Let the Good Times Roll Part 36
Title: Let the Good Times Roll
Author: Concupid
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Howard/Vince
Warnings: language, mild angst
Summary: Howard meets with his therapist.
Author's Note: So near the end... for real this time! I'm so appreciative of everyone who has made a kind comment along the way and amazed that people have stayed with this story. I am going to do my best to wrap it up in a satisfying way!
"How are things with Vince?" Saboo asked in his deep and surprisingly soothing voice.
Howard hesitated before saying, "Great. Things are great. No problems to report."
Saboo nodded.
"Really, things are terrific."
"Do you think I don't believe you?" Saboo asked. His tone was neutral, but his face was full of warmth and understanding. It was strange for Howard to be treated with such kindness, especially from the prickly Saboo. It was still unnerving.
"He wants me to talk to my mother. It's the only thing he's asked for and I know I should just do it before..."
"Before?" Saboo prompted.
Before he gives up on me was the real answer. It was something they had discussed more than once, and Howard knew damn well that Saboo already knew what he meant. There was no reason to say it out loud. They had already covered Howard's relentless fear that he wasn't recovering quickly enough and that it was only a matter of time until Vince realized his Howard was gone, replace by someone even needier and more neurotic. Someone who would never be able to relax. Someone Vince would always have to look after, like an anxious puppy who cannot be left alone lest he bark all night and tear up the carpet.
"We've discussed your ambivalence about speaking to your mother," Saboo offered when Howard couldn't think of anything further to say.
Howard would rather phone up Bob Fossil for a chat than his mother. Ambivalent was an understatement.
"There's already been so much..." Howard trailed off, unsure of what he was even trying to say.
"Has Vince given you a time frame of when he would like you to call your mother?"
Howard already knew where Saboo was going, but he still needed to go through the steps.
"He wants me to call when I'm ready."
"Are you ready?"
"No," Howard admitted. He wasn't ready, and he wasn't sure he ever would be.
xxx
Saboo was nearly 700 years old, although he didn't look a day over 150 by his planet's standards. Like many interplanetary shamans, he found living on Earth to be trying in many ways. Earth was a popular destination for magical folk. Unlike most planets, Earthlings had once believed in gods and monsters and magic, but then a fad religion came along by the name of "reason" and they stopped believing their eyes. A plum by the name of Newton said apples fell to the Earth because of something called gravity and the dozy bastards called in science. Meanwhile Ted, the magnetic ghost who was actually keeping everything on the planet from flying away, got zero attention. Earthlings worried about the ozone layer and global warming - problems that could easily be solved by doing a couple of dances to appease the gods of patches and giant ice cubes, but were totally oblivious to the fact that Ted was ready to let them all go flying into the atmosphere.
Just like he'd done with the Martians.
Earthlings were so counter evolved, they questioned, "Was there life on Mars?" even though they had all seen the pictures of the giant fucking face on the planet's surface. Torn between the obvious and "science", Earthlings decided the face was a coincidence.
Because Earthlings were so inexplicably ignorant and determined to stay that way, it was easy for a shaman to set up a fairly normal life there. On his own planet, Saboo was hounded day and night for his magic. On Earth, people mainly asked him if he knew where to buy weed.
The downside of Earthling companions, other than their mind-blowing idiocy, was their painfully short life spans. With their human chums dropping like flies, every shaman needed a hobby, a way to stay grounded. Dennis had his crossword puzzles and extreme sports, Naboo had drugs, and Saboo dabbled in psychiatry. He'd actually begun his career doing coke with Sigmund Freud. When the genius finally noticed cocaine was addictive (and stopped prescribing it like a vitamin supplement) he turned to psychoanalysis, and Saboo was intrigued. He followed the field through its many bullshit phases until he met a man by the name of Carl Rogers. Through Rogers, Saboo learned something important about Earthlings: they really needed to be liked. More than anything, it seemed that what made Earthlings recover from the various traumas of their short lives was to feel accepted and not judged by at least one person. They needed kindness and compassion like air, and yet Earthlings were generally nasty gits to one another.
