Fic: The Logistics of a Cuddly Bear Mating With A Peacock (1/10)
The Logistics Of A Cuddly Bear Mating With A Peacock
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Mighty Boosh
Pairing: Howard/Vince
Rating: PG, this chapter
Word Count: 1036, so far
Warnings: mentions of food. Lots of mentions of food, actually
Disclaimer: I own a bag of jelly tots. Do not own the Boosh.
Author's Notes: Flipping FINALLY, right?! I've only been working on this beastie for the past million years. Big thankies to everyone who's been putting up (and no doubt will have to continue to do so as the chapters roll out) with my panicky writing crises. This is another story that's a part of this whole long complicated universe thing, in case you were wondering. I suppose it might also be helpful to know, if you care about these sorts of things, that this runs roughly concurrently to the things happening in Another Sky, so that's kind of relevant too. So, onward, intrepid reader!
That morning, Vince Noir, rock and roll shopkeeper, was embroiled in one of the most shocking political upheavals he had ever borne witness to.
“Oh no, civil unrest in Stationery Village!” cried Vince, bashing office supplies together in pretend battle. “The Pritt sticks have come out in support of the sticky notes in their protest of increased rail fares! They’re storming paperclip castle! The riot police have come out in full force and they’re not afraid to use their hot glue guns!”
“No they haven’t, Vince,” sighed Howard (Moon, that is, Vince’s longtime best friend, colleague, flatmate, and most recently, blushing bride-to-be), standing the fallen sellotape tree. “Put those biros back in the right order, please.”
“But I’m well bored,” huffed Vince, grudgingly sticking the rows of blu-tack back down in their garden.
“Here’s an idea for something fun you might like to try,” suggested Howard with a heavy sigh, “why not try doing some work for a change?”
Vince jumped in horror.
“Whoa there, let’s not get ridiculous,” he replied with a nervous laugh.
“Fine,” sighed Howard. “Has this afternoon’s edition of Cheekbone Weddings been ninja’d in yet? Why don’t you set us up a cake tasting?”
“As it happens, I have a sketch of our dream cake right here,” grinned Vince, pulling a folded up sheet of paper from fuck knows where, as his trousers were clearly too tight to ever have real pockets. He unfolded it across the countertop with a triumphant flourish. “This, Howard, is our wedding cake.”
“Vince,” squinted Howard, “this is a teacake.”
“Exactly,” Vince winked. “Only this teacake is one hundred times the size of a normal teacake, and you see those bits there? It’s decorated with jelly snakes, gummy fried eggs, fizzy gummy cherry cola bottles, and flying saucers, plus it’s got the words ‘Congratulations Mr. and Mr. Howard and Vince’ written on it in strawberry bootlaces! It’s guaranteed to be the single most amazing wedding cake the world has ever seen!”
“What’s wrong with keeping it simple?” countered Howard. “A nice basic sponge, bittersweet ganache filling, frosted with a reasonable layer of vanilla buttercream?”
“Seriously? That is well boring,” moaned Vince. “I’d say giant teacake wins this battle, hands down. It’s our wedding day, love! It’s got to be something the Camden elite will tell their grandkids about one day!”
“Vince, none of our guests will so much as have grandkids if they’re all sent into diabetic comas as a result of that glucosic abomination,” observed Howard.
“Yeah, and I suppose you’d rather serve a giant square of Ryvita, wouldn’t you?” sneered Vince, folding up his sketch.
“What’s wrong with wanting to bring a little class to the occasion?” reasoned Howard.
“What’s more classy than a teacake?” countered Vince.
“What’s less classy than a teacake?” squinted Howard.
“Fish fingers and tomato ketchup trifle with spaghetti hoops for custard, on a burberry tablecloth?”
---
And so they carried on, planning and bickering, planning and bickering, ever since that fateful day in New York City, when Vince smiled at Howard over pizza and asked him to be his lawfully-wedded missus - his intention being, of course, to beat Howard to it, thus saving himself having to sit through a four-hour treatise on the virtues of matrimony - and Howard, having intended to propose himself, gladly accepted. In that time, the pair had found any number of things to disagree on. This was fine, of course, as a keen interest in vigourous post-disagreement lovemaking was most definitely one thing they had in common. As such, on this morning, they both felt it necessary to enjoy a hearty breakfast, after the previous night’s, shall we say, vigorous activities.
