Fic: An Electro Boy in a Jazzy World (AU Howard/Vince, PG)
Title: An Electro Boy in a Jazzy World
Author: thickets
Pairing: Howard/Vince AU
Rating: PG
Warnings: set in a sick, sick alternate universe where jazz is really trendy
Word Count: 2100
Summary: Howard saves Vince from Jazz Bullies who don't appreciate glitter and feathers, and takes him back to his place
Notes: For booshbattle, responding to the first half of this prompt: Mighty Boosh, Howard/Vince, AU in which Jazz (and consequently, Howard) are really cool, and Vince (and electro/rock/punk/pop/whatever) is not, alternatively or in addition: bookish/geek!Vince and thick/trendy Howard! I hope to write geek!Vince and trendy!Howard some time in the future!
Unrelated special note: I just returned from a five day conference which is why I haven't replied to any of the comments on Proxy! *flails* THEY ARE ALL APPRECIATED, I will reply to them as soon as I can! Thank you!
An Electro Boy in a Jazzy World
"Oi, you minger! I'm going to ask you one more time -- who do you think you are, walking around dressed like that?"
Vince wiped a mixture of blood and mascara away from his eyes and glared up at the three hulking figures standing over him. One of them straightened his rollneck and grinned menacingly at him. Vince summoned up his last reserve of strength and lobbed an arc of spit right at his face. The man shrunk back and his face turned beat red with anger.
"The little mincing pervert! Let's show him."
The men grabbed him and started dragging him from the alleyway, heading towards a public toilet. Vince shouted and kicked and punched as hard as he could; he wasn't a weakling no matter what those bastards thought, but three against one was too much to handle. He was well and truly fucked.
"Woah now, what's going on here?" The voice that called out was low and there was a sense of bravado to it, but Vince detected a slight tremor beneath it all.
His three tormentors turned towards this new person, and Vince twisted his head around as best he could to get a look, too. To his disappointment, this person was dressed similarly to the other three - a corduroy jacket, complete with elbow patches, and a pair of sensible but worn oxfords. Even worse, he was carrying what looked to be a black trumpet case, and he had a bristly moustache.
One of the men held up a hand in greeting. "We're just showing this ponce what for, mate. Want to join in? You look like a sensible chap."
The stranger's tiny, cautious eyes danced skittishly from the three men to Vince and back. "Now, now," he said, clearing his throat. "That's a bit extreme, isn't it? Couldn't we all, er, talk this out over a cup of tea and a Charlie Parker album? Aren't we all sensible, intellectual, jazz lovers? Violence is beneath us, right? Eh?"
One of the jazz bullies let go of his grip on Vince's silver jacket, letting him drop partially onto the pavement. He reached inside his peacoat's inner pocket and took out a metal cigarette case. He removed one carefully handrolled cigarette, put it to his lips, and lit it with a silver lighter, and then put the case and lighter away. He let out one long puff and then tilted his head towards his friends. "Let's get 'im, boys," he said.
In a flash, the other two dropped Vince and launched at his unlikely rescuer, who, pale-faced, swung his trumpet case at them defensively. Vince stood up shakily. He really ought to get out of here. But ... he grimaced at the sight of the stranger being pummeled by the other three. He was just barely fending them off. Three against one was impossible, but three against two might be a little more even.
"You're an idiot, Noir," he muttered to himself, and removed his feathered boa - that particular part of his outfit had inspired the most outrage in his attackers - and wound it around his hand like a length of rope. Then he launched himself at the nearest man's back.
The man reared backwards and Vince quickly looped the boa around him, constricting his arms, and tied it tightly and neatly before he could get loose and the others could realize what was happening. Then, gripping the boa and one shoulder of the man's cardigan, he pushed him towards the other two, succeeding in knocking one of them over and causing the third to stumble. The tied-up man fell on top of the bully he'd knocked to the ground, and they both struggled to get up, cursing. Meanwhile, the stranger saw his opportunity and pummeled the last bully in the head with his trumpet case, knocking him out.
"Come on!" Vince shouted, grabbing him by the arm. "Let's get out of here!"
They pelted down the pavement, turned a corner, and kept running until they'd put a fair bit of distance between them and their attackers. As they stood against a brick wall, desperately catching their breath, Vince found himself unconsciously leaning against the other man's shoulder. His legs felt as if they were going to give out, and his face was still stinging from the beating he'd been given.
"Thanks," he said when he could speak again.
The other man blushed, then smiled - a nice smile, nothing like the shark grins the others had given him. "All in a day's work, sir," he said, proudly. "A man of action like myself can't just let injustice roam unchecked on the streets of London. It would be ... er ... unjust."
Vince hid his grin, then reached out and brushed some stray glitter that had migrated from his own clothing onto the stranger's corduroy. "Well, that's very brave of you," he said cheekily. "Though you look like a pretty normal jazz freak, if you don't mind me saying. I expected you to join in."
The man harrumphed. "Those idiots give jazz a bad name," he said. "Though really, you ought to be more careful. Aren't there, er, special places where people like you hang out?"
"People like me? Christ, I just dress cooler and listen to better music than the rest of the world. I ain't a leper."
"Sorry," the man said, blushing. "Wait, what do you mean, better?"
