![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
ideserveyou.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
booshslashhavenTitle: Enigma Variations, 7/?: Mellow Yellow
Summary: The boys go back to work
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Spoilers: Bollo is doing the laundry
Length: about 2500 mostly rather fluffy words
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters, I just borrow them to play with now and again (and again and again and again). For twisted love, not for profit
Notes: Forgive me! I promised you smut, but this isn’t it. Yet. The next chapter will deliver, but meantime I got sidetracked into wondering what the next day in the shop would be like…
Enigma Variations
7 Mellow Yellow
Howard wakes with an unaccustomed lightness in his heart, and the scent of chocolate and hazelnuts in his nostrils.
The first can easily be explained by the fact that a warm, stark naked Vince is slumbering happily beside him; the second, by the Nutella smears on the pillowcase and the distinctly sticky residue in Howard’s moustache.
Howard finds himself smiling broadly at the memory of exactly how all that chocolate got exactly where it did.
Vince stirs, and makes an enquiring sound.
“Morning, Little Man,” Howard says quietly.
A frown creases Vince’s forehead, as though he’s trying to remember something; then he smiles, and opens his eyes. “Morning, Howard… Hey, Howard? Howard! Howard…”
“What?”
“I’m in your bed! Genius!”
“So you are,” Howard agrees.
“Hey, Howard!”
“Yes?”
“You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Erm… what?” It means everything, and Howard knows Vince knows it does, but whatever daft game Vince is playing, Howard’s happy to play along.
“It means we can do this.”
“And this?”
“Ooooh, yeah, I like your thinkin’, Big Man. An’ while we’re about it, let’s have some more of this…”
There is a loud bang on the door. “And when you finish all that, don’t forget it laundry day today, and you two need to be working in shop by nine o’clock.”
“Yes, Bollo,” they chorus in perfect unison.
After some hasty pulling-on of clothes and strategic folding-up of bedlinen so that the worst of the chocolate stains are hidden, they take the laundry-bag along to the kitchen, where Bollo is muttering to himself as he takes the dirty teatowels off the rail.
“Bout time,” he grunts.
“And a very good morning to you, too,” Howard retorts.
“Piss off, Harold.” Bollo grabs the bag from Vince, and starts to stuff the teatowels roughly into it.
“How’s Naboo?” Vince asks.
“Resting. You not to disturb him while Bollo at laundrette.” Bollo hunches over, and glares at a teatowel that’s fallen on the floor. If looks could kill, and Earth teatowels were living organisms, that towel would be a goner.
“Hey Bollo, what’s wrong?” Vince puts a hand on the gorilla’s arm.
The big shoulders heave with a gusty sigh. “Naboo take glasses off last night.”
“And you saw what he was thinking,” Howard says softly.
Bollo grunts in agreement, and looks up, his brow even more furrowed than usual. “Naboo love Bollo second best in whole universe, and he want Bollo to know that, but Bollo see something he not supposed to see…”
“That’s the downside of this potion stuff.” Vince’s fingers tangle into Bollo’s black fur. “You can’t choose to see just the good bits, you get all or nothing. And something’s up with Naboo, isn’t it?”
“Mmm. Naboo gotta bad feeling about something, and now I gotta bad feeling about his bad feeling… and... I gotta do laundry. Forget I said anything else. No, no need help, Bollo old but not so old he can’t carry two bags of washing, fuck off, get to work.”
He grabs the bags and stomps off down the stairs.
Vince stands there with his hand still outstretched, and shakes his head. “What was that all about?”
“Dunno. He’s just fed up because Naboo’s a bit under the weather. I suppose, when you’re four hundred and six, it’s only to be expected that you’ll have an off-day now and again. And Naboo did say doing magic takes it out of him …”
“And what he did for us was magic.” Vince is grinning again now.
“It certainly was.” Howard can’t find it in himself to be worried about anything for long this morning; the sun is shining and everything looks colourful and exotic, especially Vince, who is swanning around in his Liberty peacock-print suit, Howard having chosen it for him as being the least gothic of the outfits that were still hanging in the wardrobe and not strewn around the floor.
