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booshslashhavenTitle: The Colours of the Rainbow
Summary: There were a few of Uncle Walt’s pens left over...
Rating: G
Warnings: Extremely high calorie content. Bucket may be required.
Length: about 1630 words
Spoilers: There is singing. And fluff.
Disclaimer: These are not my characters. I know them so well, but still I don’t own them and they’re not making me any money, they’re just making me happy. Don’t ask why they make me happy in this particular way. They just do.
Notes: This is from me to all of you for Valentine’s Day, although it’s not specifically set on that date, it’s just fluffy and daft. Apologies for my long absence from the writing arena. I have been writing, just not fiction. And I’m sorry for not organising a Valentine’s Day prompt fest this year, but there is such a lot of great prompting and writing going on anyway, we didn’t really need one!
The Colours of the Rainbow
‘Well, there we go, that’s a job well done, yes sir.’ Howard takes a final proud look at the beautifully colour-graded row of felt pens before waving goodbye to their owner and closing the door.
‘That was fun, Howard, cheers.’ Vince smiles up at Howard, his eyes bright under the bloodstained bandage wrapped around his forehead. ‘We should do it again sometime. Preferably after we haven’t been stabbed up by some pissed-off electro girls.’
‘I second that part.’ Howard rubs ruefully at his own bruised face. ‘Still, it was nice of Uncle Walt to let you keep the pens that didn’t work very well, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah. It was genius. I’m gonna have some fun with these.’ Vince swings the carrier bag of pens, making it rustle, as he trots along the corridor.
He’s hardly got through the door of the keeper hut before he’s riffling through the pile of old rotas on the worktop, scrounging for paper.
‘Do you need help to change that bandage?’ Howard asks.
‘Later.’ Vince is already drawing furiously, lying flat on his stomach on the floor, feet in the air, tongue protruding as he scribbles and shades.
Howard leaves him to it – there’s no possibility of a conversation with Vince when he’s making art. It must be a bit like being in a jazz trance, but with colours in place of the music.
He watches Vince’s intent face for a while, hoping he might look up, but he’s utterly absorbed, like a child.
Howard sighs and puts the kettle on.
‘Here you go, Vince.’ Howard holds out Vince’s mug. ‘Tea.’
‘Stick it on the table. Won’t be a sec,’ Vince mutters, and scribbles a bit more. ‘Brown, I need brown.’
‘There’s a beige over here.’ Howard rescues it from beside the leg of the sofa.
Vince shakes his head. ‘Not brown enough, I need a rich dark brown, what did you call it, Van Morrison brown?’
‘Vandyke brown.’ Howard tries not to laugh. ‘I’m not sure we got to keep one of those.’
Vince rummages in the carrier bag. ‘Yeah, we did, there was one that was a bit faded... here. This is it. Perfect.’ He adds the finishing touch to his last drawing.
‘You want your brew now?’ Howard asks.
‘Yes please, I’m parched... Ta.’
Their fingers meet as Howard hands him the cup.
‘What have you been drawing?’ Howard asks hastily.
Vince grins. ‘You wanna see?’
‘If you want to show me.’
‘Course I do.’ Vince scoops the papers off the floor; plumps down beside Howard on the sofa.
Howard holds one of the drawings at arm’s length. It makes no sense at all. He turns it the other way up, but it’s still a jumble of shapes, an angular green-and-navy scribble in between two acid orange clouds. Like a sunset, but with the colours reversed. ‘So... um... what am I looking at exactly?’
‘Music.’
‘You can’t draw music.’
‘Yeah, you can. I just did.’ Vince rolls his eyes. ‘That one’s the Human League, but you’ve got ‘em upside down... That’s better. Look, that’s Phil, and these are the girls. And this one here’s Jagger. And I did Bowie, I’m quite pleased with how he turned out.’
Howard picks up a dark, angular composition in red and black. ‘And this one’s Gary Numan, I suppose.’
