Logical Conclusions

[huntingsnarks.livejournal.com]

Title: Logical Conclusions (2/?)
Pairing or Characters: Howince
Summary: Does your brain know something you don't know? Jump in for a fidget on the couch, an accidental love proposition, a trumpet sock-puppet, and a good, solid slice of delusion.
Word Count: 1992
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Do I own the Boosh? No. But the Boosh owns me.  
Author’s Notes: Ooh, yes, trumpet socks. And Peter Jackson. And if the combo of the two doesn't make you want to read this fic, well, then, sir, I will shoot you down like a large German bear.

 

"Hold it right there, Vince!"

 

Howard grabbed at the passing silver blur, yelping as his fingers entangled themselves in floaty fabric. Before he could enunciate an appropriate expression of terror, his bottom found itself removed from the couch and positioned rather painfully on the hard floorboards.

 

"Oomph," was all he managed as Vince fell about himself in laughter. With a sympathetic grimace for his abused behind, Howard climbed awkwardly to his feet and pulled his hand free of Vince's gauzy wrap. "Oh, shut it, will you? I'm trying to talk to you, alright?"  

 

"Nah, can't really stop, Howard; there's this genius gig going on at the Velvet Onion tonight, you should co-" He seemed to pause and check his own enthusiasm. "Well, you wouldn't enjoy it, anyway."

 

Howard sniffed. "I don't doubt that. No, stop, Vince, I really wanted a word. Just a minute?"  

 

It was with a fidget and an impatient wiggle that Vince perched himself on the edge of the couch, clearly ready to flee to the Onion as soon as Howard had finished. The older man cleared his throat, seating himself comfortably amongst the cushions at the opposite end of the seat. As if in subconscious protest to this deliberate distancing, Vince slid back into the couch from his perched position and propped his violet platforms on Howard's lap.

 

Howard tried not to sigh. He really did. After all this time with Vince, he should be used to such Space Invasions by now.  

 

"Come on, then," prompted Vince, attempting to dig his flat-soled heel into Howard's thigh with limited success. "You're using up the public's time with Vince Noir. Don't deny the public what they want, Howard."

 

It was rather easy to just come out with it. With a tone of vexation honed to perfection over the years, Howard presented his case:

 

"Vince. Bollo told me that he found you going through my things last night while I was at my jazzercise class."

 

Vince looked outraged. "He told you that?" Betrayal rang freely through his voice.

 

"Yes, he did," Howard affirmed, eyes narrowing. "We're close confidants, Bollo and I; we keep an eye out for each other."

 

"No you don't! Bollo hates you, Howard! He doesn't even know your name, and that must take some effort after all these years!"

 

"Look, you little titbox," Howard began, dissolving into open irritation, "Bollo came and told me that because he thinks you're going wrong! I'd agree with him, except that I know you've got nothing more to lose up there in your mind tank! Now, why were you looking through my things?"

 

"I was looking for something to fill up the hole in my mind," Vince told his hands, which twisted and fidgeted in his lap in response.

 

"What, are you still caught up in all that nonsense?"

 

Vince looked up, his eyes wide and earnest. "It's not nonsense, Howard! You don't know what it feels like, being all uncertain and awkward all the time." He paused, head tilted. "Well, of course you do, but it's different for me! It's like my confidence has melted away like a sugar cube in the rain. I don't like it."

 

When Howard ignored the somewhat insulting nature of Vince's explanation, he found that he was able to feel a flicker of compassion in his chest for his distraught friend. He leaned forward slightly and placed his hands around the feet of Vince's platforms (with some difficulty).

 

Squeezing lightly, he adopted a soothing tone. "Look, Vince, we'll have none of this lack-of-confidence talk, alright? I've never seen anyone as brazenly self-assured as you, sweeping out of the flat each evening in the flashy couture of a futuristic high-street whore."

 

Vince shrugged, hands jiggling about in his lap. "Yeah, well, that's the thing, isn't it? I feel fine when I'm outside the flat. It's when I'm here that I feel well weird, when I'm trapped indoors with y-"

 

He stopped himself mid-sentence. For the stretch of a silent minute, Howard's face flickered between concern and hurt and anger and confusion and concern and then more hurt.

