HSN Exchange Fic: Dr. Feelgood, for cruiscin_lan
Title: Dr Feelgood, Or: How Howard Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Vacuum
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: All Howard, all the time. One-sided with Terri, Sue and Emma.
Warnings: N/A
Word count:~5,000
Disclaimer: This Glee fanfiction is based upon the television show of the same name. All characters and situations other than my own are sole property of Ryan Murphy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television.
Summary: A problem shared is a problem halved, but all sharing gets Howard is a black eye and a morally dubious orgasm.
A/N: Enormous thanks to my wonderful beta for her help and general cheerleading ♥
Turning thirty had proved to be a significant benchmark in the life and times of Howard Bamboo. Growing up, he'd always been an anxious child. He'd never cared for sandboxes or grapefruit juice, and had always deeply distrusted tricycles. Adolescence had heralded the dawning of a lifelong enmity with aerosol cans, linoleum and running faucets, and somewhere along the way he'd become distinctly disturbed by warm soda, grass clippings and redbrick houses. It was only when he passed thirty, however, and broke out in a cold sweat at the prospect of being asked his age, that his mother finally insisted he enrol in group therapy.
He'd been attending ever since, and while his neuroses had hardly lessened, he had at least met some interesting people - very few of whom ever asked him about fitted sheets, giving it an immediate advantage over work. They'd even found a nice class for him to attend during his brief tenure as a suspected drugs baron, before Terri's husband had sold her collection of South African dado rails to bail him out.
All things considered, Howard rather enjoyed the sessions. They were generally less intimidating than regular social interaction, being that most attendees were just as bewildered as he was - the resultant downside being that they tended towards being entirely ineffectual. New group leaders never lasted long, once the opening "Close your eyes and count to ten" rapidly devolved into urgent discussion about avoiding odd digits and the relative merits of prime numbers over perfect ones. Howard rarely spoke up, but was quite the fan of 28 - certainly more so than its prime cousins 31, 37 and 41.
Lately, he'd resorted to less practical means of tackling his problems. Therapy was all well and good, and the visualisation techniques were fun, but visualising a clean apartment had yet to make one spring into existence. Howard yearned to actually use his vacuum, rather than just imagine that he had, before going on to invent sheets that fitted themselves, taking over the company, kicking out the obnoxious high schoolers and graciously keeping Terri on to peel his grapes and de-crust his sandwiches. And so he'd begun to look elsewhere for answers.
His first solution had been medical, if not quite legal. Ever since the Bell's Palsy incident, Sandy Ryerson had been leaving him generous tips of medical marijuana - even on the days Howard cowered in the stock room to avoid him. He'd had no real use for it, given that learning to roll a cigarette was one of many life-skills that had passed him by entirely. His fingers lacked the necessary dexterity to roll the paper, and the one time he'd made it as far as attempting to seal the edge, he'd given himself a painful paper-cut on his tongue and spent the next hour whimpering in the bathroom. Careful contemplation, though, had lead to the realisation that he didn't have to smoke it for it to be useful to him. Howard could cook, however rudimentary his fare, and so that was exactly what he'd done. Bolstered by the knowledge that he was running entirely on delicious brownies and mellowing chemicals, he'd approached his cleaning cupboard with a swagger that was two-parts dizziness to one-part bravery, flung the door back against the wall, and seized his nemesis by the dull plastic handle.
And he'd been fine.
No chills, raised hackles or cold sweats.
No painful dread in the pit of his stomach, or sudden, insistent need to urinate.
Until he'd switched it on.
The deafening whine of the motor made him flinch bodily away, and the delighted crackle at devouring debris was more than he could bare. He'd yanked the plug out of the socket, flung the contraption back into the cupboard, then curled up in bed in the foetal position until all chemically-induced calmness had ebbed away into a series of hallucinogenic nightmares.
So marijuana had been out of the question. The next day, once his relief that he wasn't being chased around the store-front of Sheets 'N' Things by a nozzle that extended for miles had subsided, he'd found himself hungrier than usual. After consigning the brownies to the garbage, he'd called for take-out, and there, in amongst his sweet and sour chicken and fried rice, he'd found his second solution.
The first fortune cookie had been useless. The first step to better times is to imagine them it had read. As though Howard had never tried that before. He'd spared half a second to visualise opening a cookie that wasn't worth less than the paper it was printed on, and then, greasy fingers latching on to the crumbling surface, he'd snapped open the second cookie and read: Share your problems and they will halve. The words' wisdom hit him with blinding clarity. All day every day, he was surrounded by people who weren't afraid of vacuums. Low thread counts, possibly, dissolving marriages and mandated repayment plans to the local tyre-fitters almost certainly, but not vacuums.
He just had to ask them how they did it.
-
"Advice?" Puck arched a single eyebrow as Howard nodded, hoping that the dim lighting in the stock room would conceal the worst of his blush. The high schoolers were among his least favourite people, but if there was anyone in the world who had never felt so much as a flicker of fear of vacuums in his life, it was Puck.
"Well, sure, I guess," he conceded, tossing a stack of fitted under-sheets back onto the shelves. "But only because stock-taking blows."
Howard continued to nod, so deeply that his chin touched his chest.
"You're not giving me a lot to work with though, you know?" Puck said, rubbing the back of his neck as he surveyed Howard.
Howard wasn't sure what constituted a lot to work with when it came to overcoming a fear of vacuums, but before he could begin to explain his quandary, his colleague clapped him hard on the shoulder.
"Don't look so down, Bamboo. You're not ripped and you're not rich, but hell, with my advice you won't need to be."
Which was good to hear, though Howard wasn't entirely sure why he would need to be either in order to operate a vacuum.
"There are pretty much only two things you need to do to land a chick."
"Um," Howard said, but Puck ignored his interjection.
"First, you get her a drink. Or two or three, depending on how much she can handle. But only enough so she's buzzed. Don't get her drunk, man, that's not cool and she'll puke on your shoes."
"Uh..." Howard glanced around the stock room searching for distraction, but found nothing. Quite why this was what Puck had assumed he needed help with he wasn't sure, but he guessed it couldn't hurt to hear him out.