‘Yeah, you’re gettin’ it.’ Vince’s eyes are alight with pleasure. ‘These’re what I see in my head when I hear those voices.’
‘So what’s this one?’ Howard holds up the last drawing in the pile. ‘The one you needed the brown for. It’s not quite like the others.’
‘Oh, that. It’s... um...’ Vince blushes and sips at his tea. ‘Well... it’s you.’
‘Me?’
‘Your voice, anyway. Singing.’
Howard looks at the flowing curves of coffee and caramel, vandyke brown shading to hazelnut in a random yet pleasing pattern.
‘I like it... Singing what?’
Vince blushes deeper. ‘Scat,’ he whispers.
‘But you hate me scatting. You threw seeds over me.’
‘I know, but your voice, Howard – it’s just – Would you sing something else?’
‘What, now?’
‘Yeah. That is, if you’re OK to sing. It’s not like playin’ an instrument, is it? And anyway the jazz spirit isn’t gonna come back, not after Naboo exercised you.’
‘I suppose not, but –’
‘But what?’
‘I don’t know what to sing.’
‘Sing about – I dunno, something about colours. Something not-jazzy, if you know any not-jazzy songs. I just need to check I got this one right.’
Howard ums and ahs, and takes his time finishing his tea. He feels a bit self-conscious, but Vince’s eyes are fixed on him, and they are very blue...
The tea is all gone. This can’t be put off any longer. Howard puts his empty cup down, takes a deep breath and starts to sing the first song that pops into his head.
‘I see trees of green
Red roses too...’
Vince beams. ‘I know this one, my nan used to sing it to me when we was drawin’ together on her kitchen table.’ He joins in.
‘I see them blue
For me and you...’
Howard is watching his face; doesn’t correct him. Their voices blend, coffee and cream.
‘And I think to myself
What a wonderful world.’
Vince breaks off and sighs. ‘I loved singing with Nana. We had such a great time... I miss her.’
‘What was her voice like?’ Howard asks.
‘Hey, you’re right, cheers Howard, I can draw it, I never thought of that.’ Smiling once more, Vince grabs another sheet of paper and sketches in a hazy pattern of bright soft colours. ‘That’s what it felt like, to listen to her. She knew loads of songs.’ He adds pink, mint, lemon. ‘No, haven’t got it quite right yet. Can you sing the rest of it? I’ve forgotten. There was a bit about a rainbow, the colours of the rainbow...’ He shuts his eyes.
Howard goes on.
‘The colours of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky...’
‘Genius!’ Vince opens his eyes again; picks a deep rose pen out of the bag and starts to fill in the gaps in the pattern.
‘Are also on the faces of the people passing by...’
‘That’s it, I’ve got it now. I can hear her, I remember how it goes.’ Vince puts the lid carefully back on the pen and joins in the singing again, looking at the drawing.
‘I see friends shaking hands, saying how do you do
What they’re really saying is –’
Suddenly Howard’s singing on his own. ‘I love you.’
He falters into silence, and looks up; braces himself for Vince’s laughter.
Vince is smiling, but there’s no malice there, just affection. ‘I know, Howard. You told me in the Arctic. Remember?’
‘No, I mean yes, I do, I do remember, but I – I’m not ready to go there again.’ Howard’s face is hot, and his head’s throbbing dully. ‘I didn’t mean – It’s in the lyrics... Look, let’s just forget about it, shall we? It’s been a long day.’
‘Alright, Howard,’ Vince says meekly.
Howard turns away and busies himself picking up the stray pens from the floor, tidying the empty mugs away, laying out Vince’s drawings on the table so he can see the colours of them all.
A scuffling sound behind him makes him turn round. ‘What are you doing, Vince? We’re not on night watch tonight.’
Vince finishes laying out their sleeping bags in the usual places on the hut floor. ‘I know, but I’m tired, an’ you’re tired, an’ like you said, it’s been a long day. I can’t be bothered goin’ home, I just want to crawl in there an’ have a sleepy.’