Even the shop looks bright and cheerful when they finally get the shutters up at ten-thirty, and when Howard announces it’s stocktaking time Vince grins and says: “I’ll come and help you.”
“Thank you,” Howard says politely. “In that order?”
There is dead silence for a whole three seconds before Vince is rolling on the floor, crying with laughter.
Stocktaking becomes a pleasure, not a chore, when you redefine it as ‘snogging in the stationery cupboard’ instead of ‘counting things’. Howard wishes he’d let Vince teach him that years ago.
Customers, however – and unusually for a Friday, there actually are some, it must be the nice weather bringing them out – customers are a different matter altogether.
Because the potion hasn’t worn off yet, so Howard can’t look anybody (except Vince) in the eye without either frightening them off or getting punched on the nose.
Vince is no help because each time this happens, he is reduced to helpless giggles and has to go and hide.
None of which is any good for their sales figures, which remain at an obstinate zero all morning, in spite of Howard trying to serve customers with his eyes shut, or with his back turned, or staring up at the ceiling and pretending he was changing a lightbulb and his neck got stuck in that position.
At lunchtime, they stick a home-made ‘CLOSED FOR LUNCH’ sign on the door, reckoning that it won’t hurt their finances to shut the shop for an hour. In fact, Vince suggests, it might actually improve them, since it removes the risk of things getting broken or of customers demanding compensation for injuries sustained while taking a swing at Howard.
Howard turns his back on the window – just in case – and Vince goes out for sandwiches.
He comes back with a newspaper as well.
“I didn’t know you’d started taking an interest in current affairs, Vince.”
Vince tosses the folded paper onto the counter. “I haven’t. You know I’m a slow reader an’ I only ever read Cheekbone. This looks well boring. But I thought you could try hiding behind it. Especially if we get any more fat old ladies comin’ in the shop. That last one slapped you up something wicked.”
“Thank you, Vince. That’s, um, very thoughtful of you.” Howard nibbles politely at his mild cheese sandwich and tries not to watch Vince wolfing down three doughnuts and a chocolate éclair in rapid and messy succession. It is good to see Vince eating again, but even so… a man could be put off his lunch.
An idea strikes Howard, and he unfolds the paper and retreats behind it. Pity it doesn’t drown out the sound effects as well, but then you can’t have everything.
A familiar face jumps out of a photo on page two, and Howard suddenly chokes on his wholemeal bread.
“Wassup?” Vince mumbles through a mouthful of crumbs and cream.
Howard wipes his eyes and clears his throat. “Your… um… friend Dietrich’s in the paper.”
“Ex-friend,” Vince says firmly. “Why?”
Howard offers him the paper, but Vince shakes his head. “Read it to me. I like hearin’ your voice. My hands are sticky. An’ I don’t wanna see his face ever again.”
“Up-and-coming goth rockstar Dietrich Darmfuhrung, 29 –”
“Yeah, right,” Vince mutters.
“ – caused a sensation this morning by jumping into the tiger enclosure at Robert’s Park Zoo, formerly Bob Fossil’s Funworld.”
“Twat. What was he trying to pull, some half-arsed publicity stunt?”
“The German-born musician was apparently attempting to commit suicide after the previous night’s sellout performance by his band ‘Kraftstrauch’ was slated by fans and critics, and even the other band members, as a disaster. The guitarist is alleged to have been ‘very depressed’ and to have said that he wanted to end it all in a spectacular way…”
“No,” Vince wails, “no, Howard, I didn’t mean for that to happen, I know he was a prize tit an’ everything, but I wouldn’t have wished that on him…”
“It’s all right. Listen. The tiger, however, refused to eat him, and is quoted as saying ‘I prefer the bones people throw me to have some meat on them.’ Mr. Darmfuhrung was rescued by the zookeeper on the early shift, Bob 'Skinny Ribs' Jordan, 23, who was announced as the band’s new vocalist at a press conference an hour ago.”