"Then you make her feel bad."
"Do-do you mean good?"
"Dude, if I meant good, I'd say good. Trust me. Just a little dig so she's insecure. "
"That doesn't sound nice."
"Neither does being a forty year old virgin, but hey, it's your life."
Howard wanted to correct him on both counts, but the last time he'd felt comfortable telling someone his age he'd been twenty-nine, and the thought of struggling for the actual number was so perplexing that the next thing he knew, Puck had a vice-like grip of his shoulders and was steering him towards the store-front.
"What are you doing?" he asked, trying to stand his ground. Catching sight of the soul customer behind the counter, Howard dug his heels into the floor and refused to budge. "I don't serve that lady."
"I don't give a crap, Bamboo," Puck told him, tossing a wink at the blonde behind the counter. "Mrs. S's got Finn locked in her office again, telling him how deep and meaningful his soul is or some shit." He snorted. "The only thing meaningful about that douche is his Donkey Kong score. Anyway, you're not going to serve her, you're going to practice."
"Practice?" Howard echoed.
"What we just talked about. Now get." Puck shoved him, and Howard stumbled forward, clutching the edge of the counter for balance.
"About time." Kendra folded her arms and Howard winced at her tone, knowing that the forthcoming exchange would not be pleasant. He could feel Puck's eyes boring into him from behind, and swallowed before mumbling:
"Terri will be out soon. Can... can I get you a drink?"
"Milk, three sugars." She waved a dismissive hand at him, pouting at Puck over his shoulder. "Sweet drink for a sweet lady."
Retreating to the back office, Howard proceeded to mix a drink that was one-part coffee to three-parts the cheap booze the high schoolers kept at the back of the empty lockers.
Kendra took one sip, shuddered, then looked upon him with a new-found appreciation.
"Sweet and Irish. You make a good coffee, Hughie."
"Howard, ma'am."
Kendra shrugged. She drank deeply from her mug, as Puck tapped him on the shoulder and nodded him on to the next phase of the plan.
"You'renotasprettyasyoursister."
"Speak up, Howie."
"I said you're not as pretty as your sister. Ma'am."
Howard tried to duck, but just wasn't quick enough to stop her grabbing the front of his smock and rocketing a punch into the side of his face.
*
Therapy that week was awkward. Howard usually liked sitting in the shadows, listening to everyone else's problems and nodding sympathetically when called for. Unfortunately his swollen black eye served to make him a center of attention, and as hard as he tried to deflect it, pressing his lips tight together and refusing to raise his gaze from his own shoelaces, eventually he was called upon to speak.
He bypassed the embarrassing incident with Terri's sister entirely, choosing instead to rehash one of his most common tales, about the week Terri had deliberately left the faucets dripping in the break-room and bathroom to keep him on the shop-floor and boost productivity. After the mandatory outpouring of sympathy, attention was fortunately drawn away from him by a woman whose fragrance smelt distinctly of eau du liquor store, and who introduced herself with a breathless:
"Hi, my name is Brenda and I'm addicted to therapy."
Howard was quite happy to let her hold forth for the remainder of the session - much less so when she attached herself to his side as they filed out of the meeting.
"Saw you winking at me in there, tiger."
"Sorry," Howard said immediately. "Sometimes I can't control my facial expressions. I have a condition."
"Oh, I'm sure you do, big boy," she replied, attempting to link her arm through his. Howard pressed his arms as firmly against his sides as he could, but her nails were sharp and she managed to claw her way in there. "I know about guys like you."
Howard wondered who she'd been talking to, and how she could possibly know. He considered shaking her off, but then - he had resolved to take more advice from those around him, and even if her nails were raking painfully against his forearms, this lady was addicted to therapy, which meant she probably knew a lot of advice.
"I'm afraid of -"
"-Pain? But it just feels so delicious, doesn't it, lover?"
"Uh..."
"I think it's time you faced it. You're a masochist."
Howard blinked, more bewildered than usual.
"The black eye, the way your boss treats you... but you just keep going back for more, don't you Howard? You just can't get enough, because it feels so good." She stopped abruptly, maintaining her grip on his arm while using her free hand to dig inside her bag, pulling out a vodka miniature and unscrewing the top with her teeth. Swallowing it in one, she gave a contented sigh before adding: "I would know, I have self-worth issues."
Howard was willing to take her word for it.
"Here," she told him, digging her nails into his wrist until he allowed her to seize his hand. She dropped the empty miniature into her bag and retrieved a pen, scrawling a phone number on the palm of his hand. "Don't believe me, you just call this number. The abuse will be incredible, but trust me," she told him with an exaggerated wink. "So will the orgasm."
Brenda folded his fingers over his palm, gave his hand a tight squeeze, then set off in the opposite direction, leaving him with nothing more than a leer and the lingering scent of despair.
-
Howard put serious thought into calling. This wasn't the problem he'd set out to solve - it wasn't even a problem he'd been aware he had, and the last advice he'd taken hadn't gone over all that well. But in the end, curiosity won out. Maybe if it was that good, it would be such a revelation that everything else would fix itself naturally.
Still, there were preparations to be made. He wasn't the kind of person that had called a sex line before, but he knew that they tended to be expensive. He also had a vague, unshakeable worry that they might have caller ID, and the number that she'd given him seemed to be local. What if they traced him, and came in to laugh the next time they needed new bed linen? Then Terri would find out, and it would be even more humiliating than the time she'd decided they should make a store calendar. She'd had the high schoolers dress up like Romans, with sheets for togas, muscles oiled and flexed for the camera. But when he'd padded out in his smock, a sheet clumsily knotted around his throat like a cape, everyone had laughed so hard he'd worried about having to deal with more soiled linen.
Clearly, then, he couldn't call from his own phone. Given the pain and suffering he'd experienced after taking Puck's advice, Howard felt little qualm at swiping his cell phone when he left it unattended on shift. Still, he tried to be courteous, so he anticipated not being on the phone that long. He wouldn't want to run up a huge bill, and worrying about how much he was spending would surely throw him out of the moment, so he set a timer for ten minutes and decided to help himself halfway there before dialling.