Those sleeping bags look very cosy. Howard can’t deny it. He nods, and fetches their pyjamas from the drawer.
After lights out, his head neatly re-bandaged by Howard, Vince starts humming Wonderful World to himself, and suddenly Howard starts laughing, like he hasn’t laughed in a long time.
‘Howard? Howard. Howard, Howard...’
‘What?’
‘Are you feelin’ OK? You got quite a bang on the head from that girl...’
‘I’m fine, Vince, really.’ Howard wipes his streaming eyes on his pyjama sleeve. ‘I’m just laughing.’
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You know who sang that song, right?’
‘No idea. But it’s genius... Who?’
‘Louis Armstrong,’ Howard chortles.
‘Didn’t he go to the moon?’
‘No, Vince, he was a musician. A jazz musician. A brilliant trumpet player, and a singer. And the really funny thing is, he made the first scat recording.’
‘No way.’
‘Yes way. I’ll play it to you sometime. What happened was, he dropped the music while they were recording, and he couldn’t remember all the words, so he improvised, and everyone loved it, so they left it in, and it started a trend... Vince. Vince? Vince, that is one of my best jazz stories, you’d better still be listening, I’m going to test you on it later... Vince?’
‘You will be one day,’ Vince says softly.
‘Will be what?’
‘Ready to go there again.’ Vince’s words are blurred with sleep. ‘An’ I will be too.’
‘Maybe, little man,’ Howard says cautiously.
‘I’ll wait... Howard?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Sing me the rest of the song?’
‘Will you go to sleep if I do?’
‘Course.’
‘Alright then.
I see skies of blue
And clouds of white
Bright blessed days
Dark sacred nights
And I think to myself...’
‘What a wonnerful world,’ Vince mumbles, and begins to snore.
He doesn’t even stir when Howard reaches over and takes hold of his hand.
The Moon smiles down at them through the grimy window of the hut.
‘I see trees of grey, grey roses too
I see them grey, the whole night through
And I think to myself...
Not much colour visible by your light, when you are the Moon.’
Summary: There were a few of Uncle Walt’s pens left over...
Rating: G
Warnings: Extremely high calorie content. Bucket may be required.
Length: about 1630 words
Spoilers: There is singing. And fluff.
Disclaimer: These are not my characters. I know them so well, but still I don’t own them and they’re not making me any money, they’re just making me happy. Don’t ask why they make me happy in this particular way. They just do.
Notes: This is from me to all of you for Valentine’s Day, although it’s not specifically set on that date, it’s just fluffy and daft. Apologies for my long absence from the writing arena. I have been writing, just not fiction. And I’m sorry for not organising a Valentine’s Day prompt fest this year, but there is such a lot of great prompting and writing going on anyway, we didn’t really need one!
The Colours of the Rainbow
‘Well, there we go, that’s a job well done, yes sir.’ Howard takes a final proud look at the beautifully colour-graded row of felt pens before waving goodbye to their owner and closing the door.
‘That was fun, Howard, cheers.’ Vince smiles up at Howard, his eyes bright under the bloodstained bandage wrapped around his forehead. ‘We should do it again sometime. Preferably after we haven’t been stabbed up by some pissed-off electro girls.’
‘I second that part.’ Howard rubs ruefully at his own bruised face. ‘Still, it was nice of Uncle Walt to let you keep the pens that didn’t work very well, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah. It was genius. I’m gonna have some fun with these.’ Vince swings the carrier bag of pens, making it rustle, as he trots along the corridor.
He’s hardly got through the door of the keeper hut before he’s riffling through the pile of old rotas on the worktop, scrounging for paper.
‘Do you need help to change that bandage?’ Howard asks.
‘Later.’ Vince is already drawing furiously, lying flat on his stomach on the floor, feet in the air, tongue protruding as he scribbles and shades.
Howard leaves him to it – there’s no possibility of a conversation with Vince when he’s making art. It must be a bit like being in a jazz trance, but with colours in place of the music.
