Fic: Ghosts 2/?
Title: Ghosts
Chapter Title: A One-Off Crazy
Pairing: Vince/Howard
Summary: Howard’s worried about Vince’s strange behaviour. But as Naboo and Bollo appear to turn a blind eye, Howard is determined to find out what’s made Vince lose his spark…
Word Count: ~1730
Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, humor,
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: swears, implied mental and physical disorders, Freud quotes, reference to Jeremy Clarkson
Disclaimer: I do not own the Mighty Boosh, but I do own my hair. I also do not own Howard’s jazz ramble in the fic (enter hermitknut ).
Author Notes: Many thanks to my betas sisidraig and hermitknut. Also, thanks to the wonderful knightaimee!
Prepare yourself for more drama this chapter. I’m currently writing chapter 7 so you can rest assured that the story doesn’t stop here…
The Howard Moon: Floor Lamp picture below is courtesy of knightaimee and her amazing drawing skills- watch this space for more illustrations!
Chapter 2
A One-Off Crazy.
The next morning Howard went down to the shop, bleary-eyed but ready for a full day of marketing ahead of him, just like any other normal Saturday morning. When he arrived he noticed that Vince was already sat in the red dentist’s chair, apparently ready for the day’s work to commence. Howard looked at the strangely shaped clock on the wall; it was five to nine.
Blinking slowly, his eyes moved back to the chair. Vince was indeed sat in it (so not a figment, after all…), peering up at him through a curtain of perfectly arranged hair. He was sucking on a lollipop and grinning at his friend.
“Alright, Howard?”
Howard practically did a double-take. Vince sitting in the shop this early on a Saturday, as a single event, was shocking enough. Adding onto that his apparent ability to speak like a normal person, with no hint of the usual sleepiness that the young man would ordinarily harbour at this time in the morning, almost gave Howard a complex.
“You’re,” Howard began, voice sandpapery, “you’re up then?” He cleared his throat, inwardly wincing at this pointlessly asked question.
“Yeah,” Vince chuckled lightly, perhaps, Howard thought, in a nervous fashion.
“Good. That’s… good,” the taller man stuttered, lost for words.
Vince smirked in amusement at Howard’s awkwardness.
“I need to check on… the, um… toaster.”
“You do that,” the younger man said laconically, still grinning around his lollipop. Howard dashed out of the room.
In his makeshift refuge that was the kitchen, Howard leant heavily on his palms as they lay flat upon the tabletop, and proceeded to have a stare-off with the toaster. Its chrome exterior threw his face back into his eyes. Staring at himself, Howard contemplated the idea of destruction, and what lie he could tell Vince about the state of the toaster.
There was only ten minutes to go before Howard could venture upstairs to make lunch for himself and co-worker. The maverick tapped his foot to an imaginary, ever changing rhythm as he flicked through his vast vinyl collection. “Nothing like a properly organised Jazz collection,” Howard sighed, smugly, to himself. He didn’t notice peculiar look that Vince was giving him from across the room.
“I think that’s a bit of a waste of time, Howard,” the small man drawled from across the room.
“How dare you - good organisation is key to successful retail!”
“Yeah, well, maybe.” The other man looked slightly lost after trying to keep up defining the long words at the fast rate, “But, seriously - jazz?”
“Jazz is very serious, Vince.” Howard droned. Vince mentally prepared himself for the interminable speech that he was about to be subjected to. “It’s a highly complex and majestic art form, based on a confluence of African and European music traditions and developing hand-in-hand with early American pop music. Why, if you’d been born in the early 20th century, you would be a jazz fan! It was the contemporary version of the synthetic, melody-less music you worship today! Duke Ellington was the David Bowie of the 1920’s!” Howard’s brow was sweating and his eyes were bright with passion. “And the variety is astounding! Although the only true form of jazz is its earliest, purist form, all jazz has touches of that original perfection! Asian-American jazz, avant-garde jazz, bebop, big band, chamber jazz, continental jazz, cool jazz, free jazz, gypsy jazz, Latin jazz, mainstream jazz, mini-jazz, modal jazz, m-base, neo-bop, orchestral jazz, post-bop, stride, swing, third stream, traditional jazz, vocal jazz…and then the fusion genres! Not pure jazz by any means, but still with that glory, that power, that incredible musical connection to the soul that is jazz!”
He was met only with an expression of thorough confusion. Howard sighed.
“Yes, jazz.”
“You’re wasting your time, Howard,” Vince whined. “No-one’s ever going to buy them.”
At this point a man wearing a paranoid-chocolate tweed suit, with angry-muffin elbow patches, walked into the shop, his presence announced by the old bell hanging over the inside of the door frame. He stood there, for a second, looking domineering and important in the doorway. His breathing was heavy and louder than all small noises in the shop, including the squeaking that was coming from the seat Vince was in. The man’s heavy brow held under it a pair of eyes that squinted and peered around the room as if hunting for the person who was most likely best suited for his request. Finally, his vision set upon Howard’s sturdy form. A smile fell upon the man’s lips and the atmosphere instantly lightened.