After drawing every blind in his apartment and triple-checking the door was locked and bolted, Howard padded through to his bedroom. He had his television tuned to the adult channel previews, which were heavily censored but enough to start a stirring. He undressed, folding his clothes neatly at the foot of his bed, then settled back against the pillows, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes.
The sheets were cool, and the lowered temperature made him acutely aware of his tactile sense. The hairs on the back of his arms stood to attention as he set one hand on his thigh, and beginning his very favourite sort of visualisation.
He went back to the day of the calender shoot. This time, the high schoolers were gone. Everyone was gone, in fact and he and Terri were alone in the store. He couldn't see her at first, but he could sense her nearby. The usual mixture of fear and shame he felt in her presence had vanished, and he inhaled deeply, almost able to taste the honeyed scent she wore. Running his fingertips lightly along his shaft, he imagined himself stepping into her office. The lights would be dimmed as she turned to him, wearing nothing but an Egyptian cotton sheet.
Terri smiled. She always smiled in his fantasies, which was how he always knew they weren't real. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, and her lip gloss shimmered in the twilight as he gently gripped the base of his penis.
His gaze lowered as he took her in. The sheet was fine but the drape was taught, and somewhere in the distance, the air conditioning clicked on. Terri licked her lips, and as he began to work into a rhythm, thumb circling the head of his cock, he watched her nipples stiffen into rigid peaks.
"Oh, Howard," she whispered, and he knew he was ready.
His hand shook slightly as he retrieved the phone and dialled. The ringing seemed to go on forever, and it took a great deal of will-power for him to resist continuing alone, images of Terri still clear behind his eyelids.
"Internationally-ranked cheerleading coach Sue Sylvester," a clipped voice answered the phone. Howard supposed this was some sort of role-play. He'd never partaken in any himself, but he knew that Terri had been a cheerleader in high school and had gotten a lot of mileage out of that in the past. "State your purpose."
"What - uh, what are you wearing?" Howard asked, breathing heavily.
"What am I wearing?" He swallowed, returning to his ministrations. "I'll tell you what I'm wearing, you cowardly, amoebic sex pervert. Strapped to my thigh I have a Colt .45. It's a service weapon, issued to me in 'Nam. So far, I've used it to kill thirty five men." Howard whimpered. "And the moment, no, the very second I trace this call, I am going to come to your home, and I am going to introduce you to it. You will grovel, and you will beg, and in the end, I will slowly disembowel you and dine on your intestines. That is what I'm wearing."
Howard climaxed with a shudder that sent the phone clattering to the floor. Hastily draping himself with a hand towel, he leant over the side of the bed, stammered: "T-thank you, ma'am," and killed the call.
As he rocked himself into a petrified sleep that night, he mused that Brenda might just be even more confused than he was.
-
Howard was grateful to have the weekend off work, and spent most of the two days checking that his windows and doors were locked and secure. He even dug out the last of Sandy's gifts in an attempt to soothe his nerves, but all he achieved was tearing a lot of papers, squashing a lot of filters and burning his fingertips. Still, in his new-found state of constant terror and mild arousal, he hardly spared a thought for his vacuum.
Eventually, he had to leave the house again. He stuck to the back streets and entered work by the rear exit, but went unchallenged throughout his journey. Upon arrival, he had intended to slip Puck's phone back into his locker as though it had been there the whole time, but the staff room was occupied and he was reduced to lurking outside. The door was open just a crack, and as he peered through he caught a glimpse of Puck, lurching about the room awkwardly in a neck brace.
"I'm telling you dude, it must have been a ninja or something. Jumped me right in my own driveway and whacked me with my tyre iron."
"Are you sure you didn't get a look at them? Did they take anything?"
"No, that's why it had to be a ninja. You really think anyone else could take me? And I dunno, my cell phone I guess. Shit, man, I had photos on there of Santana that'd make your balls jump back inside."
"Tough break, man."
Howard crept away as stealthily as he was capable - which wasn't in the least bit subtle, as it happened, and he promptly walked straight into a cart stacked high with bathroom towels.
"What are you -?"
"Sorry, uh, I'm sorry," he apologised, dropping hurriedly to his knees and beginning to pile the towels back up, under the menacing outline of Terri's shadow. Then the strangest thing happened. He glanced - cringed, really - up at her. And she smiled. At him. Terri smiled, at him. Something was very wrong with the world today.
"Leave that," she instructed. "A word? In my office?"
Howard had always been polite enough to ignore the fact that Terri's office was essentially a glorified broom cupboard, and followed her through, half fearful that she might finally have snapped and lost all grasp on reality.
"Make yourself comfortable," she said, indicating for him to take a seat. Yes. She'd definitely snapped.
"Howard, I hear there was an... altercation here last week," she began, choosing her words carefully. "Is that true?"
"Please don't call the police again."
"What? No. I - well, I suppose I just wanted to say thank you."
His brow furrowed.
"I mean - don't get the wrong idea," she added, shuffling papers around her desk and pointedly not meeting his gaze. "The way you spoke to my sister was entirely inappropriate, and I don't condone violence in the store, but still... That was sweet of you."
"S-sweet for a sweet lady," he stammered, recalling Kendra's words. Terri cast him a sharp glance.
"This doesn't change anything," she said. "You're not getting a pay-rise, I still won't socialise with you in or out of work, and if you don't stop breathing so heavily I'm going to have you made redundant for scaring the customers. But if there's anything you need - I don't know, say, a name badge that actually has your name on instead of - well," she gestured to the badge pinned to his smock, which had been defaced by one of the high schoolers from HOWARD to DICKHOWARD.
Howard gave a shallow nod. "There, um, is one thing."
"Go on," she said, sounding as though she'd already begun to regret her offer.
"I've been asking people for advice. Because I, uh, I can't -"
"- Howard," she interjected. "Honey, let's face it. You're never going to get a girlfriend. I sympathise, I really do, but I just don't know anyone desperate enough to set you up with. Will has a blind cousin, but I think she moved to Milwaukee, and besides, then we might end up almost related. None of us want that, do we?" She tilted her head to one side, scrutinising him. Howard folded his hands in his lap, saying nothing. "Have you considered therapy?"
