Fic: The Logistics of a Cuddly Bear Mating With A Peacock (7/10)
The Logistics Of A Cuddly Bear Mating With A Peacock (7/10)
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Mighty Boosh
Pairing: Howard/Vince
Rating: PG, this chapter
Word Count: 1124, this chapter (9113, so far)
Warnings: some schmaltz, a cliché or two
Disclaimer: I own a box of ice cream sandwiches, thank goodness, but not the Boosh.
Author's Notes: THE BIG DAY IS FINALLY UPON THEM. Yay.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Howard looked good. Like, really, actually good. He wore a slim-cut - but not hipster-emaciated - suit in black with a grey waistcoat and matching bow tie, black patent brogues, and a red rose in his buttonhole. Somehow, the ensemble not only flattered his features, but looked, well, like Howard. And yet stylish. And there was not a trace of brown in sight. Vince swelled with pride at the success of his plan.
“Told you I’d take care of your outfit,” grinned Vince.
“A bespoke suit, though, Little Man? I don’t remember you taking my measurements,” squinted Howard, tugging nervously at his shirt cuffs.
“Measured you in your sleep, silly,” laughed Vince, adjusting Howard’s tie.
“That is a bit perverted, Little Man,” said Howard. “Why didn’t you just ask?”
“Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the element of surprise?” eyerolled Vince.
“And where are the potential erotic benefits of taking an inside leg measurement if I’m not awake to take full advantage of them?” asked Howard, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
“I love you, Howard,” beamed Vince. “Do you love your outfit?”
Howard sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “Please don’t gloat.”
---
Everything was go. The day had come. Everyone who mattered was there: Mr. and Mrs. Moon had emerged from the wilderness of Leeds and come down to London the night before, Naboo’s shaman council mates had flown in on their magic carpets, Dan and Jones had taken time out from babyproofing their home. Vince was busily putting finishing touches on his hair, guests were arriving, Dan Ashcroft was on his fifth pack of cigarettes, Leroy was preparing to live-tweet the event from his phone, and the shaman’s council were busily imbibing every conceivable intoxicant (with the exception of Dennis, who was still suffering flashbacks from the last time he accidentally looked at a magic mushroom, and Kirk, who was six months sober following an unfortunate scandal which, due to a superinjunction the details of which cannot be revealed, we can only say involved a flying carpet, two cabinet ministers, a stack of old telephone directories, half a dozen cantaloupes, and a pheasant named Owen).
And there was Howard, cross-legged in an unobtrusive corner of the back garden. Jones found him quite by accident while searching for an outlet for one of his many extension cords. He knew the others would begin to wonder where Howard was pretty soon, if he did not make an appearance. An intervention was required.
“Howard,” Jones ventured out cautiously, seating himself beside Howard. “What are you doing out here?”
“Just... making sure all the blades of grass in the back garden are in the right order,” blustered Howard, feigning a sad attempt at counting them. Jones watched him skeptically, half smiling.
“You sure you’re not just feeling a bit nervous?” he asked.
“Howard Moon doesn't do nervous,” Howard protested, puffing himself up slightly as he spoke. “... and that’s 239,423 blades of grass, in the right order.”
“Oh give over, Howard,” said Jones, elbowing him lightly. “Course you’re nervous. This is massive, what you’re doing; it’d be weird if you weren’t nervous.”
“Right,” agreed Howard. “It’s a big day all right. A milestone. Life-changing. The universe will never be the same after - ”
“Yeah, I don’t think anything’s actually going to be that different,” said Jones. “I mean, me and Dan, we’ve been together for ages, and it’s just well normal, yeah? Don’t think getting all in fancy dress and having cake one day’s going to make everything get all weird, you know?”
Howard nodded mutely, fussing about with his cufflinks.
“Vince loves you, yeah?” Jones continued. “That look he gets when you’re in the room, it’s... you’re going to be so happy. That and I spent like the last twelve hours remixing a new song for you two, and it’s well romantic. So buck the fuck up and get back in there.”
“I will,” said Howard, straightening his jacket as he stood. Jones smiled, smoothing his hands lightly over Howard’s lapels.
“Need any help music?” asked Jones, fishing a set of headphones out of his personal mess of wires.
