Fic: Sugar Spun Sister
Sugar Spun Sister
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Mighty Boosh
Pairing: Howard/Vince
Rating: PG
Word Count: 341
Warnings: underage drinky-drink times
Disclaimer: still don't own them. BOO.
Author's Notes: The kernel for this emerged in my brain on a train from Manchester to London, listening to a song which it turns out wasn't released until 2 years after the year this story was set. AND I AM A STICKLER FOR STICKING TO A TIMELINE so this is 1992, and that Stone Roses album has been out for three years. The song in question!
Leroy had graciously offered his basement as the venue for the celebrations commemorating Vince’s sixteenth, as his parents had a fridge full of beers down there he swore they’d never miss. Gaggles of hip young people - and a handful of friendly pigeons Vince had invited - drifted in and out to pay their respects to the birthday boy, or at least get a free buzz on, while the Stone Roses serenaded them all on Mr. and Mrs. Leroy’s crackly basement stereo system.
Howard sat on a worn sofa in a quiet corner, sipping a mug of hot Ribena. Vince drifted through the ruckus to crash beside him, beaming.
“Having fun, Howard?” he slurred.
“Not really my scene,” conceded Howard. “But I got you something. Happy birthday, Vince.”
Howard hoped Vince would not notice that his limbs had decidedly outgrown his fancy-dress tweed suit by a good two inches since the last time he wore it, as he handed over a meticulously wrapped box. Vince, thankfully, was too entranced by the sparkles to notice. He tore past the paper and threw open the box, which contained a pair of white leather cowboy boots.
“Genius!” exclaimed Vince, radiant with tipsy joy. “They must have cost a bloody fortune!”
“Only a few months’ savings,” Howard shrugged magnanimously.
”They‘re fucking gorgeous, Howard,” beamed Vince. “I love you. Them. How did you know?”
“You’ve only been mooning over them every time we passed the shop window, every day,” said Howard. “I’m perceptive about these things. They don’t call me The Perceiver for nothing.”
“Who does?” squinted Vince.
“Uhh... them,” blushed Howard.
“Well, they’re perfect. Cheers, Howard,” said Vince, leaning in to place a soft kiss on Howard’s cheek.
Howard tensed, flustered and blushing like 54630983569873469875634509456.9 glasses of summer fruit squash.
“No touching, no touching,” Vince assured him, hands raised, grinning.
As Vince swaggered off in the direction of the fridge for another beer, Howard crossed his legs, folding in on himself, hoping no one would notice.
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Mighty Boosh
Pairing: Howard/Vince
Rating: PG
Word Count: 341
Warnings: underage drinky-drink times
Disclaimer: still don't own them. BOO.
Author's Notes: The kernel for this emerged in my brain on a train from Manchester to London, listening to a song which it turns out wasn't released until 2 years after the year this story was set. AND I AM A STICKLER FOR STICKING TO A TIMELINE so this is 1992, and that Stone Roses album has been out for three years. The song in question!
Leroy had graciously offered his basement as the venue for the celebrations commemorating Vince’s sixteenth, as his parents had a fridge full of beers down there he swore they’d never miss. Gaggles of hip young people - and a handful of friendly pigeons Vince had invited - drifted in and out to pay their respects to the birthday boy, or at least get a free buzz on, while the Stone Roses serenaded them all on Mr. and Mrs. Leroy’s crackly basement stereo system.
Howard sat on a worn sofa in a quiet corner, sipping a mug of hot Ribena. Vince drifted through the ruckus to crash beside him, beaming.
“Having fun, Howard?” he slurred.
“Not really my scene,” conceded Howard. “But I got you something. Happy birthday, Vince.”
Howard hoped Vince would not notice that his limbs had decidedly outgrown his fancy-dress tweed suit by a good two inches since the last time he wore it, as he handed over a meticulously wrapped box. Vince, thankfully, was too entranced by the sparkles to notice. He tore past the paper and threw open the box, which contained a pair of white leather cowboy boots.
“Genius!” exclaimed Vince, radiant with tipsy joy. “They must have cost a bloody fortune!”
“Only a few months’ savings,” Howard shrugged magnanimously.
”They‘re fucking gorgeous, Howard,” beamed Vince. “I love you. Them. How did you know?”
“You’ve only been mooning over them every time we passed the shop window, every day,” said Howard. “I’m perceptive about these things. They don’t call me The Perceiver for nothing.”
“Who does?” squinted Vince.
“Uhh... them,” blushed Howard.
“Well, they’re perfect. Cheers, Howard,” said Vince, leaning in to place a soft kiss on Howard’s cheek.
Howard tensed, flustered and blushing like 54630983569873469875634509456.9 glasses of summer fruit squash.
“No touching, no touching,” Vince assured him, hands raised, grinning.
As Vince swaggered off in the direction of the fridge for another beer, Howard crossed his legs, folding in on himself, hoping no one would notice.