"I go twice a week."
"Oh. Oh...dear. Have you considered three times? Or - I know." Terri disappeared, ducking down to slide open her bottom drawer. "Here," she said, handing him a business card as though bestowing a great gift upon him. "This is the number for my therapist."
"You - you want to go to therapy together?"
Terri tutted. "Howard, I just said I don't want to be seen with you in public. No, I don't want to go to therapy together. Besides, I don't do group. Ugh. A room full of unwashed crazies unloading their problems onto me, no thank you. But uh, you should try him. See how that works out for you. Just don't ever try to talk to me about it, okay?"
Howard nodded.
"Now get out of my office and clock in. You're late, so you're going to have to work through your lunch break to make up for it."
-
Howard almost talked himself out of attending. None of his recent attempts at taking the advice of others had worked out, and he was beginning to think his fortune cookie might have been entirely wrong. He didn't feel as though his problems had halved - instead they'd increased to the tune of a black eye and a morally dubious orgasm. If it hadn't been for a full day of personal shopping for Sandy Ryerson, which ended with his nerves so shot he spilled his lunch all over his living room floor, he might never have gone at all. But the small grains of rice that escaped his dustpan positively taunted him, tangible reminders of the fact that his great, unconquered enemy still lay dormant in the closet. Enough was enough. He needed therapy, and so to the new therapist he would go.
There was little substantial difference between his old group and new. The décor was slightly classier, and they were given orange juice in real glasses instead of plastic cups. But the problems were much the same, and by the time the therapist had begun expounding on the benefits of visualisation, Howard had written the change off as a waste of time and money.
His shoulders were slumped as he sloped out of the building, and he tripped in the doorway, the meagre contents of his pockets spilling onto the laminated flooring. Gathering together a cheap biro, spare button and twelve cents in assorted small change, he thought he'd gotten everything when someone stopped beside his shoulder and asked:
"How long have you had a substance abuse problem, Howard?"
Startled, he glanced up. Stood beside him was a slim, red-headed woman he vaguely recognised, possibly as a customer from Sheets 'N' Things. She bent, handing him a Chronic Lady sachet.
"I - I don't - it's medicinal," he told her, as he staggered to his feet. "I have a condition."
She offered him a small, tight smile. "My former fiancé used to say the same thing. Would you like to get a coffee?"
It would have been rude to refuse, and at least her hands weren't all over him like Brenda's had been. In fact, she seemed determined to maintain a slight distance between them at all times, and given that she hadn't started grilling him on thread counts or drapery, Howard thought it safe enough to accept.
They found a small diner across the street. She wiped the table down before sitting, which Howard appreciated, then folded her fingers into a steeple, surveying him quietly.
"Would you like to talk about it, Howard?"
"M-me? What?"
"Whatever your problem is." She smiled encouragingly. "You were very quiet in group."
He shook his head. "I've tried talking."
"Didn't work?"
Howard reached out for a sachet of sugar, agitating it between his fingertips for something to do. "Bad advice. Nothing... fixed things."
"Nothing is ever really fixed," she told him, blowing over the rim of her drink to cool it. It was quite the melancholy statement, but at least she wasn't making assumptions and advising him on romantic problems that didn't exist. Howard appreciated that. "Whatever your problem is, there won't be a miracle cure, and accepting that can be difficult. It can take a while. But Howard, what you can do is learn to cope. Without the help of the Chronic Lady."
"You think so?"
"I know so." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, expression so serene Howard almost believed her.
"Then why... why do you need therapy?"
"Some people need a little more help coping than others." She set her cup down, straightened her sleeves, then met his eyes full on. "Maybe you're one of those people, Howard. And maybe you're not. But there's no shame in it, if you are. You'll get there."
"How?"
"The first step is giving up the drugs. Do you think you can do that?"
Howard almost laughed. For the first time in his life, he actually felt ahead of the game.
-
Coping, it turned out, was a lot like not coping. There were good days and bad days, and days he had to spend the last of his paltry wages on a cleaner because he just couldn't face opening the closet door. But there were nights, as well, and somewhere along the way, the amount of time he spent visualising Terri lessened in favour of a whole new recurring dream.
He knew they were dreams, because all Emma ever wore in them was his Sheets 'N' Things smock.
In his favourite, she accessorized with matching heels and a feather duster. He found her dusting the high surfaces, reaching up on tip-toe until the hem of his smock brushed against the very tops of her thighs, pale and freckled, and if he just got close enough, he could almost see -
He didn't quite make it. She turned around and tickled him with the duster, leading to the discovery that tickling was much more of a turn on for him than being threatened with imminent disembowelment. He laughed, and she laughed, and somewhere amidst their laughter the straps of his smock began slide down her arms. She leaned forward to kiss him, and he reached out to brush them down further, lifting her arms one by one to free them. Pulling back, she set his hands at the hem of the uniform, tugging gently with him until her breasts were exposed, the course material gathered around her waist. Setting his hands on her hips, he kissed her deeply and felt her shimmy out, his smock pooling on the floor beneath them.
And then she would continue with the cleaning, allowing him to appreciate her from every angle. When she bent down to polish the surface of the coffee table, he caressed her breasts. When she reached up to spray the top cupboards, he admired her shapely curves. And when she removed the vacuum from the cupboard, nozzle draped around her shoulders as she carried it, he lifted her into his arms, pressed her against the wall, and made love to her in a realm where he had finally, finally learned to co-exist with the vacuum.
-
Character(s) or pairing(s): Any/all, but I prefer het>femslash>slash
Do you prefer R or NC-17 smut?: Either/or
Prompts: 1. HOWARD BAMBOO. I don't care if he's solo or if you want to pair him up with anyone (no seriously anyone) I think I'd die from loving you. He just has to be in his Sheets 'N Things smock, and if you pair him with Sandy Ryerson make sure you mention his Bell's Palsy. (Even if he makes a random appearance in an otherwise unrelated fic that'd be awesome.)