Vince heaves a huge sigh of relief, and mimics Howard's reading voice. “The band’s former lead singer, Vince Noir, was unavailable for comment, but if anybody’d asked him he would have said good luck and good riddance to the lot of ’em.”
“You don’t regret leaving the band?”
“Howard.” Vince takes the paper away, and grips Howard’s hands in his own.
The magical connection is weakening, or maybe Howard’s just got used to it; it’s not a shock to look into those blue eyes any more, it’s a nice comforting feeling, like the hand-holding.
“Howard, no, of course I don’t. If I’m ever going to be in a band again, it’ll be one with you and me in it. And nobody else. Don’t worry. I mean, I know you will worry, you worry about everything, that’s like me sayin’ don’t breathe, but I mean… don’t worry about you and me.” He kisses Howard on the cheek. “Uh-oh, here comes our first after-lunch customer. Worry about her instead…” and he skips across the shop to take the sign down off the door.
The first after-lunch customer is a pleasant-faced, middle-aged lady who isn’t even slightly fat, and who is looking for a bookmark with a jazz theme.
All goes well until Howard is just about to take her money, when he glances up and receives a swift clout on the nose for thinking how nice it is to know that there’s someone out there who’s not that old but who’s got even more and wrinklier crow’s feet than he has himself.
Howard sighs as he mops up the trickle of blood, and puts the bookmark carefully back in its correct alphabetical position in the rack.
It’s going to be a long afternoon.
“Here you go, these might help.” Vince is holding out a pair of Naboo’s very big, very dark dark glasses. “Put these on.”
“I’ll look a complete tit.”
“A complete tit who doesn’t get attacked by angry grannies, yeah? Gotta be worth a try… Heyyyy.” Vince sidles up to Howard and grinds seductively against him. “You look hot in shades. You should wear them all the time.”
“No way.” Howard takes them off again. “Sunglasses are not part of the Moon look, sir. Except on seaside holidays.”
“Well, they should be. They suit you.”
“Vince, get off me, I can’t serve customers with you glued to my front.”
“What customers?” Vince gestures at the empty shop. The two of them stand motionless. A ball of tumbleweed blows across the chequered tiling, complete with whistling wind effects.
“Howard?”
“Vince?”
“I think we need to accessorize you a bit. There’s something missing…” Vince cocks his head to one side and looks appraisingly at Howard. “Hey, yeah, I know! Genius. I’ve got just the thing. Wait there.”
And before Howard can open his mouth to protest, Vince has darted off, and there is the sound of high heels clattering up the stairs.
The shop bell tinkles, and two pretty blonde girls come in, chattering and giggling.
Howard puts on his best ‘professional shopkeeper’ expression, as well as he can anyway while staring fixedly down at his shoes. “Good afternoon, ladies. Can I help you?”
They giggle some more. Howard groans inwardly. Business as usual. But at least it’s an improvement on being punched on the nose.
“What happened to your nose?” one of them asks.
Howard shrugs. “Long story.”
They giggle (no surprises there, then) and wander into the corner by the window to look at the bookshelf.
Howard turns his back on them, and pretends to be re-categorizing the paperclips in Paperclip Park.
“Hey, Howard!” Vince bounds cheerfully back into the shop. “I’ve got it… What?”
“Customers, Vince,” Howard stage-whispers.
“Oh, yeah. So there are. Hi, girls!” Vince waves, and blows them a kiss.
They giggle.
“They’re… a bit limited on the conversation front,” Howard mutters.
“Never mind about that. Check this out!” Vince reaches up and slips something over Howard’s head: a chain, cold against the back of his neck.
Howard frowns. “Vince, I don’t wear jewellery. Jewellery is not part of the Moon look, either. Whatever that is, you can take it off again right now.”
“But it’s perfect, Howard. It goes with your music theme. Come and look in the mirror, come on…”
The girls are staring. Howard can feel himself blushing.
“It looks great, really it does,” Vince pleads. “Better on you than on me, and there’s not many of my things I’d say that about. Although” – he giggles – “it might apply to some of my underwear.”
“Just get it off me,” Howard grits through clenched teeth.