“I think I’ll be all right,” said Howard. “Thanks, Jones.”
---
All of the Camden elite were present for the event, dressed in their most splendid fashionable formalwear, but none were more splendid than Vince Noir himself: he appeared, arm-in-arm with Bryan Ferry (who had taken time out of his busy recording and touring schedule to give away the groom), carrying a bouquet of rare and precious mirrorball orchids (so precious that they bloomed only once every 647 years, four months, twelve days, nine hours, eleven minutes, and twenty-seven point four seconds), his glittering cape trailing behind him. Hushed whispers of awe were heard throughout the crowd gathered there.
“I’ve never seen anything so magnificent,” said one, with a lifelike painting of an eagle ironically emblazoned across the back of her denim jacket.
“She’s transplendent,” said another, in a velour jumper featuring a large applique of a wolf.
“I think he’s a boy,” said the first one.
“Frankly, I don’t care what it is, it’s magical,” said the other.
“That man looks like he comes from space,” observed a bewildered man in lipstick, pointing at Vince. “Whose birthday is this?”
“Who gives a fuck?” mumbled a tall girl in fluorescent aerobics gear. “I am so fucking wasted.”
Vince’s outfit was beyond description: so much so that this narrator is questioning the futility of attempting to describe it. It is, however, this narrator supposes, the sacred duty of the narrator to do so. Thus: it looked as though all the stars in the sky had descended from their home in the heavens, and fashioned themselves into the radiant garments draped over him, but he was yet still the most radiant of them all, shining with the blush of true love.
(True love, and the judicious use of Naboo’s Miracle Wax.)
Howard stood at the front of the room, flanked by the groomsmaids, and behind them stood Gary Numan.
“So, we meet again, Ferry,” said Gary Numan, as Bryan Ferry brought Vince to stand beside his bride-to-be.
“Oh, it’s you, Numan,” sneered Bryan Ferry.
“All right, Howard,” blushed Vince.
“All right, Little Man,” blushed Howard.
And there they blushed, oblivious to all the others present, for some minutes, until they were interrupted by Leroy.
“Uhh, guys,” he said in sotto voce, leaning in close to Howard. “I think a fight’s about to break out.”
Chapter Eight
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Mighty Boosh
Pairing: Howard/Vince
Rating: PG, this chapter
Word Count: 1124, this chapter (9113, so far)
Warnings: some schmaltz, a cliché or two
Disclaimer: I own a box of ice cream sandwiches, thank goodness, but not the Boosh.
Author's Notes: THE BIG DAY IS FINALLY UPON THEM. Yay.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Howard looked good. Like, really, actually good. He wore a slim-cut - but not hipster-emaciated - suit in black with a grey waistcoat and matching bow tie, black patent brogues, and a red rose in his buttonhole. Somehow, the ensemble not only flattered his features, but looked, well, like Howard. And yet stylish. And there was not a trace of brown in sight. Vince swelled with pride at the success of his plan.
“Told you I’d take care of your outfit,” grinned Vince.
“A bespoke suit, though, Little Man? I don’t remember you taking my measurements,” squinted Howard, tugging nervously at his shirt cuffs.
“Measured you in your sleep, silly,” laughed Vince, adjusting Howard’s tie.
“That is a bit perverted, Little Man,” said Howard. “Why didn’t you just ask?”
“Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the element of surprise?” eyerolled Vince.
“And where are the potential erotic benefits of taking an inside leg measurement if I’m not awake to take full advantage of them?” asked Howard, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
“I love you, Howard,” beamed Vince. “Do you love your outfit?”
Howard sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “Please don’t gloat.”
---
Everything was go. The day had come. Everyone who mattered was there: Mr. and Mrs. Moon had emerged from the wilderness of Leeds and come down to London the night before, Naboo’s shaman council mates had flown in on their magic carpets, Dan and Jones had taken time out from babyproofing their home. Vince was busily putting finishing touches on his hair, guests were arriving, Dan Ashcroft was on his fifth pack of cigarettes, Leroy was preparing to live-tweet the event from his phone, and the shaman’s council were busily imbibing every conceivable intoxicant (with the exception of Dennis, who was still suffering flashbacks from the last time he accidentally looked at a magic mushroom, and Kirk, who was six months sober following an unfortunate scandal which, due to a superinjunction the details of which cannot be revealed, we can only say involved a flying carpet, two cabinet ministers, a stack of old telephone directories, half a dozen cantaloupes, and a pheasant named Owen).