Things you DON’T want in your story: No bestiality, no sex involving children (I don't care how cute Brittany's seven-year-old boyfriend is), no mpreg.
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: All Howard, all the time. One-sided with Terri, Sue and Emma.
Warnings: N/A
Word count:~5,000
Disclaimer: This Glee fanfiction is based upon the television show of the same name. All characters and situations other than my own are sole property of Ryan Murphy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television.
Summary: A problem shared is a problem halved, but all sharing gets Howard is a black eye and a morally dubious orgasm.
A/N: Enormous thanks to my wonderful beta for her help and general cheerleading ♥
Turning thirty had proved to be a significant benchmark in the life and times of Howard Bamboo. Growing up, he'd always been an anxious child. He'd never cared for sandboxes or grapefruit juice, and had always deeply distrusted tricycles. Adolescence had heralded the dawning of a lifelong enmity with aerosol cans, linoleum and running faucets, and somewhere along the way he'd become distinctly disturbed by warm soda, grass clippings and redbrick houses. It was only when he passed thirty, however, and broke out in a cold sweat at the prospect of being asked his age, that his mother finally insisted he enrol in group therapy.
He'd been attending ever since, and while his neuroses had hardly lessened, he had at least met some interesting people - very few of whom ever asked him about fitted sheets, giving it an immediate advantage over work. They'd even found a nice class for him to attend during his brief tenure as a suspected drugs baron, before Terri's husband had sold her collection of South African dado rails to bail him out.
All things considered, Howard rather enjoyed the sessions. They were generally less intimidating than regular social interaction, being that most attendees were just as bewildered as he was - the resultant downside being that they tended towards being entirely ineffectual. New group leaders never lasted long, once the opening "Close your eyes and count to ten" rapidly devolved into urgent discussion about avoiding odd digits and the relative merits of prime numbers over perfect ones. Howard rarely spoke up, but was quite the fan of 28 - certainly more so than its prime cousins 31, 37 and 41.
Lately, he'd resorted to less practical means of tackling his problems. Therapy was all well and good, and the visualisation techniques were fun, but visualising a clean apartment had yet to make one spring into existence. Howard yearned to actually use his vacuum, rather than just imagine that he had, before going on to invent sheets that fitted themselves, taking over the company, kicking out the obnoxious high schoolers and graciously keeping Terri on to peel his grapes and de-crust his sandwiches. And so he'd begun to look elsewhere for answers.
His first solution had been medical, if not quite legal. Ever since the Bell's Palsy incident, Sandy Ryerson had been leaving him generous tips of medical marijuana - even on the days Howard cowered in the stock room to avoid him. He'd had no real use for it, given that learning to roll a cigarette was one of many life-skills that had passed him by entirely. His fingers lacked the necessary dexterity to roll the paper, and the one time he'd made it as far as attempting to seal the edge, he'd given himself a painful paper-cut on his tongue and spent the next hour whimpering in the bathroom. Careful contemplation, though, had lead to the realisation that he didn't have to smoke it for it to be useful to him. Howard could cook, however rudimentary his fare, and so that was exactly what he'd done. Bolstered by the knowledge that he was running entirely on delicious brownies and mellowing chemicals, he'd approached his cleaning cupboard with a swagger that was two-parts dizziness to one-part bravery, flung the door back against the wall, and seized his nemesis by the dull plastic handle.
And he'd been fine.
No chills, raised hackles or cold sweats.
No painful dread in the pit of his stomach, or sudden, insistent need to urinate.
Until he'd switched it on.
The deafening whine of the motor made him flinch bodily away, and the delighted crackle at devouring debris was more than he could bare. He'd yanked the plug out of the socket, flung the contraption back into the cupboard, then curled up in bed in the foetal position until all chemically-induced calmness had ebbed away into a series of hallucinogenic nightmares.
So marijuana had been out of the question. The next day, once his relief that he wasn't being chased around the store-front of Sheets 'N' Things by a nozzle that extended for miles had subsided, he'd found himself hungrier than usual. After consigning the brownies to the garbage, he'd called for take-out, and there, in amongst his sweet and sour chicken and fried rice, he'd found his second solution.
The first fortune cookie had been useless. The first step to better times is to imagine them it had read. As though Howard had never tried that before. He'd spared half a second to visualise opening a cookie that wasn't worth less than the paper it was printed on, and then, greasy fingers latching on to the crumbling surface, he'd snapped open the second cookie and read: Share your problems and they will halve. The words' wisdom hit him with blinding clarity. All day every day, he was surrounded by people who weren't afraid of vacuums. Low thread counts, possibly, dissolving marriages and mandated repayment plans to the local tyre-fitters almost certainly, but not vacuums.
He just had to ask them how they did it.
-
"Advice?" Puck arched a single eyebrow as Howard nodded, hoping that the dim lighting in the stock room would conceal the worst of his blush. The high schoolers were among his least favourite people, but if there was anyone in the world who had never felt so much as a flicker of fear of vacuums in his life, it was Puck.
"Well, sure, I guess," he conceded, tossing a stack of fitted under-sheets back onto the shelves. "But only because stock-taking blows."
Howard continued to nod, so deeply that his chin touched his chest.
"You're not giving me a lot to work with though, you know?" Puck said, rubbing the back of his neck as he surveyed Howard.
Howard wasn't sure what constituted a lot to work with when it came to overcoming a fear of vacuums, but before he could begin to explain his quandary, his colleague clapped him hard on the shoulder.
"Don't look so down, Bamboo. You're not ripped and you're not rich, but hell, with my advice you won't need to be."
Which was good to hear, though Howard wasn't entirely sure why he would need to be either in order to operate a vacuum.
"There are pretty much only two things you need to do to land a chick."
"Um," Howard said, but Puck ignored his interjection.
"First, you get her a drink. Or two or three, depending on how much she can handle. But only enough so she's buzzed. Don't get her drunk, man, that's not cool and she'll puke on your shoes."
"Uh..." Howard glanced around the stock room searching for distraction, but found nothing. Quite why this was what Puck had assumed he needed help with he wasn't sure, but he guessed it couldn't hurt to hear him out.
"Then you make her feel bad."
"Do-do you mean good?"