“Hello, good sir, I was wondering if you have any rare jazz vinyls? I would be interested in purchasing them - but only if they are well organised.”
Howard beamed with delight at the customer. “Step right this way, sir. I have many rare jazz pieces that a man of your high standards will no doubt appreciate.” He quickly ushered the tall, heavy-browed man to the shelves which held his precious collection. From past experience he knew that unless he got the customer hooked fast then Vince would steal and brainwash them with sequins and glitter. Even the straightest of men who ventured into this shop could leave dreaming of ladyboys, flirtinis and Topshop. As a result of Vince’s apparent natural hypnotising abilities, Howard had become forced to accept that he might never again make a sale. Naboo was even threatening to make a dungeon to move Howard’s section of the shop to, and then advertise it on the black market like some kind of filthy porn venue. The paranoid part of him decided that they wanted to lock him underground, and allow Vince to turn the shop into a sweet store. The idea horrified him, so he decided not to ponder on it for too long.
The tall dark stranger was still browsing through his immense jazz collection, unbothered by Vince’s undoubtedly disorientating presence. In fact, it was rather peculiar that this customer was immune to the Vince Noir charm. It was either that or Vince’s charisma was simply lacking today. Howard dismissed that last thought as soon as it made itself known in his head. The Prince of Camden losing his capability to distract Howard’s customers? It was unheard of.
Howard looked over to Vince, hoping to find the reason that he had decided not to intervene on what was possibly his first sale in twenty-seven months, and found that perhaps he shouldn’t have dismissed his ponderings so readily.
Vince was trembling, tears streaking down his face. It was lucky that he was sitting far back in his seat, because it did not look like his shaky legs would have been able to support his weight. The seat was creaking from the jerky movements of the small man’s body, though there was no other sound. Howard was just about to unfreeze his own northern pins to move towards Vince, when the latter seemed to snap back to reality, eyes darting madly around the shop, tears still leaking from the corner of his eyes.
Before any conversation could be made, Vince dashed upstairs as quickly as his wobbly legs could carry him.
Howard was left alone with the tall man that breathed too loudly.
Howard soon found Vince with his face buried in his soft, burgundy bath towel, after seemingly splashing his face with cool water. His fingers still shook slightly as he pulled the towel away and saw that Howard was watching him from the hall.
“Hey, Howard.”
“Hey.” He felt so stupid when the silence extended for longer than was comfortable. Thankfully, Vince spoke again.
“I’m sorry about that. Don’t know what came over me,” he said in a strange tone; honesty.
“Did you know that man?” Howard asked, thinking he had hit a nail on its head.
“What man?”
“The one downstairs.”
“The customer?” Howard nodded. Vince shook his head.
“Never seen him before in my life,” Vince assured him.
“Then why did you freak out?”
“I dunno!”
“You don’t know him from any of your mates then?”
“He was asking for jazz, Howard. Do you really think any of my mates like jazz?” Howard felt a knife rip through his gut. For once Vince seemed to realise his error. “Well, you know what I mean, none of my mates at the clubs. It’s just you innit? And you didn’t seem to know that guy…”
“I thought that he was scaring you.”
“Scaring me?!” Vince scoffed.
“Well you started crying.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry alright, now can you just drop it?”
“Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
“Well there ain’t nothing wrong, is there?” Vince countered. Luckily, Howard had had a great deal of experience when it came to ignoring double negatives.
“You went wrong!”
“It’s in the past alright? A one-off crazy. You have ‘em all the time and you don’t see me banging on about it. Give it a rest, okay?”
“Right.” Howard hoped Vince was right.
Vince, who had been clutching his towel, roughly folded it and threw it back on the radiator. “So, did you sell anything then?”
“What?”
“To that customer? Did he buy anything?”
“Umm… no. I sent him out when you went upstairs.”
“What?! Why?”
“I thought you were scared. I thought he was a bad man.”
“Well he had bad taste, anyway…”
“So I pushed him out of the shop.”
“You what?”
“I… pushed him… out of the shop.”
“Is he alright? We can’t have another assault charge on your records! You’re in enough trouble as it is!”
“He’s fine, he’s fine. I saw him stumble to the bus stop.”
“A fancy man like that? I would’ve thought he’d drive some kind of fancy car. A Skoda or something.”
“Since when were Skoda’s fancy?”
“Well I dunno, do I? I’m not Kerry Jarkson am I?”
“Jeremy Clarkson - and thank God.”
“You’re a fool Howard.” Vince chastised, looking Howard in the face, “that could’ve been your first sale in twenty-seven years!”
“We haven’t worked here that long, Vince. I think you mean months.”
“Still, twenty-seven months is a long time.”
“Yes, I know that, thank you, Vince,” Howard muttered, bitterly.
“You’re such an idiot sometimes, Howard,” Vince said fondly. He smiled and patted Howard’s shoulder as he walked back down to the shop. “Get us a tea, yeah?”