Vince shakes his head, and grabs Howard’s shoulders, turning him round to face the mirror behind the counter.
Howard looks. And looks again.
Actually… Vince might have a point.
Howard is wearing Vince’s pendant, the one with the silver guitar; and in combination with a Hawaiian shirt and dark glasses, it might in fact look quite…
Without saying anything, Vince reaches around Howard from behind, and undoes one more button on the shirt.
Howard picks up the glasses from the counter, and puts them on again.
This might just be the new Moon look. And even if it isn’t, even if he does look a complete tit, Howard reckons it’s worth it just to see the expression on Vince’s face.
Vince Noir looking in a mirror, but not looking at himself? Wonders will never cease.
“Thanks, Vince,” Howard says quietly.
Vince grins. “Told you you needed accessorizing. And I still wanna check out my underwear theory later…”
“Excuse me.”
Howard spins round. “Yes, miss?”
“Do you have any more of those cool sunglasses?”
By the end of the day, they have sold all six of Naboo’s spare pairs of sunglasses, as well as a couple of pairs of old Polaroids that Howard found lurking in the bottom of his wardrobe, relics of some long-forgotten seaside holiday.
Naboo wanders into the shop just as they are cashing up. Well, just as they are about to get round to cashing up…
“You ballbags sell anythin’ today?”
Vince un-plasters himself from Howard’s front, and takes his hands out of Howard’s trouser pockets. “Yeah, we did actually… Hey, you feelin’ better?”
“I wasn’t feelin’ bad,” Naboo says, deadpan as usual.
Vince snorts. “Like we believe that.”
“Believe what you like. Yesterday was yesterday. An’ I’m Naboo, that’s who. I don’t feel bad. I just feel my age sometimes.”
“Are you high?” Howard asks.
“Course I am.” Naboo smiles serenely at him. “But not so high that I don’t know that somebody’s nicked all my spare pairs of shades. What’ve you done with them?”
Vince smiles in a way that would turn Howard’s knees to jelly in an instant, but which he must know will have no effect on their employer whatsoever. “Naboolio, old friend, you know when I said we sold some stuff today…”
Summary: The boys go back to work
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Spoilers: Bollo is doing the laundry
Length: about 2500 mostly rather fluffy words
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters, I just borrow them to play with now and again (and again and again and again). For twisted love, not for profit
Notes: Forgive me! I promised you smut, but this isn’t it. Yet. The next chapter will deliver, but meantime I got sidetracked into wondering what the next day in the shop would be like…
Enigma Variations
7 Mellow Yellow
Howard wakes with an unaccustomed lightness in his heart, and the scent of chocolate and hazelnuts in his nostrils.
The first can easily be explained by the fact that a warm, stark naked Vince is slumbering happily beside him; the second, by the Nutella smears on the pillowcase and the distinctly sticky residue in Howard’s moustache.
Howard finds himself smiling broadly at the memory of exactly how all that chocolate got exactly where it did.
Vince stirs, and makes an enquiring sound.
“Morning, Little Man,” Howard says quietly.
A frown creases Vince’s forehead, as though he’s trying to remember something; then he smiles, and opens his eyes. “Morning, Howard… Hey, Howard? Howard! Howard…”
“What?”
“I’m in your bed! Genius!”
“So you are,” Howard agrees.
“Hey, Howard!”
“Yes?”
“You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Erm… what?” It means everything, and Howard knows Vince knows it does, but whatever daft game Vince is playing, Howard’s happy to play along.
“It means we can do this.”
“And this?”
“Ooooh, yeah, I like your thinkin’, Big Man. An’ while we’re about it, let’s have some more of this…”
There is a loud bang on the door. “And when you finish all that, don’t forget it laundry day today, and you two need to be working in shop by nine o’clock.”
“Yes, Bollo,” they chorus in perfect unison.
After some hasty pulling-on of clothes and strategic folding-up of bedlinen so that the worst of the chocolate stains are hidden, they take the laundry-bag along to the kitchen, where Bollo is muttering to himself as he takes the dirty teatowels off the rail.
“Bout time,” he grunts.