 

"What, me?" he said finally, feeling quite injured. "I make you lose confidence? The jazzy freak drains away your self-esteem like a greedy cobra?" Howard stopped and considered this for a moment. "Vince," he started again, his tone kinder, "is it because you feel inadequate beside my striking appearance?"    

 

Hands flashing out in front of him as if to ward away the absurd vibes in Howard's words, Vince shook his head vehemently. "No way, Howard! If that was the reason, I'd have to off myself!"

 

Huffing, Howard collapsed back against the cushions. Compassion had been scraped from his being like the soppy sentiment deserved. "Well, then, Sonny Jim, I advise that you tear yourself away from me right now and regain your confidence before I physically remove it from you."

 

"Oh, come off it, Howard," sighed Vince, relaxing back into the armrest, folding his platforms more comfortably atop Howard's thighs. "You know I could never stay away from you. You're like my favourite pair of drainpipes – but well unfashionable."

 

Howard, whose throat seemed to have recently encountered a sizeable lump, turned his head away in an effort to retain his affronted air. This was, after all, the closest thing to a statement of affection that Vince had awarded him since they'd left the zoo.

 

"Look, Howard, come on," Vince wheedled, sounding slightly subdued. "You know I don't mean it."

 

"Yeah, yeah," Howard sniffed, "you have to use fashion terms, I know, it's the mantra you live by."

 

Vince frowned. "I live by a sea creature?"

 

"That's manta ray, you twit," Howard said, trying very hard to sound fatigued by Vince's nonsense, but a touch of affection crawled treacherously into his tone.

 

"Oh, right," Vince grinned, nodding his head as if he had any idea what he was talking about. "I thought you meant that you'd brought Old Gregg home after all."

 

"Speak not his name!" Howard hissed, darting his beady eyes about the room as if expecting the love-struck serial killer to jump out from behind a curtain. Failing to catch sight of a pink tutu, Howard groaned, pressing his face into his hands. "What went on in Black Lake stays in Black Lake, Vince!"

 

He could hear Vince laughing, the serious tone of their earlier conversation clearly forgotten, but Howard was now very squarely set in a rather lousy funk. Old Gregg's terribly voice rung clearly through his mind…

 

Do you love me? You must love me exactly as I love you, Howard Moon…

 

Do you love me?

 

"What?"

 

"What?" Howard said quickly, panicked. He couldn't have spoken out loud, could he? Oh no, no, an accomplished Man of Action such as himself would never reveal his inner thoughts by accident, no sir.

 

"Did you just ask me if I love you?" Vince's voice was decidedly odd.

 

Damn it.

 

After the rather fishy incident in Black Lake, Howard had refused to tell Vince much about his uncomfortable time in Old Gregg's care. Among the many omissions in his account had been the manfish's love professions. There were many fine reasons for the exclusion of this particular detail, yes sir – after all, Howard had to protect the younger man from the vile ways of the world. Oh, and Vince would never have finished laughing at Howard either…

 

But wait. Was it possible that Howard would be saved from the unappealing task of explaining his accidental outburst? Something like terrified comprehension seemed to have dawned on Vince's face. Rather unkindly, Howard smiled just a tad as Vince's fashionable pallor increased to an unattractive hue. Distraction had been found. But where?

 

"Er, Vince? Are you alright, little man?" Howard tried to mask the relief in his voice with concern, but the shoes in his lap seemed to freeze up just as he finished his question.  

 

"Do I love you?" Vince muttered beneath his breath, all the while staring directly at Howard with blue eyes that seemed to bulge with terror.

 

"Right, yes, that's right, Vincey Vince," Howard said, his voice much too bright, and he released a short spurt of laughter. There was nothing forced in that laugh, nothing at all. He looked down after a minute, mostly to escape those unblinking eyes, and found that his hands had gripped rather tightly about Vince's ankles. "Oh, er, sorry about that," he said, hurriedly relaxing his fingers. "But we already know the answer to this one, don't we? Shouldn't you be snickering at me from behind in a human coke can? No, the question I meant to ask – that is – well, answer me this: do you love, er, Gary Numan?"