So, Saboo set up a practice and, one at a time, helped idiot Earthlings to face another day. He could have wiped Howard and Vince's memories, and made it like the kidnapping had never happened. He could have given them enough hazy, boozy Bourbon St. memories that they could have returned to their old lives as though nothing had happened. No more night terrors, trembling hands, or flashbacks. When Howard broke into a cold sweat just trying to say the word rape, or when he wept for what he saw as the inevitable loss of Vince's love, Saboo was tempted to just make it all go away. An Earthling of Howard's advanced age couldn't be wasting his time being afraid. What kept Saboo on course was the irrefutable fact that Howard's life had been improved by his ordeal. He was facing his fears, fighting for what mattered to him and shagging Vince instead of just eyefucking him while other people were trying to eat. Howard was a stronger and a better man than he had been before. Saboo had always written Howard and Vince off as typical Earthling idiots, but their resilience was beautiful and inspiring. It was cases like Howard that made Saboo continue to counsel humans even after he started getting bored of their primitive problems. Saboo's greatest joy in life (other than canning his own preserves) was seeing a sad sack like Howard blossom into someone worth knowing.
That was also why Saboo also had a BTEC National in hair design.
"Why do you think Vince wants you to call your mother?" Saboo asked, when it became clear Howard was not going to speak.
"He wants to know what I am."
It was important to be genuine and authentic in counseling, but it was anti-therapeutic to call someone a whinging tit, so Saboo held his tongue. Vince could summon a giant, deadly ball of chewed gum to seek his revenge and Howard once died and went to Monkey Hell. Some people might have taken those to be clues they were of magical ilk, but not Howard and Vince. They needed a Voodoo queen to come back from the dead to tip them off.
Howard looked up at Saboo through his long and unkempt hair, with his sad little cockerel eyes. Howard hated to talk about his magical roots. After years of desperately trying to find a way to be different and special, all Howard wanted was to be normal, boring and to reside in Vince's shadow.
"I think Vince knows who you are." Saboo took it as a good sign when Howard didn't argue the semantics, he just ducked back under his hair. Saboo could have him sorted out with a flattering asymmetrical cut in two minutes flat, but it wasn't his place.
And while he offered his counseling services free of charge, Saboo didn't pick up his scissors for less than two hundred Euros.
When Saboo suggested Howard get a haircut, the Earthling squirmed in his seat before mumbling, "Vince usually cuts it for me."
Vince, the midnight barber. It was treacherous territory. Howard currently could not admit that there was a single thing Vince had ever done that was not perfect. He seemed terrified of being in any way disloyal to Vince, even in his own mind.
"Maybe you should ask Vince for a haircut," Saboo suggested, trying to convey his sincere concern through his eyes and tone of voice. "Because you look like a scraggly tramp."
xxx
Vince's hands were shaking, but there was no way he was going to make a mistake. He'd been itching to give Howard a trim since they got back to England, but he was afraid to even suggest it. After being banned from cutting Howard's hair against his will, they had worked out a schedule for when Vince was allowed to go at Howard's locks. Every eight weeks, Vince was allowed fifteen minutes for washing, cutting and styling. Those were a powerful fifteen minutes, because he then had to look at the results for another eight weeks. He was still recovering from the time he'd missed an especially tight curl and left Howard with one bit of hair about two inches longer than the rest. Howard went out of his way to highlight the stray hair and use it to torment Vince. He'd even caught Howard borrowing his straightners to iron the curl out to its full length.
They'd been home for three months, sharing Howard's bed and sharing each other's dreams. Sometimes they made love in reality, sometimes it was in their dreamworld. There was no lack of intimacy or touching, and yet Howard's hair grew long and shaggy and Vince didn't dare do a thing about it.
With the stray curl, Vince had given it and snipped it in the night. He'd found traces of glitter spray on the lock of hair, evidence of how far Howard was willing to go to annoy him, but that didn't stop Howard from yelling at him the next day. He said Vince couldn't be trusted. It hurt because it was true. Howard had tested Vince, and Vince had failed.
For months, he'd been itching to do something to Howard's shambolic mane, but he waited for permission. In a way, it was another test, and he was determined not to fail.
Howard had not issued a time limit, but Vince moved quickly out of habit. As the floor became littered with curls, Howard seemed to be sitting straighter. It was like a literal weight being lifted off the Northerner's head, as though the baby fine hair had any real heft to it.
He cut Howard's hair the way Vince liked it best, a little long on top so he never quite looked like he owned a comb, but short enough on the back and sides that he didn't look rabid. It was the opposite of a mullet, party in the front, business in the back.
Howard ran a hand through his hair and watched with a satisfied smile as it fell chaotically about his face.
"Thanks, Vince."