“And a very good morning to you, too,” Howard retorts.
“Piss off, Harold.” Bollo grabs the bag from Vince, and starts to stuff the teatowels roughly into it.
“How’s Naboo?” Vince asks.
“Resting. You not to disturb him while Bollo at laundrette.” Bollo hunches over, and glares at a teatowel that’s fallen on the floor. If looks could kill, and Earth teatowels were living organisms, that towel would be a goner.
“Hey Bollo, what’s wrong?” Vince puts a hand on the gorilla’s arm.
The big shoulders heave with a gusty sigh. “Naboo take glasses off last night.”
“And you saw what he was thinking,” Howard says softly.
Bollo grunts in agreement, and looks up, his brow even more furrowed than usual. “Naboo love Bollo second best in whole universe, and he want Bollo to know that, but Bollo see something he not supposed to see…”
“That’s the downside of this potion stuff.” Vince’s fingers tangle into Bollo’s black fur. “You can’t choose to see just the good bits, you get all or nothing. And something’s up with Naboo, isn’t it?”
“Mmm. Naboo gotta bad feeling about something, and now I gotta bad feeling about his bad feeling… and... I gotta do laundry. Forget I said anything else. No, no need help, Bollo old but not so old he can’t carry two bags of washing, fuck off, get to work.”
He grabs the bags and stomps off down the stairs.
Vince stands there with his hand still outstretched, and shakes his head. “What was that all about?”
“Dunno. He’s just fed up because Naboo’s a bit under the weather. I suppose, when you’re four hundred and six, it’s only to be expected that you’ll have an off-day now and again. And Naboo did say doing magic takes it out of him …”
“And what he did for us was magic.” Vince is grinning again now.
“It certainly was.” Howard can’t find it in himself to be worried about anything for long this morning; the sun is shining and everything looks colourful and exotic, especially Vince, who is swanning around in his Liberty peacock-print suit, Howard having chosen it for him as being the least gothic of the outfits that were still hanging in the wardrobe and not strewn around the floor.
Even the shop looks bright and cheerful when they finally get the shutters up at ten-thirty, and when Howard announces it’s stocktaking time Vince grins and says: “I’ll come and help you.”
“Thank you,” Howard says politely. “In that order?”
There is dead silence for a whole three seconds before Vince is rolling on the floor, crying with laughter.
Stocktaking becomes a pleasure, not a chore, when you redefine it as ‘snogging in the stationery cupboard’ instead of ‘counting things’. Howard wishes he’d let Vince teach him that years ago.
Customers, however – and unusually for a Friday, there actually are some, it must be the nice weather bringing them out – customers are a different matter altogether.
Because the potion hasn’t worn off yet, so Howard can’t look anybody (except Vince) in the eye without either frightening them off or getting punched on the nose.
Vince is no help because each time this happens, he is reduced to helpless giggles and has to go and hide.
None of which is any good for their sales figures, which remain at an obstinate zero all morning, in spite of Howard trying to serve customers with his eyes shut, or with his back turned, or staring up at the ceiling and pretending he was changing a lightbulb and his neck got stuck in that position.
At lunchtime, they stick a home-made ‘CLOSED FOR LUNCH’ sign on the door, reckoning that it won’t hurt their finances to shut the shop for an hour. In fact, Vince suggests, it might actually improve them, since it removes the risk of things getting broken or of customers demanding compensation for injuries sustained while taking a swing at Howard.
Howard turns his back on the window – just in case – and Vince goes out for sandwiches.
He comes back with a newspaper as well.
“I didn’t know you’d started taking an interest in current affairs, Vince.”
Vince tosses the folded paper onto the counter. “I haven’t. You know I’m a slow reader an’ I only ever read Cheekbone. This looks well boring. But I thought you could try hiding behind it. Especially if we get any more fat old ladies comin’ in the shop. That last one slapped you up something wicked.”
“Thank you, Vince. That’s, um, very thoughtful of you.” Howard nibbles politely at his mild cheese sandwich and tries not to watch Vince wolfing down three doughnuts and a chocolate éclair in rapid and messy succession. It is good to see Vince eating again, but even so… a man could be put off his lunch.