He watches Vince’s intent face for a while, hoping he might look up, but he’s utterly absorbed, like a child.
Howard sighs and puts the kettle on.
‘Here you go, Vince.’ Howard holds out Vince’s mug. ‘Tea.’
‘Stick it on the table. Won’t be a sec,’ Vince mutters, and scribbles a bit more. ‘Brown, I need brown.’
‘There’s a beige over here.’ Howard rescues it from beside the leg of the sofa.
Vince shakes his head. ‘Not brown enough, I need a rich dark brown, what did you call it, Van Morrison brown?’
‘Vandyke brown.’ Howard tries not to laugh. ‘I’m not sure we got to keep one of those.’
Vince rummages in the carrier bag. ‘Yeah, we did, there was one that was a bit faded... here. This is it. Perfect.’ He adds the finishing touch to his last drawing.
‘You want your brew now?’ Howard asks.
‘Yes please, I’m parched... Ta.’
Their fingers meet as Howard hands him the cup.
‘What have you been drawing?’ Howard asks hastily.
Vince grins. ‘You wanna see?’
‘If you want to show me.’
‘Course I do.’ Vince scoops the papers off the floor; plumps down beside Howard on the sofa.
Howard holds one of the drawings at arm’s length. It makes no sense at all. He turns it the other way up, but it’s still a jumble of shapes, an angular green-and-navy scribble in between two acid orange clouds. Like a sunset, but with the colours reversed. ‘So... um... what am I looking at exactly?’
‘Music.’
‘You can’t draw music.’
‘Yeah, you can. I just did.’ Vince rolls his eyes. ‘That one’s the Human League, but you’ve got ‘em upside down... That’s better. Look, that’s Phil, and these are the girls. And this one here’s Jagger. And I did Bowie, I’m quite pleased with how he turned out.’
Howard picks up a dark, angular composition in red and black. ‘And this one’s Gary Numan, I suppose.’
‘Yeah, you’re gettin’ it.’ Vince’s eyes are alight with pleasure. ‘These’re what I see in my head when I hear those voices.’
‘So what’s this one?’ Howard holds up the last drawing in the pile. ‘The one you needed the brown for. It’s not quite like the others.’
‘Oh, that. It’s... um...’ Vince blushes and sips at his tea. ‘Well... it’s you.’
‘Me?’
‘Your voice, anyway. Singing.’
Howard looks at the flowing curves of coffee and caramel, vandyke brown shading to hazelnut in a random yet pleasing pattern.
‘I like it... Singing what?’
Vince blushes deeper. ‘Scat,’ he whispers.
‘But you hate me scatting. You threw seeds over me.’
‘I know, but your voice, Howard – it’s just – Would you sing something else?’
‘What, now?’
‘Yeah. That is, if you’re OK to sing. It’s not like playin’ an instrument, is it? And anyway the jazz spirit isn’t gonna come back, not after Naboo exercised you.’
‘I suppose not, but –’
‘But what?’
‘I don’t know what to sing.’
‘Sing about – I dunno, something about colours. Something not-jazzy, if you know any not-jazzy songs. I just need to check I got this one right.’
Howard ums and ahs, and takes his time finishing his tea. He feels a bit self-conscious, but Vince’s eyes are fixed on him, and they are very blue...
The tea is all gone. This can’t be put off any longer. Howard puts his empty cup down, takes a deep breath and starts to sing the first song that pops into his head.
‘I see trees of green
Red roses too...’
Vince beams. ‘I know this one, my nan used to sing it to me when we was drawin’ together on her kitchen table.’ He joins in.
‘I see them blue
For me and you...’
Howard is watching his face; doesn’t correct him. Their voices blend, coffee and cream.
‘And I think to myself
What a wonderful world.’
Vince breaks off and sighs. ‘I loved singing with Nana. We had such a great time... I miss her.’
‘What was her voice like?’ Howard asks.
