and was embarrassing him just by existing in the same air as him. 'Yeah,' he agreed hastily. 'Yeah, a dream, must be.'
Vince smirked a little, a satisfied sideways quirk of glossed lips at Howard's concession.
'So, um. What do I do, then? Doesn't seem much of a dream.'
Several years previous, Howard had tried to teach himself how to lucid dream. The notion of being able to wrest control of his dreams from his perversely self-defeating subconscious had been an immensely appealing one, and for a while, he'd entertained triumphant fantasies about all the things he'd do in his dreams once he'd mastered them. He never had managed it. He was somewhat at a loss now, to find himself suddenly self-aware, but in a dream with apparently no momentum of its own.
'Dunno, what d'you wanna do?'
'Um,' said Howard.
And that was another odd thing; even in his own mind, Howard was fairly certain that Vince in a room full of mirrors would be preening from every possible angle. Now, he seemed mainly to be alternating between inspecting his nails and eyeing up Howard. Howard shifted his weight, returning Vince's gaze and feeling like a bit of a tit.
'Oh!' Vince's eyes went wide and excited, and he pushed himself off the wall in a sinuous arc of motion that started at his hips. 'I know, lemme show you something.' He advanced on Howard, expression turning decidedly wicked.
Now, Howard would admit, if pressed, that he'd had those sorts of dreams about Vince before. Psychologically normal, certainly, for a man with no sexual outlet and an... unusually close relationship with his best mate, but otherwise meaningless. At least, that was what Howard had always told himself, and did his best not to think about it in the mornings.
So, breath catching up in his throat with anticipation and unease, he let Vince take his hand and press it to his crotch-- and then he pulled back slightly, giving a nervous little laugh. 'Have you, uh, got something in your pocket, Vince?'
Vince gave him a sly, knowing look, and Howard shifted uneasily. 'No, I mean--' I know what an erection feels like, and no-one's dick is that hard? Howard couldn't just say that. Vince seemed to take his silence as encouragement, and pressed his hand a little more firmly against him. Howard swallowed. 'What, um. What exactly did you want to show me?'
'Mirrorballs,' Vince grinned up at him. 'S genius, I want you to see.'
Howard had horrible images of surgical augmentation. 'Wha-- Vince, I'm not sure...'
'Aw, c'mon, Howard, just a look? You'll like 'em, I promise, all glittery, and, mmm.'
He gave a little shiver, demonstrative and full-bodied, like the mere notion gave him a sexual thrill, pressing Howard's hand more insistently against him, and Howard looked down-- and froze. He could feel Vince's jeans under his palm, the too-smooth texture of denim that was more spandex than actual denim, the weird, hard lumps of his so-called mirrorballs, but he wasn't touching him. Not really, not quite; he could see. There was a gap, the faintest hairline pause between Howard's hand and the fabric. Like the reflection in the mirror.
He licked his lips.
‘I’m not dreaming, am I?’
Howard’s voice came out on a rasp, and Vince’s expression flickered. For a moment, all the wicked provocation in his face gave way like it had tripped, wobbling into a flash of annoyance and uncertainty. Then he pressed forward.
‘Don’t be daft, ‘course you’re dreaming.’
‘Yeahhh, I don’t think think I am, though.’
The nebulous discomfort he’d felt since he woke up here was coalescing sickly, at last, into actual fear. Howard felt cold. There was nowhere to retreat to, in a tiny room with no doors, but Howard retreated anyway, wrenching his hand out of Vince’s grip and stumbling back, away from Vince, or-- whatever he was. A projection of the mirrors? A reflection? If there was anyone whose reflection could develop sentience, he thought slightly hysterically, it’d be Vince.
‘C’mon, Howard,’ Vince was following after him, rolling his eyes like Howard was just being stupid and overreacting. ‘I’m not gonna hurt you, am I? Just calm dow-- oi, don’t touch that!’
Howard froze, heart pounding, arm outstretched behind him, and turned to see what he wasn’t supposed to be touching. It was another mirror-- of course, what else-- a large one with an elaborately gilded frame, but this time, there was no gap; his fingers had sunk into the mirror, up to the knuckle, and Howard hadn’t felt a thing.
A door.
‘Hah!’ Howard shouted, and hurled himself backwards.
In the weightless, terrified moment before gravity took him and he fell through the mirror, several things happened. Vince vanished, a slewing skid of air snapping back into place, like a tape skipping, and behind him, in one of the other mirrors, Howard got a glimpse of powder blue, and a familiar voice, as small as he'd ever heard it: 'Mommy? Is that you? How much longer do I gotta stay here? You said, if I was good--'