An idea strikes Howard, and he unfolds the paper and retreats behind it. Pity it doesn’t drown out the sound effects as well, but then you can’t have everything.
A familiar face jumps out of a photo on page two, and Howard suddenly chokes on his wholemeal bread.
“Wassup?” Vince mumbles through a mouthful of crumbs and cream.
Howard wipes his eyes and clears his throat. “Your… um… friend Dietrich’s in the paper.”
“Ex-friend,” Vince says firmly. “Why?”
Howard offers him the paper, but Vince shakes his head. “Read it to me. I like hearin’ your voice. My hands are sticky. An’ I don’t wanna see his face ever again.”
“Up-and-coming goth rockstar Dietrich Darmfuhrung, 29 –”
“Yeah, right,” Vince mutters.
“ – caused a sensation this morning by jumping into the tiger enclosure at Robert’s Park Zoo, formerly Bob Fossil’s Funworld.”
“Twat. What was he trying to pull, some half-arsed publicity stunt?”
“The German-born musician was apparently attempting to commit suicide after the previous night’s sellout performance by his band ‘Kraftstrauch’ was slated by fans and critics, and even the other band members, as a disaster. The guitarist is alleged to have been ‘very depressed’ and to have said that he wanted to end it all in a spectacular way…”
“No,” Vince wails, “no, Howard, I didn’t mean for that to happen, I know he was a prize tit an’ everything, but I wouldn’t have wished that on him…”
“It’s all right. Listen. The tiger, however, refused to eat him, and is quoted as saying ‘I prefer the bones people throw me to have some meat on them.’ Mr. Darmfuhrung was rescued by the zookeeper on the early shift, Bob 'Skinny Ribs' Jordan, 23, who was announced as the band’s new vocalist at a press conference an hour ago.”
Vince heaves a huge sigh of relief, and mimics Howard's reading voice. “The band’s former lead singer, Vince Noir, was unavailable for comment, but if anybody’d asked him he would have said good luck and good riddance to the lot of ’em.”
“You don’t regret leaving the band?”
“Howard.” Vince takes the paper away, and grips Howard’s hands in his own.
The magical connection is weakening, or maybe Howard’s just got used to it; it’s not a shock to look into those blue eyes any more, it’s a nice comforting feeling, like the hand-holding.
“Howard, no, of course I don’t. If I’m ever going to be in a band again, it’ll be one with you and me in it. And nobody else. Don’t worry. I mean, I know you will worry, you worry about everything, that’s like me sayin’ don’t breathe, but I mean… don’t worry about you and me.” He kisses Howard on the cheek. “Uh-oh, here comes our first after-lunch customer. Worry about her instead…” and he skips across the shop to take the sign down off the door.
The first after-lunch customer is a pleasant-faced, middle-aged lady who isn’t even slightly fat, and who is looking for a bookmark with a jazz theme.
All goes well until Howard is just about to take her money, when he glances up and receives a swift clout on the nose for thinking how nice it is to know that there’s someone out there who’s not that old but who’s got even more and wrinklier crow’s feet than he has himself.
Howard sighs as he mops up the trickle of blood, and puts the bookmark carefully back in its correct alphabetical position in the rack.
It’s going to be a long afternoon.
“Here you go, these might help.” Vince is holding out a pair of Naboo’s very big, very dark dark glasses. “Put these on.”
“I’ll look a complete tit.”
“A complete tit who doesn’t get attacked by angry grannies, yeah? Gotta be worth a try… Heyyyy.” Vince sidles up to Howard and grinds seductively against him. “You look hot in shades. You should wear them all the time.”
“No way.” Howard takes them off again. “Sunglasses are not part of the Moon look, sir. Except on seaside holidays.”
“Well, they should be. They suit you.”
“Vince, get off me, I can’t serve customers with you glued to my front.”
“What customers?” Vince gestures at the empty shop. The two of them stand motionless. A ball of tumbleweed blows across the chequered tiling, complete with whistling wind effects.
“Howard?”