"Cheers, Howard."
Author: Concupid
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Howard/Vince
Warnings: language, mild angst
Summary: Howard meets with his therapist.
Author's Note: So near the end... for real this time! I'm so appreciative of everyone who has made a kind comment along the way and amazed that people have stayed with this story. I am going to do my best to wrap it up in a satisfying way!
"How are things with Vince?" Saboo asked in his deep and surprisingly soothing voice.
Howard hesitated before saying, "Great. Things are great. No problems to report."
Saboo nodded.
"Really, things are terrific."
"Do you think I don't believe you?" Saboo asked. His tone was neutral, but his face was full of warmth and understanding. It was strange for Howard to be treated with such kindness, especially from the prickly Saboo. It was still unnerving.
"He wants me to talk to my mother. It's the only thing he's asked for and I know I should just do it before..."
"Before?" Saboo prompted.
Before he gives up on me was the real answer. It was something they had discussed more than once, and Howard knew damn well that Saboo already knew what he meant. There was no reason to say it out loud. They had already covered Howard's relentless fear that he wasn't recovering quickly enough and that it was only a matter of time until Vince realized his Howard was gone, replace by someone even needier and more neurotic. Someone who would never be able to relax. Someone Vince would always have to look after, like an anxious puppy who cannot be left alone lest he bark all night and tear up the carpet.
"We've discussed your ambivalence about speaking to your mother," Saboo offered when Howard couldn't think of anything further to say.
Howard would rather phone up Bob Fossil for a chat than his mother. Ambivalent was an understatement.
"There's already been so much..." Howard trailed off, unsure of what he was even trying to say.
"Has Vince given you a time frame of when he would like you to call your mother?"
Howard already knew where Saboo was going, but he still needed to go through the steps.
"He wants me to call when I'm ready."
"Are you ready?"
"No," Howard admitted. He wasn't ready, and he wasn't sure he ever would be.
xxx
Saboo was nearly 700 years old, although he didn't look a day over 150 by his planet's standards. Like many interplanetary shamans, he found living on Earth to be trying in many ways. Earth was a popular destination for magical folk. Unlike most planets, Earthlings had once believed in gods and monsters and magic, but then a fad religion came along by the name of "reason" and they stopped believing their eyes. A plum by the name of Newton said apples fell to the Earth because of something called gravity and the dozy bastards called in science. Meanwhile Ted, the magnetic ghost who was actually keeping everything on the planet from flying away, got zero attention. Earthlings worried about the ozone layer and global warming - problems that could easily be solved by doing a couple of dances to appease the gods of patches and giant ice cubes, but were totally oblivious to the fact that Ted was ready to let them all go flying into the atmosphere.
Just like he'd done with the Martians.
Earthlings were so counter evolved, they questioned, "Was there life on Mars?" even though they had all seen the pictures of the giant fucking face on the planet's surface. Torn between the obvious and "science", Earthlings decided the face was a coincidence.
Because Earthlings were so inexplicably ignorant and determined to stay that way, it was easy for a shaman to set up a fairly normal life there. On his own planet, Saboo was hounded day and night for his magic. On Earth, people mainly asked him if he knew where to buy weed.
The downside of Earthling companions, other than their mind-blowing idiocy, was their painfully short life spans. With their human chums dropping like flies, every shaman needed a hobby, a way to stay grounded. Dennis had his crossword puzzles and extreme sports, Naboo had drugs, and Saboo dabbled in psychiatry. He'd actually begun his career doing coke with Sigmund Freud. When the genius finally noticed cocaine was addictive (and stopped prescribing it like a vitamin supplement) he turned to psychoanalysis, and Saboo was intrigued. He followed the field through its many bullshit phases until he met a man by the name of Carl Rogers. Through Rogers, Saboo learned something important about Earthlings: they really needed to be liked. More than anything, it seemed that what made Earthlings recover from the various traumas of their short lives was to feel accepted and not judged by at least one person. They needed kindness and compassion like air, and yet Earthlings were generally nasty gits to one another.