 

Two magic words and Vince unfroze like a paddle pop dipped into hot water.

 

"Gary Numan," he said simply, and his eyes seemed to clear a little. "He's genius, Howard! Did you know that Gary Numan was once mistaken for a spy? He was captured by a foreign government, but before his toes got nipped off by sharks, he played some electro beats and escaped into a nearby zephyr-"

 

As Vince continued, hands slicing through the air in action-fuelled description, Howard breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He'd been worried there for one uncertain moment – but no more. Maybe Vince occasionally succumbed to some understandable bout of uncertainty around his wiser and more conventionally handsome friend, but not Howard Moon. This Jazz Maverick was in control of his situation, day in, day out.

 

"I was once captured by a foreign government," he interrupted half-heartedly, pulling Vince out of some fantastical account of Numan's shark-defying exploits.

 

"Yeah, I know," Vince said, rolling his eyes, "I was there. But that's something you made me promise to never mention, isn't it? Or should I go and tell Bollo that you've had important connections to Peter Jackson in the past?"

 

"They're legal connections, you little tart," Howard snapped, "and I was detained without reason! All I wanted to do was show that hairy Kiwi what a true rugged northerner looks like. How could he have missed my acting potential?"

 

"You grabbed a sword from the kid's shop and poked him in the stomach, Howard," Vince laughed, shaking his head at the memory.  

 

"You shut your mouth or I'll come at you like a sharpened piccolo," Howard growled. A frown darkened his face for a minute as his mind sidestepped brilliantly to an entirely different (though no less infuriating) subject. "Hold on a minute," he said, glaring directly at a smirking Vince, "you never did tell me why you were going through my things last night."

 

Vince's face fell immediately. "Look, Howard, I told you," he began rather desperately, hands twisting back into his lap. "I was trying to figure out what my brain's been trying to tell me."

 

"And you were going to heal your mental instability by sewing little button eyes on my trumpet socks, were you?"

 

Despite his obvious disquiet, Vince grinned. "They looked genius, didn't they? All dressed up for a jazzy performance."

 

It was in a huff that Howard shoved the platform boots off his lap and stood to leave this infuriatingly nonsensical conversation. He made to storm his way from the room – and to the aid of his mutated trumpet socks – when the smallest of sighs reached his ears from somewhere in the vicinity of the couch. Peering backwards, Howard's eyes met the subdued blue of Vince.

 

Oddly, the younger man seemed smaller from this height, almost engulfed by his ridiculous silver swathe of a wrap. Without meaning to look there, Howard's eyes fell the short distance to Vince's lips, which were tight and still, as if resolutely fastened to some kind of conclusion.

 

And then Howard left. A man of his stature in society could not be caught staring at another man's lips for too long. And he felt so decidedly odd when he did so… it made him rather nervous. 

 

Comments

[tabithaarbella.livejournal.com]

Wow: D
Oooh and I'm ur first comment soz it's rubbish: D Not u meee I'm a moron lol...: D But this is good: D

[meobnal.livejournal.com]

This is just getting better and better! I was grinning throughout the whole dialogue *g*

[crowson75.livejournal.com]

*Grins* That was rather lovely. The dialogue was fabulous.

[monooccularcat.livejournal.com]

I agree, the tone is very in keeping with S3. How I love banter! Trumpet socks with googly eyes. Make me one?

[jackiethomas73.livejournal.com]

I'm enjoying this so much. There are so many good lines.

[directmydesire.livejournal.com]

I love your dialogue! It's soo them!

[sparklyglampire.livejournal.com]

The trumpet socks! Hee :D
I'm so loving this series, it's so in character that it seems like a slightly-slashier-than-normal episode!

[http://users.livejournal.com/_the_new_/]

"You shut your mouth or I'll come at you like a sharpened piccolo," Howard growled.

This gave me a serious case of the lulz.

Can't wait for the next part.

[fecklesslyfine.livejournal.com]

I love how well you've got Howard's self-delusion down. It's like you're ~in his brain~ ;)

And I was glad I'd already finished my cereal by the time I got to the manta ray line, or I would have a very soggy keyboard right about now.


Brilliant, all of it!