"Dude, if I meant good, I'd say good. Trust me. Just a little dig so she's insecure. "
"That doesn't sound nice."
"Neither does being a forty year old virgin, but hey, it's your life."
Howard wanted to correct him on both counts, but the last time he'd felt comfortable telling someone his age he'd been twenty-nine, and the thought of struggling for the actual number was so perplexing that the next thing he knew, Puck had a vice-like grip of his shoulders and was steering him towards the store-front.
"What are you doing?" he asked, trying to stand his ground. Catching sight of the soul customer behind the counter, Howard dug his heels into the floor and refused to budge. "I don't serve that lady."
"I don't give a crap, Bamboo," Puck told him, tossing a wink at the blonde behind the counter. "Mrs. S's got Finn locked in her office again, telling him how deep and meaningful his soul is or some shit." He snorted. "The only thing meaningful about that douche is his Donkey Kong score. Anyway, you're not going to serve her, you're going to practice."
"Practice?" Howard echoed.
"What we just talked about. Now get." Puck shoved him, and Howard stumbled forward, clutching the edge of the counter for balance.
"About time." Kendra folded her arms and Howard winced at her tone, knowing that the forthcoming exchange would not be pleasant. He could feel Puck's eyes boring into him from behind, and swallowed before mumbling:
"Terri will be out soon. Can... can I get you a drink?"
"Milk, three sugars." She waved a dismissive hand at him, pouting at Puck over his shoulder. "Sweet drink for a sweet lady."
Retreating to the back office, Howard proceeded to mix a drink that was one-part coffee to three-parts the cheap booze the high schoolers kept at the back of the empty lockers.
Kendra took one sip, shuddered, then looked upon him with a new-found appreciation.
"Sweet and Irish. You make a good coffee, Hughie."
"Howard, ma'am."
Kendra shrugged. She drank deeply from her mug, as Puck tapped him on the shoulder and nodded him on to the next phase of the plan.
"You'renotasprettyasyoursister."
"Speak up, Howie."
"I said you're not as pretty as your sister. Ma'am."
Howard tried to duck, but just wasn't quick enough to stop her grabbing the front of his smock and rocketing a punch into the side of his face.
*
Therapy that week was awkward. Howard usually liked sitting in the shadows, listening to everyone else's problems and nodding sympathetically when called for. Unfortunately his swollen black eye served to make him a center of attention, and as hard as he tried to deflect it, pressing his lips tight together and refusing to raise his gaze from his own shoelaces, eventually he was called upon to speak.
He bypassed the embarrassing incident with Terri's sister entirely, choosing instead to rehash one of his most common tales, about the week Terri had deliberately left the faucets dripping in the break-room and bathroom to keep him on the shop-floor and boost productivity. After the mandatory outpouring of sympathy, attention was fortunately drawn away from him by a woman whose fragrance smelt distinctly of eau du liquor store, and who introduced herself with a breathless:
"Hi, my name is Brenda and I'm addicted to therapy."
Howard was quite happy to let her hold forth for the remainder of the session - much less so when she attached herself to his side as they filed out of the meeting.
"Saw you winking at me in there, tiger."
"Sorry," Howard said immediately. "Sometimes I can't control my facial expressions. I have a condition."
"Oh, I'm sure you do, big boy," she replied, attempting to link her arm through his. Howard pressed his arms as firmly against his sides as he could, but her nails were sharp and she managed to claw her way in there. "I know about guys like you."
Howard wondered who she'd been talking to, and how she could possibly know. He considered shaking her off, but then - he had resolved to take more advice from those around him, and even if her nails were raking painfully against his forearms, this lady was addicted to therapy, which meant she probably knew a lot of advice.
"I'm afraid of -"
"-Pain? But it just feels so delicious, doesn't it, lover?"
"Uh..."
"I think it's time you faced it. You're a masochist."
Howard blinked, more bewildered than usual.
"The black eye, the way your boss treats you... but you just keep going back for more, don't you Howard? You just can't get enough, because it feels so good." She stopped abruptly, maintaining her grip on his arm while using her free hand to dig inside her bag, pulling out a vodka miniature and unscrewing the top with her teeth. Swallowing it in one, she gave a contented sigh before adding: "I would know, I have self-worth issues."
Howard was willing to take her word for it.
"Here," she told him, digging her nails into his wrist until he allowed her to seize his hand. She dropped the empty miniature into her bag and retrieved a pen, scrawling a phone number on the palm of his hand. "Don't believe me, you just call this number. The abuse will be incredible, but trust me," she told him with an exaggerated wink. "So will the orgasm."
Brenda folded his fingers over his palm, gave his hand a tight squeeze, then set off in the opposite direction, leaving him with nothing more than a leer and the lingering scent of despair.
-
Howard put serious thought into calling. This wasn't the problem he'd set out to solve - it wasn't even a problem he'd been aware he had, and the last advice he'd taken hadn't gone over all that well. But in the end, curiosity won out. Maybe if it was that good, it would be such a revelation that everything else would fix itself naturally.
Still, there were preparations to be made. He wasn't the kind of person that had called a sex line before, but he knew that they tended to be expensive. He also had a vague, unshakeable worry that they might have caller ID, and the number that she'd given him seemed to be local. What if they traced him, and came in to laugh the next time they needed new bed linen? Then Terri would find out, and it would be even more humiliating than the time she'd decided they should make a store calendar. She'd had the high schoolers dress up like Romans, with sheets for togas, muscles oiled and flexed for the camera. But when he'd padded out in his smock, a sheet clumsily knotted around his throat like a cape, everyone had laughed so hard he'd worried about having to deal with more soiled linen.
Clearly, then, he couldn't call from his own phone. Given the pain and suffering he'd experienced after taking Puck's advice, Howard felt little qualm at swiping his cell phone when he left it unattended on shift. Still, he tried to be courteous, so he anticipated not being on the phone that long. He wouldn't want to run up a huge bill, and worrying about how much he was spending would surely throw him out of the moment, so he set a timer for ten minutes and decided to help himself halfway there before dialling.
