Title: Patched, Mismatched, and Imperfect
Pairing: Howard/Vince (pre-slash)
Summary: Howard realizes that Vince isn't perfect.
Word Count: 700
Rating: PG
Warnings: Angst, hc, and er ... unusual medical condition maybe?
Disclaimer Boosh belongs to Julian, Noel, and Baby Cow.
Author's Note: This actually marks the loss of my Boosh!fic-virginity. Thank you for the gift of love.
In truth, I have been working for about two weeks on a long, epic, action-adventure Howince fic, but I am still fussing over the first two chapters and the overall plot outline. I conceived of this tiny fic last night and wrote it over the course of today.
Patched, Mismatched, and Imperfect
by thickets
Vince had a lazy eye.
Most people didn't know about it; in fact, there was only one – Howard. He still remembered the first night they'd bunked down in the keeper's hut and Vince'd taken out his contacts. "Er," Vince had said, shuffling over to him. "All right, Howard? A little weird, huh?" His face was just a bit red; it was as though he'd suddenly stripped naked, and, knowing Vince, Howard imagined he wouldn't care one-tenth as much if he had done just that.
"Cuppa tea?" he asked, deciding changing the subject was the best course of action.
"Cheers, Howard," Vince replied, his face relaxing, clearly thanking him for more than just the tea.
It was strange, really. Vince was so perfect. It seemed as though somehow, everything about Vince became special simply by being associated with him. It was a process that Howard had always been mystified by, having absolutely no similar ability himself; but he had, strangely enough, never been jealous or even curious about it. Like a spectator before an illusionist, he allowed himself to be carried away by Vince's magic. Prying too much might destroy the spell.
Then, one night, while Howard was stretched out on the couch, spacing out to a Charlie Mingus LP, he heard the door to the shop below open and then, rapidly, slam shut. Moments later there was the sound of Vince's boots thudding on the stairs; but somehow he felt instinctively that the pace was all wrong. The tread was slow and heavy, as though Vince was putting all his weight into each step. If one could assign an emotion to footsteps, then these definitely sounded upset.
Howard rose from the couch and took the record off just as Vince entered the flat, and, swearing, stumbled to the couch, sat down, and bent over to unzip his boots.
"What's wrong, little man?" Howard asked.
Vince threw his boots aside and placed his hand over the top half of his face, leaning against the arm of the couch. Howard sat down next to him. There were tear tracks slipping out from beneath his palm.
"Just had a bad night, s'all," Vince replied, his voice low and unsteady. "Um … ow, shit." He hunched over and tenderly prodded one eye, and Howard realized that tears and running mascara must have irritated his contacts. Seizing on something to do, he jumped up and ducked into the bathroom to retrieve the lens case and cleaning solution, and set them up on the table in front of Vince, who already had taken one lens out while he'd been in the other room. He lifted the other out and put them away, sniffing and rubbing his eyes with the side of one hand.
"Better?" Howard asked, and hesitantly touched Vince's shoulder.
Vince looked up at him, and Howard was struck by the expression of extreme misery on his friend's face. He didn't know what had happened to Vince that night, but its effect was clear. Every line etched on his face, the puffy redness of his eyes, the set of his mouth, said one thing: I feel ugly.
"Not really, no," Vince mumbled, and then winced, as though suddenly aware of himself, and covered his left eye, which was really only drifting a little bit, Howard thought, with one hand. He suddenly had the sensation that he was seeing beneath the illusionist's table; all of his tricks were at once plain to see, and yet Howard could only marvel at their mastery and beauty.
He placed one hand to the back of Vince's head and pulled him to him, and then, feeling Vince stiffen with surprise (and with no small amount of shock at himself), pressed a kiss against Vince's forehead. How had he never seen it before? Vince wasn't perfect, he just excelled at patching together all of the discordant parts of his life into something whole. In a way, he supposed, he was just as much a part of this, Vince's masterwork, the most garish and out-of-place scrap. But he'd been included in it nonetheless.
"Don't worry," he said into Vince's hair. "It'll get better. I'll make sure of it."
///
End notes:
This fic was a little bit inspired by the movie "May". But only a tad (thank god).
In my research googling for this fic, I learned that what most people call "lazy eye" (strabismus), is actually not lazy eye. That term actually refers to a neurological vision condition which sometimes results from strabismus. Still, since that's what most people think of when they hear the term "lazy eye", I decided to use that term.
The more you know.