“Vince?”
“I think we need to accessorize you a bit. There’s something missing…” Vince cocks his head to one side and looks appraisingly at Howard. “Hey, yeah, I know! Genius. I’ve got just the thing. Wait there.”
And before Howard can open his mouth to protest, Vince has darted off, and there is the sound of high heels clattering up the stairs.
The shop bell tinkles, and two pretty blonde girls come in, chattering and giggling.
Howard puts on his best ‘professional shopkeeper’ expression, as well as he can anyway while staring fixedly down at his shoes. “Good afternoon, ladies. Can I help you?”
They giggle some more. Howard groans inwardly. Business as usual. But at least it’s an improvement on being punched on the nose.
“What happened to your nose?” one of them asks.
Howard shrugs. “Long story.”
They giggle (no surprises there, then) and wander into the corner by the window to look at the bookshelf.
Howard turns his back on them, and pretends to be re-categorizing the paperclips in Paperclip Park.
“Hey, Howard!” Vince bounds cheerfully back into the shop. “I’ve got it… What?”
“Customers, Vince,” Howard stage-whispers.
“Oh, yeah. So there are. Hi, girls!” Vince waves, and blows them a kiss.
They giggle.
“They’re… a bit limited on the conversation front,” Howard mutters.
“Never mind about that. Check this out!” Vince reaches up and slips something over Howard’s head: a chain, cold against the back of his neck.
Howard frowns. “Vince, I don’t wear jewellery. Jewellery is not part of the Moon look, either. Whatever that is, you can take it off again right now.”
“But it’s perfect, Howard. It goes with your music theme. Come and look in the mirror, come on…”
The girls are staring. Howard can feel himself blushing.
“It looks great, really it does,” Vince pleads. “Better on you than on me, and there’s not many of my things I’d say that about. Although” – he giggles – “it might apply to some of my underwear.”
“Just get it off me,” Howard grits through clenched teeth.
Vince shakes his head, and grabs Howard’s shoulders, turning him round to face the mirror behind the counter.
Howard looks. And looks again.
Actually… Vince might have a point.
Howard is wearing Vince’s pendant, the one with the silver guitar; and in combination with a Hawaiian shirt and dark glasses, it might in fact look quite…
Without saying anything, Vince reaches around Howard from behind, and undoes one more button on the shirt.
Howard picks up the glasses from the counter, and puts them on again.
This might just be the new Moon look. And even if it isn’t, even if he does look a complete tit, Howard reckons it’s worth it just to see the expression on Vince’s face.
Vince Noir looking in a mirror, but not looking at himself? Wonders will never cease.
“Thanks, Vince,” Howard says quietly.
Vince grins. “Told you you needed accessorizing. And I still wanna check out my underwear theory later…”
“Excuse me.”
Howard spins round. “Yes, miss?”
“Do you have any more of those cool sunglasses?”
By the end of the day, they have sold all six of Naboo’s spare pairs of sunglasses, as well as a couple of pairs of old Polaroids that Howard found lurking in the bottom of his wardrobe, relics of some long-forgotten seaside holiday.
Naboo wanders into the shop just as they are cashing up. Well, just as they are about to get round to cashing up…
“You ballbags sell anythin’ today?”
Vince un-plasters himself from Howard’s front, and takes his hands out of Howard’s trouser pockets. “Yeah, we did actually… Hey, you feelin’ better?”
“I wasn’t feelin’ bad,” Naboo says, deadpan as usual.
Vince snorts. “Like we believe that.”
“Believe what you like. Yesterday was yesterday. An’ I’m Naboo, that’s who. I don’t feel bad. I just feel my age sometimes.”
“Are you high?” Howard asks.
“Course I am.” Naboo smiles serenely at him. “But not so high that I don’t know that somebody’s nicked all my spare pairs of shades. What’ve you done with them?”
Vince smiles in a way that would turn Howard’s knees to jelly in an instant, but which he must know will have no effect on their employer whatsoever. “Naboolio, old friend, you know when I said we sold some stuff today…”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-04-21 09:00 am (UTC)