After drawing every blind in his apartment and triple-checking the door was locked and bolted, Howard padded through to his bedroom. He had his television tuned to the adult channel previews, which were heavily censored but enough to start a stirring. He undressed, folding his clothes neatly at the foot of his bed, then settled back against the pillows, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes.
The sheets were cool, and the lowered temperature made him acutely aware of his tactile sense. The hairs on the back of his arms stood to attention as he set one hand on his thigh, and beginning his very favourite sort of visualisation.
He went back to the day of the calender shoot. This time, the high schoolers were gone. Everyone was gone, in fact and he and Terri were alone in the store. He couldn't see her at first, but he could sense her nearby. The usual mixture of fear and shame he felt in her presence had vanished, and he inhaled deeply, almost able to taste the honeyed scent she wore. Running his fingertips lightly along his shaft, he imagined himself stepping into her office. The lights would be dimmed as she turned to him, wearing nothing but an Egyptian cotton sheet.
Terri smiled. She always smiled in his fantasies, which was how he always knew they weren't real. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, and her lip gloss shimmered in the twilight as he gently gripped the base of his penis.
His gaze lowered as he took her in. The sheet was fine but the drape was taught, and somewhere in the distance, the air conditioning clicked on. Terri licked her lips, and as he began to work into a rhythm, thumb circling the head of his cock, he watched her nipples stiffen into rigid peaks.
"Oh, Howard," she whispered, and he knew he was ready.
His hand shook slightly as he retrieved the phone and dialled. The ringing seemed to go on forever, and it took a great deal of will-power for him to resist continuing alone, images of Terri still clear behind his eyelids.
"Internationally-ranked cheerleading coach Sue Sylvester," a clipped voice answered the phone. Howard supposed this was some sort of role-play. He'd never partaken in any himself, but he knew that Terri had been a cheerleader in high school and had gotten a lot of mileage out of that in the past. "State your purpose."
"What - uh, what are you wearing?" Howard asked, breathing heavily.
"What am I wearing?" He swallowed, returning to his ministrations. "I'll tell you what I'm wearing, you cowardly, amoebic sex pervert. Strapped to my thigh I have a Colt .45. It's a service weapon, issued to me in 'Nam. So far, I've used it to kill thirty five men." Howard whimpered. "And the moment, no, the very second I trace this call, I am going to come to your home, and I am going to introduce you to it. You will grovel, and you will beg, and in the end, I will slowly disembowel you and dine on your intestines. That is what I'm wearing."
Howard climaxed with a shudder that sent the phone clattering to the floor. Hastily draping himself with a hand towel, he leant over the side of the bed, stammered: "T-thank you, ma'am," and killed the call.
As he rocked himself into a petrified sleep that night, he mused that Brenda might just be even more confused than he was.
-
Howard was grateful to have the weekend off work, and spent most of the two days checking that his windows and doors were locked and secure. He even dug out the last of Sandy's gifts in an attempt to soothe his nerves, but all he achieved was tearing a lot of papers, squashing a lot of filters and burning his fingertips. Still, in his new-found state of constant terror and mild arousal, he hardly spared a thought for his vacuum.
Eventually, he had to leave the house again. He stuck to the back streets and entered work by the rear exit, but went unchallenged throughout his journey. Upon arrival, he had intended to slip Puck's phone back into his locker as though it had been there the whole time, but the staff room was occupied and he was reduced to lurking outside. The door was open just a crack, and as he peered through he caught a glimpse of Puck, lurching about the room awkwardly in a neck brace.
"I'm telling you dude, it must have been a ninja or something. Jumped me right in my own driveway and whacked me with my tyre iron."
"Are you sure you didn't get a look at them? Did they take anything?"
"No, that's why it had to be a ninja. You really think anyone else could take me? And I dunno, my cell phone I guess. Shit, man, I had photos on there of Santana that'd make your balls jump back inside."
"Tough break, man."
Howard crept away as stealthily as he was capable - which wasn't in the least bit subtle, as it happened, and he promptly walked straight into a cart stacked high with bathroom towels.
"What are you -?"
"Sorry, uh, I'm sorry," he apologised, dropping hurriedly to his knees and beginning to pile the towels back up, under the menacing outline of Terri's shadow. Then the strangest thing happened. He glanced - cringed, really - up at her. And she smiled. At him. Terri smiled, at him. Something was very wrong with the world today.
"Leave that," she instructed. "A word? In my office?"
Howard had always been polite enough to ignore the fact that Terri's office was essentially a glorified broom cupboard, and followed her through, half fearful that she might finally have snapped and lost all grasp on reality.
"Make yourself comfortable," she said, indicating for him to take a seat. Yes. She'd definitely snapped.
"Howard, I hear there was an... altercation here last week," she began, choosing her words carefully. "Is that true?"
"Please don't call the police again."
"What? No. I - well, I suppose I just wanted to say thank you."
His brow furrowed.
"I mean - don't get the wrong idea," she added, shuffling papers around her desk and pointedly not meeting his gaze. "The way you spoke to my sister was entirely inappropriate, and I don't condone violence in the store, but still... That was sweet of you."
"S-sweet for a sweet lady," he stammered, recalling Kendra's words. Terri cast him a sharp glance.
"This doesn't change anything," she said. "You're not getting a pay-rise, I still won't socialise with you in or out of work, and if you don't stop breathing so heavily I'm going to have you made redundant for scaring the customers. But if there's anything you need - I don't know, say, a name badge that actually has your name on instead of - well," she gestured to the badge pinned to his smock, which had been defaced by one of the high schoolers from HOWARD to DICKHOWARD.
Howard gave a shallow nod. "There, um, is one thing."
"Go on," she said, sounding as though she'd already begun to regret her offer.
"I've been asking people for advice. Because I, uh, I can't -"
"- Howard," she interjected. "Honey, let's face it. You're never going to get a girlfriend. I sympathise, I really do, but I just don't know anyone desperate enough to set you up with. Will has a blind cousin, but I think she moved to Milwaukee, and besides, then we might end up almost related. None of us want that, do we?" She tilted her head to one side, scrutinising him. Howard folded his hands in his lap, saying nothing. "Have you considered therapy?"