So, Saboo set up a practice and, one at a time, helped idiot Earthlings to face another day. He could have wiped Howard and Vince's memories, and made it like the kidnapping had never happened. He could have given them enough hazy, boozy Bourbon St. memories that they could have returned to their old lives as though nothing had happened. No more night terrors, trembling hands, or flashbacks. When Howard broke into a cold sweat just trying to say the word rape, or when he wept for what he saw as the inevitable loss of Vince's love, Saboo was tempted to just make it all go away. An Earthling of Howard's advanced age couldn't be wasting his time being afraid. What kept Saboo on course was the irrefutable fact that Howard's life had been improved by his ordeal. He was facing his fears, fighting for what mattered to him and shagging Vince instead of just eyefucking him while other people were trying to eat. Howard was a stronger and a better man than he had been before. Saboo had always written Howard and Vince off as typical Earthling idiots, but their resilience was beautiful and inspiring. It was cases like Howard that made Saboo continue to counsel humans even after he started getting bored of their primitive problems. Saboo's greatest joy in life (other than canning his own preserves) was seeing a sad sack like Howard blossom into someone worth knowing.
That was also why Saboo also had a BTEC National in hair design.
"Why do you think Vince wants you to call your mother?" Saboo asked, when it became clear Howard was not going to speak.
"He wants to know what I am."
It was important to be genuine and authentic in counseling, but it was anti-therapeutic to call someone a whinging tit, so Saboo held his tongue. Vince could summon a giant, deadly ball of chewed gum to seek his revenge and Howard once died and went to Monkey Hell. Some people might have taken those to be clues they were of magical ilk, but not Howard and Vince. They needed a Voodoo queen to come back from the dead to tip them off.
Howard looked up at Saboo through his long and unkempt hair, with his sad little cockerel eyes. Howard hated to talk about his magical roots. After years of desperately trying to find a way to be different and special, all Howard wanted was to be normal, boring and to reside in Vince's shadow.
"I think Vince knows who you are." Saboo took it as a good sign when Howard didn't argue the semantics, he just ducked back under his hair. Saboo could have him sorted out with a flattering asymmetrical cut in two minutes flat, but it wasn't his place.
And while he offered his counseling services free of charge, Saboo didn't pick up his scissors for less than two hundred Euros.
When Saboo suggested Howard get a haircut, the Earthling squirmed in his seat before mumbling, "Vince usually cuts it for me."
Vince, the midnight barber. It was treacherous territory. Howard currently could not admit that there was a single thing Vince had ever done that was not perfect. He seemed terrified of being in any way disloyal to Vince, even in his own mind.
"Maybe you should ask Vince for a haircut," Saboo suggested, trying to convey his sincere concern through his eyes and tone of voice. "Because you look like a scraggly tramp."
xxx
Vince's hands were shaking, but there was no way he was going to make a mistake. He'd been itching to give Howard a trim since they got back to England, but he was afraid to even suggest it. After being banned from cutting Howard's hair against his will, they had worked out a schedule for when Vince was allowed to go at Howard's locks. Every eight weeks, Vince was allowed fifteen minutes for washing, cutting and styling. Those were a powerful fifteen minutes, because he then had to look at the results for another eight weeks. He was still recovering from the time he'd missed an especially tight curl and left Howard with one bit of hair about two inches longer than the rest. Howard went out of his way to highlight the stray hair and use it to torment Vince. He'd even caught Howard borrowing his straightners to iron the curl out to its full length.
They'd been home for three months, sharing Howard's bed and sharing each other's dreams. Sometimes they made love in reality, sometimes it was in their dreamworld. There was no lack of intimacy or touching, and yet Howard's hair grew long and shaggy and Vince didn't dare do a thing about it.
With the stray curl, Vince had given it and snipped it in the night. He'd found traces of glitter spray on the lock of hair, evidence of how far Howard was willing to go to annoy him, but that didn't stop Howard from yelling at him the next day. He said Vince couldn't be trusted. It hurt because it was true. Howard had tested Vince, and Vince had failed.
For months, he'd been itching to do something to Howard's shambolic mane, but he waited for permission. In a way, it was another test, and he was determined not to fail.
Howard had not issued a time limit, but Vince moved quickly out of habit. As the floor became littered with curls, Howard seemed to be sitting straighter. It was like a literal weight being lifted off the Northerner's head, as though the baby fine hair had any real heft to it.
He cut Howard's hair the way Vince liked it best, a little long on top so he never quite looked like he owned a comb, but short enough on the back and sides that he didn't look rabid. It was the opposite of a mullet, party in the front, business in the back.
Howard ran a hand through his hair and watched with a satisfied smile as it fell chaotically about his face.
"Thanks, Vince."
"Cheers, Howard."