“Have you given any thought to what you’ll be wearing to the wedding?” asked Howard, chewing on a buttery slice of Soreen.
Vince shot him an exasperated look, rolling his eyes and returning his attentions to his bowl of porridge (enriched, of course, with rainbow sprinkles and jelly tots).
“Of course,” sighed Howard. “how silly of me. And what have you decided on?”
“Well, see, I’ve got it narrowed it down to a shortlist,” said Vince, presenting Howard with a stack of papers the thickness of a metropolitan telephone directory.
“That’s not a shortlist, Vince,” said Howard, lowering his gaze at his sparkling groom-to-be, “that’s the itemized inventory of your wardrobe that I helped you compile last week.”
“Plus a few choice pieces I’ve had my eye on in Topshop,” grinned Vince, idly stirring his porridge about in his bowl. “Plus a few conceptual sketches of things I might give a go on the sewing machine.”
“So... you haven’t narrowed it down at all,” said Howard, splashing a touch of milk into his tea.
“What’d you expect?” giggled Vince, shovelling in a mouthful of rainbow mush.
“You might be interested to know that I’ve already decided on what I’ll be wearing,” said Howard, chomping down on a mouthful of buttery malt loaf.
“This ought to be good,” said Vince, raising an eyebrow.
“I was thinking just a simple corduroy - ”
“Ugh!” interjected Vince, making exaggerated vomit faces.
“ - in triumphant portobello, with an understated tweed - ”
“Nope.”
“ - vest in angry squirrel, and - ”
“Just, no.”
“ - a pair of simple sandals with - ”
“Howard?”
“What,” sighed Howard, setting down the remaining crust-end of his loaf.
“Why don’t you let me take care of both our outfits?” suggested Vince. “I think I could come up with something that would really work for you.”
“Nope,” Howard shook his head gravely, “absolutely not.”
“Howard,” said Vince. “I need you to trust me.”
“Nope,” replied Howard.
“Just trust me, Howard. Please,” pleaded Vince, taking Howard’s hands in his own. “You can’t get married in flamboyant mushroom, or whatever. Just trust me on this. I won’t let you down.”
Howard let out a deep breath. “Fine,” he aquiesced, facepalming.
“You won’t regret this,” beamed Vince.
“Then why do I already suspect I will?” mumbled Howard.
Chapter Two
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Mighty Boosh
Pairing: Howard/Vince
Rating: PG, this chapter
Word Count: 1036, so far
Warnings: mentions of food. Lots of mentions of food, actually
Disclaimer: I own a bag of jelly tots. Do not own the Boosh.
Author's Notes: Flipping FINALLY, right?! I've only been working on this beastie for the past million years. Big thankies to everyone who's been putting up (and no doubt will have to continue to do so as the chapters roll out) with my panicky writing crises. This is another story that's a part of this whole long complicated universe thing, in case you were wondering. I suppose it might also be helpful to know, if you care about these sorts of things, that this runs roughly concurrently to the things happening in Another Sky, so that's kind of relevant too. So, onward, intrepid reader!
That morning, Vince Noir, rock and roll shopkeeper, was embroiled in one of the most shocking political upheavals he had ever borne witness to.
“Oh no, civil unrest in Stationery Village!” cried Vince, bashing office supplies together in pretend battle. “The Pritt sticks have come out in support of the sticky notes in their protest of increased rail fares! They’re storming paperclip castle! The riot police have come out in full force and they’re not afraid to use their hot glue guns!”
“No they haven’t, Vince,” sighed Howard (Moon, that is, Vince’s longtime best friend, colleague, flatmate, and most recently, blushing bride-to-be), standing the fallen sellotape tree. “Put those biros back in the right order, please.”
“But I’m well bored,” huffed Vince, grudgingly sticking the rows of blu-tack back down in their garden.
“Here’s an idea for something fun you might like to try,” suggested Howard with a heavy sigh, “why not try doing some work for a change?”
Vince jumped in horror.
“Whoa there, let’s not get ridiculous,” he replied with a nervous laugh.
“Fine,” sighed Howard. “Has this afternoon’s edition of Cheekbone Weddings been ninja’d in yet? Why don’t you set us up a cake tasting?”
“As it happens, I have a sketch of our dream cake right here,” grinned Vince, pulling a folded up sheet of paper from fuck knows where, as his trousers were clearly too tight to ever have real pockets. He unfolded it across the countertop with a triumphant flourish. “This, Howard, is our wedding cake.”