‘Hey, you’re right, cheers Howard, I can draw it, I never thought of that.’ Smiling once more, Vince grabs another sheet of paper and sketches in a hazy pattern of bright soft colours. ‘That’s what it felt like, to listen to her. She knew loads of songs.’ He adds pink, mint, lemon. ‘No, haven’t got it quite right yet. Can you sing the rest of it? I’ve forgotten. There was a bit about a rainbow, the colours of the rainbow...’ He shuts his eyes.
Howard goes on.
‘The colours of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky...’
‘Genius!’ Vince opens his eyes again; picks a deep rose pen out of the bag and starts to fill in the gaps in the pattern.
‘Are also on the faces of the people passing by...’
‘That’s it, I’ve got it now. I can hear her, I remember how it goes.’ Vince puts the lid carefully back on the pen and joins in the singing again, looking at the drawing.
‘I see friends shaking hands, saying how do you do
What they’re really saying is –’
Suddenly Howard’s singing on his own. ‘I love you.’
He falters into silence, and looks up; braces himself for Vince’s laughter.
Vince is smiling, but there’s no malice there, just affection. ‘I know, Howard. You told me in the Arctic. Remember?’
‘No, I mean yes, I do, I do remember, but I – I’m not ready to go there again.’ Howard’s face is hot, and his head’s throbbing dully. ‘I didn’t mean – It’s in the lyrics... Look, let’s just forget about it, shall we? It’s been a long day.’
‘Alright, Howard,’ Vince says meekly.
Howard turns away and busies himself picking up the stray pens from the floor, tidying the empty mugs away, laying out Vince’s drawings on the table so he can see the colours of them all.
A scuffling sound behind him makes him turn round. ‘What are you doing, Vince? We’re not on night watch tonight.’
Vince finishes laying out their sleeping bags in the usual places on the hut floor. ‘I know, but I’m tired, an’ you’re tired, an’ like you said, it’s been a long day. I can’t be bothered goin’ home, I just want to crawl in there an’ have a sleepy.’
Those sleeping bags look very cosy. Howard can’t deny it. He nods, and fetches their pyjamas from the drawer.
After lights out, his head neatly re-bandaged by Howard, Vince starts humming Wonderful World to himself, and suddenly Howard starts laughing, like he hasn’t laughed in a long time.
‘Howard? Howard. Howard, Howard...’
‘What?’
‘Are you feelin’ OK? You got quite a bang on the head from that girl...’
‘I’m fine, Vince, really.’ Howard wipes his streaming eyes on his pyjama sleeve. ‘I’m just laughing.’
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You know who sang that song, right?’
‘No idea. But it’s genius... Who?’
‘Louis Armstrong,’ Howard chortles.
‘Didn’t he go to the moon?’
‘No, Vince, he was a musician. A jazz musician. A brilliant trumpet player, and a singer. And the really funny thing is, he made the first scat recording.’
‘No way.’
‘Yes way. I’ll play it to you sometime. What happened was, he dropped the music while they were recording, and he couldn’t remember all the words, so he improvised, and everyone loved it, so they left it in, and it started a trend... Vince. Vince? Vince, that is one of my best jazz stories, you’d better still be listening, I’m going to test you on it later... Vince?’
‘You will be one day,’ Vince says softly.
‘Will be what?’
‘Ready to go there again.’ Vince’s words are blurred with sleep. ‘An’ I will be too.’
‘Maybe, little man,’ Howard says cautiously.
‘I’ll wait... Howard?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Sing me the rest of the song?’
‘Will you go to sleep if I do?’
‘Course.’
‘Alright then.
I see skies of blue
And clouds of white
Bright blessed days
Dark sacred nights
And I think to myself...’
‘What a wonnerful world,’ Vince mumbles, and begins to snore.
He doesn’t even stir when Howard reaches over and takes hold of his hand.
The Moon smiles down at them through the grimy window of the hut.
‘I see trees of grey, grey roses too
I see them grey, the whole night through
And I think to myself...
Not much colour visible by your light, when you are the Moon.’
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