And there was Howard, cross-legged in an unobtrusive corner of the back garden. Jones found him quite by accident while searching for an outlet for one of his many extension cords. He knew the others would begin to wonder where Howard was pretty soon, if he did not make an appearance. An intervention was required.
“Howard,” Jones ventured out cautiously, seating himself beside Howard. “What are you doing out here?”
“Just... making sure all the blades of grass in the back garden are in the right order,” blustered Howard, feigning a sad attempt at counting them. Jones watched him skeptically, half smiling.
“You sure you’re not just feeling a bit nervous?” he asked.
“Howard Moon doesn't do nervous,” Howard protested, puffing himself up slightly as he spoke. “... and that’s 239,423 blades of grass, in the right order.”
“Oh give over, Howard,” said Jones, elbowing him lightly. “Course you’re nervous. This is massive, what you’re doing; it’d be weird if you weren’t nervous.”
“Right,” agreed Howard. “It’s a big day all right. A milestone. Life-changing. The universe will never be the same after - ”
“Yeah, I don’t think anything’s actually going to be that different,” said Jones. “I mean, me and Dan, we’ve been together for ages, and it’s just well normal, yeah? Don’t think getting all in fancy dress and having cake one day’s going to make everything get all weird, you know?”
Howard nodded mutely, fussing about with his cufflinks.
“Vince loves you, yeah?” Jones continued. “That look he gets when you’re in the room, it’s... you’re going to be so happy. That and I spent like the last twelve hours remixing a new song for you two, and it’s well romantic. So buck the fuck up and get back in there.”
“I will,” said Howard, straightening his jacket as he stood. Jones smiled, smoothing his hands lightly over Howard’s lapels.
“Need any help music?” asked Jones, fishing a set of headphones out of his personal mess of wires.
“I think I’ll be all right,” said Howard. “Thanks, Jones.”
---
All of the Camden elite were present for the event, dressed in their most splendid fashionable formalwear, but none were more splendid than Vince Noir himself: he appeared, arm-in-arm with Bryan Ferry (who had taken time out of his busy recording and touring schedule to give away the groom), carrying a bouquet of rare and precious mirrorball orchids (so precious that they bloomed only once every 647 years, four months, twelve days, nine hours, eleven minutes, and twenty-seven point four seconds), his glittering cape trailing behind him. Hushed whispers of awe were heard throughout the crowd gathered there.
“I’ve never seen anything so magnificent,” said one, with a lifelike painting of an eagle ironically emblazoned across the back of her denim jacket.
“She’s transplendent,” said another, in a velour jumper featuring a large applique of a wolf.
“I think he’s a boy,” said the first one.
“Frankly, I don’t care what it is, it’s magical,” said the other.
“That man looks like he comes from space,” observed a bewildered man in lipstick, pointing at Vince. “Whose birthday is this?”
“Who gives a fuck?” mumbled a tall girl in fluorescent aerobics gear. “I am so fucking wasted.”
Vince’s outfit was beyond description: so much so that this narrator is questioning the futility of attempting to describe it. It is, however, this narrator supposes, the sacred duty of the narrator to do so. Thus: it looked as though all the stars in the sky had descended from their home in the heavens, and fashioned themselves into the radiant garments draped over him, but he was yet still the most radiant of them all, shining with the blush of true love.
(True love, and the judicious use of Naboo’s Miracle Wax.)
Howard stood at the front of the room, flanked by the groomsmaids, and behind them stood Gary Numan.
“So, we meet again, Ferry,” said Gary Numan, as Bryan Ferry brought Vince to stand beside his bride-to-be.
“Oh, it’s you, Numan,” sneered Bryan Ferry.
“All right, Howard,” blushed Vince.
“All right, Little Man,” blushed Howard.
And there they blushed, oblivious to all the others present, for some minutes, until they were interrupted by Leroy.
“Uhh, guys,” he said in sotto voce, leaning in close to Howard. “I think a fight’s about to break out.”
Chapter Eight