“Vince,” squinted Howard, “this is a teacake.”
“Exactly,” Vince winked. “Only this teacake is one hundred times the size of a normal teacake, and you see those bits there? It’s decorated with jelly snakes, gummy fried eggs, fizzy gummy cherry cola bottles, and flying saucers, plus it’s got the words ‘Congratulations Mr. and Mr. Howard and Vince’ written on it in strawberry bootlaces! It’s guaranteed to be the single most amazing wedding cake the world has ever seen!”
“What’s wrong with keeping it simple?” countered Howard. “A nice basic sponge, bittersweet ganache filling, frosted with a reasonable layer of vanilla buttercream?”
“Seriously? That is well boring,” moaned Vince. “I’d say giant teacake wins this battle, hands down. It’s our wedding day, love! It’s got to be something the Camden elite will tell their grandkids about one day!”
“Vince, none of our guests will so much as have grandkids if they’re all sent into diabetic comas as a result of that glucosic abomination,” observed Howard.
“Yeah, and I suppose you’d rather serve a giant square of Ryvita, wouldn’t you?” sneered Vince, folding up his sketch.
“What’s wrong with wanting to bring a little class to the occasion?” reasoned Howard.
“What’s more classy than a teacake?” countered Vince.
“What’s less classy than a teacake?” squinted Howard.
“Fish fingers and tomato ketchup trifle with spaghetti hoops for custard, on a burberry tablecloth?”
---
And so they carried on, planning and bickering, planning and bickering, ever since that fateful day in New York City, when Vince smiled at Howard over pizza and asked him to be his lawfully-wedded missus - his intention being, of course, to beat Howard to it, thus saving himself having to sit through a four-hour treatise on the virtues of matrimony - and Howard, having intended to propose himself, gladly accepted. In that time, the pair had found any number of things to disagree on. This was fine, of course, as a keen interest in vigourous post-disagreement lovemaking was most definitely one thing they had in common. As such, on this morning, they both felt it necessary to enjoy a hearty breakfast, after the previous night’s, shall we say, vigorous activities.
“Have you given any thought to what you’ll be wearing to the wedding?” asked Howard, chewing on a buttery slice of Soreen.
Vince shot him an exasperated look, rolling his eyes and returning his attentions to his bowl of porridge (enriched, of course, with rainbow sprinkles and jelly tots).
“Of course,” sighed Howard. “how silly of me. And what have you decided on?”
“Well, see, I’ve got it narrowed it down to a shortlist,” said Vince, presenting Howard with a stack of papers the thickness of a metropolitan telephone directory.
“That’s not a shortlist, Vince,” said Howard, lowering his gaze at his sparkling groom-to-be, “that’s the itemized inventory of your wardrobe that I helped you compile last week.”
“Plus a few choice pieces I’ve had my eye on in Topshop,” grinned Vince, idly stirring his porridge about in his bowl. “Plus a few conceptual sketches of things I might give a go on the sewing machine.”
“So... you haven’t narrowed it down at all,” said Howard, splashing a touch of milk into his tea.
“What’d you expect?” giggled Vince, shovelling in a mouthful of rainbow mush.
“You might be interested to know that I’ve already decided on what I’ll be wearing,” said Howard, chomping down on a mouthful of buttery malt loaf.
“This ought to be good,” said Vince, raising an eyebrow.
“I was thinking just a simple corduroy - ”
“Ugh!” interjected Vince, making exaggerated vomit faces.
“ - in triumphant portobello, with an understated tweed - ”
“Nope.”
“ - vest in angry squirrel, and - ”
“Just, no.”
“ - a pair of simple sandals with - ”
“Howard?”
“What,” sighed Howard, setting down the remaining crust-end of his loaf.
“Why don’t you let me take care of both our outfits?” suggested Vince. “I think I could come up with something that would really work for you.”
“Nope,” Howard shook his head gravely, “absolutely not.”
“Howard,” said Vince. “I need you to trust me.”
“Nope,” replied Howard.
“Just trust me, Howard. Please,” pleaded Vince, taking Howard’s hands in his own. “You can’t get married in flamboyant mushroom, or whatever. Just trust me on this. I won’t let you down.”
Howard let out a deep breath. “Fine,” he aquiesced, facepalming.
“You won’t regret this,” beamed Vince.
“Then why do I already suspect I will?” mumbled Howard.
Chapter Two