"I go twice a week."
"Oh. Oh...dear. Have you considered three times? Or - I know." Terri disappeared, ducking down to slide open her bottom drawer. "Here," she said, handing him a business card as though bestowing a great gift upon him. "This is the number for my therapist."
"You - you want to go to therapy together?"
Terri tutted. "Howard, I just said I don't want to be seen with you in public. No, I don't want to go to therapy together. Besides, I don't do group. Ugh. A room full of unwashed crazies unloading their problems onto me, no thank you. But uh, you should try him. See how that works out for you. Just don't ever try to talk to me about it, okay?"
Howard nodded.
"Now get out of my office and clock in. You're late, so you're going to have to work through your lunch break to make up for it."
-
Howard almost talked himself out of attending. None of his recent attempts at taking the advice of others had worked out, and he was beginning to think his fortune cookie might have been entirely wrong. He didn't feel as though his problems had halved - instead they'd increased to the tune of a black eye and a morally dubious orgasm. If it hadn't been for a full day of personal shopping for Sandy Ryerson, which ended with his nerves so shot he spilled his lunch all over his living room floor, he might never have gone at all. But the small grains of rice that escaped his dustpan positively taunted him, tangible reminders of the fact that his great, unconquered enemy still lay dormant in the closet. Enough was enough. He needed therapy, and so to the new therapist he would go.
There was little substantial difference between his old group and new. The décor was slightly classier, and they were given orange juice in real glasses instead of plastic cups. But the problems were much the same, and by the time the therapist had begun expounding on the benefits of visualisation, Howard had written the change off as a waste of time and money.
His shoulders were slumped as he sloped out of the building, and he tripped in the doorway, the meagre contents of his pockets spilling onto the laminated flooring. Gathering together a cheap biro, spare button and twelve cents in assorted small change, he thought he'd gotten everything when someone stopped beside his shoulder and asked:
"How long have you had a substance abuse problem, Howard?"
Startled, he glanced up. Stood beside him was a slim, red-headed woman he vaguely recognised, possibly as a customer from Sheets 'N' Things. She bent, handing him a Chronic Lady sachet.
"I - I don't - it's medicinal," he told her, as he staggered to his feet. "I have a condition."
She offered him a small, tight smile. "My former fiancé used to say the same thing. Would you like to get a coffee?"
It would have been rude to refuse, and at least her hands weren't all over him like Brenda's had been. In fact, she seemed determined to maintain a slight distance between them at all times, and given that she hadn't started grilling him on thread counts or drapery, Howard thought it safe enough to accept.
They found a small diner across the street. She wiped the table down before sitting, which Howard appreciated, then folded her fingers into a steeple, surveying him quietly.
"Would you like to talk about it, Howard?"
"M-me? What?"
"Whatever your problem is." She smiled encouragingly. "You were very quiet in group."
He shook his head. "I've tried talking."
"Didn't work?"
Howard reached out for a sachet of sugar, agitating it between his fingertips for something to do. "Bad advice. Nothing... fixed things."
"Nothing is ever really fixed," she told him, blowing over the rim of her drink to cool it. It was quite the melancholy statement, but at least she wasn't making assumptions and advising him on romantic problems that didn't exist. Howard appreciated that. "Whatever your problem is, there won't be a miracle cure, and accepting that can be difficult. It can take a while. But Howard, what you can do is learn to cope. Without the help of the Chronic Lady."
"You think so?"
"I know so." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, expression so serene Howard almost believed her.
"Then why... why do you need therapy?"
"Some people need a little more help coping than others." She set her cup down, straightened her sleeves, then met his eyes full on. "Maybe you're one of those people, Howard. And maybe you're not. But there's no shame in it, if you are. You'll get there."
"How?"
"The first step is giving up the drugs. Do you think you can do that?"
Howard almost laughed. For the first time in his life, he actually felt ahead of the game.
-
Coping, it turned out, was a lot like not coping. There were good days and bad days, and days he had to spend the last of his paltry wages on a cleaner because he just couldn't face opening the closet door. But there were nights, as well, and somewhere along the way, the amount of time he spent visualising Terri lessened in favour of a whole new recurring dream.
He knew they were dreams, because all Emma ever wore in them was his Sheets 'N' Things smock.
In his favourite, she accessorized with matching heels and a feather duster. He found her dusting the high surfaces, reaching up on tip-toe until the hem of his smock brushed against the very tops of her thighs, pale and freckled, and if he just got close enough, he could almost see -
He didn't quite make it. She turned around and tickled him with the duster, leading to the discovery that tickling was much more of a turn on for him than being threatened with imminent disembowelment. He laughed, and she laughed, and somewhere amidst their laughter the straps of his smock began slide down her arms. She leaned forward to kiss him, and he reached out to brush them down further, lifting her arms one by one to free them. Pulling back, she set his hands at the hem of the uniform, tugging gently with him until her breasts were exposed, the course material gathered around her waist. Setting his hands on her hips, he kissed her deeply and felt her shimmy out, his smock pooling on the floor beneath them.
And then she would continue with the cleaning, allowing him to appreciate her from every angle. When she bent down to polish the surface of the coffee table, he caressed her breasts. When she reached up to spray the top cupboards, he admired her shapely curves. And when she removed the vacuum from the cupboard, nozzle draped around her shoulders as she carried it, he lifted her into his arms, pressed her against the wall, and made love to her in a realm where he had finally, finally learned to co-exist with the vacuum.
-
Character(s) or pairing(s): Any/all, but I prefer het>femslash>slash
Do you prefer R or NC-17 smut?: Either/or
Prompts: 1. HOWARD BAMBOO. I don't care if he's solo or if you want to pair him up with anyone (no seriously anyone) I think I'd die from loving you. He just has to be in his Sheets 'N Things smock, and if you pair him with Sandy Ryerson make sure you mention his Bell's Palsy. (Even if he makes a random appearance in an otherwise unrelated fic that'd be awesome.)
Things you DON’T want in your story: No bestiality, no sex involving children (I don't care how cute Brittany's seven-year-old boyfriend is), no mpreg.