Vince stumbled a little and gripped his forehead. "Ooh, everything's gone swimmy all of a sudden. Those bastards did a real number on me."
The stranger grabbed him, holding him upright. "Are you all right?" he asked worriedly, peering at Vince's bruised and swollen face. When he squinted his tiny eyes almost disappeared, but the lines around them looked kind and caring, and for some reason they made Vince's heart flutter a little. "Is there anything I can do to help, um ... what's your name?"
"Vince," he said, weakly.
"Howard," the man said. "I mean, that's my name. Howard."
"Well, Howard," Vince said. "I could take you up on that offer of a cup of tea from earlier on. But hold the Charlie Parker, right? I don't want to break out in a rash, I'm enough of a mess now as it is."
:::
"There are other forms of music besides jazz, you know."
"Of course there are! There's scat ... bebop ... funk ..."
"Ugh. No. No no no no. Have you never heard of Gary Numan?"
"Isn't he the bloke that got pelted with rotten veg during a gig once?"
"Yeah, by a bunch of jazz freaks who crashed it!"
"I don't understand the appeal of this ... electro-nonsense though. I mean, machines making music? What's wrong with good, traditional instruments? Like the trumpet? Or the tuba?"
Vince groaned and shifted the ice pack to other side of his face, and took a sip of tea. Normally having this kind of conversation with a jazz fan resulted in trouble, but there was something warm and safe about bickering with Howard. He toed off his boots and pulled his legs up, tucking his feet under the settee cushion. Howard's flat was very brown and boring, not unlike the man himself, but Vince felt oddly relaxed. Howard's flatmate, Lester Corncrake, was an old jazz man who didn't even know what electro was; moreover, he was completely blind, and upon being introduced to Vince had somehow jumped to the conclusion that Vince was a lady, a conceit Vince decided not to try to overturn. Presently he was snoozing in a rocking chair in the corner, oblivious to his and Howard's debate.
"It ain't about the instruments," he protested.
"Not about the instruments! I beg your pardon, sir! Music is all about the instruments."
"Nah, man, it's about the way it makes you feel, ain't it? Whether or not it makes you dance inside." Vince gyrated a little, still seated on the settee, to demonstrate how electro made him feel. Howard looked momentarily distracted.
"Ah," he said. "Well, I suppose that's true. Jazz makes me feel like that too."
Vince couldn't understand it, but he supposed it was possible that jazz could have that effect on some people. Some very special people. "All right," he conceded.
"The thing is," Howard mused, "even though jazz is so popular - and of course it's popular, it's the dominant musical contribution of the twentieth century - shush you, no sniggering - anyway, despite that, sometimes it feels to me like most people who say they like it don't really understand it."
Vince resisted asking him what exactly there was to understand about jazz other than that it was vile, and simply drank some more tea.
"So, what do you do, Vince?" Howard asked.
"I work in a shop. In Camden."
Howard crinkled his forehead.
"You know. It's one of those places where 'people like me' hang out."
"Oh."
"What about you, then?"
"I'm a music teacher. I teach people how to play the trumpet."
Vince shuddered. "I'm sorry I asked."
"I'll have you know, sir, I'm very well-respected. There's a waiting list a mile long of people wanting to be my student. They'd do anything to have a moment of my time!"
Vince smiled, amused at Howard's blustering defense. "Well, guess I ought to count myself lucky then, eh?"
Howard blinked, confused, and then slowly returned his smile. "Yes, you should."
Vince laughed and pulled the melting ice pack away from his face. "Well, I should be going." He drained the last of his tea from the cup.
Howard looked a little disappointed. "Oh," he said. "But it's dark out now. Maybe ... I mean, you never know what kind of louts are prowling around this time of night ... maybe you should wait until daylight?"
"What, stay here for the night?"
"Er, yes." Howard looked embarrassed and twitchy.
Vince looked around. "Well, I suppose I could sleep on the sofa, if that's okay with you."
Howard jumped up from his chair. "Oh, no! You can sleep in my bed. I mean, I'll sleep on the settee. You know it's just Lester," he nodded towards the man's slumbering figure, "sometimes he roams around in the middle of the night ... you don't want him sitting on you ... or ..." he trailed off lamely. He sat back down, abashed.
Vince put his hands on his hips and surveyed his host. In every respect he was everything Vince abhorred in the hoards of jazz fans that roamed London. His hair was a curly, wispy nightmare. His moustache was sad and wilted. But sitting there now, thrumming his fingers against his knee anxiously, there was something Vince inexplicably found ... endearing. Cute, even. Comforting. He wasn't like the others, somehow. He was different.
I hope this ain't a mistake, he thought, and casually strolled over to Howard's chair, and then slowly, afraid of startling him, lowered himself into Howard's lap. "You don't have to sleep on the settee," he said warmly.
Howard blinked spasmodically, his hands rearing up, clenching and unclenching at the air. A gloriously red flush spread up from his collar and quickly overtook his face, inching up to his hairline and beyond. "I - I -" he stuttered, then gulped and nodded frantically. Vince grinned broadly and relaxed against him, sliding one arm behind his neck and drawing his head in for a kiss. Awkwardly, Howard brought his arms up to encircle Vince's body. Their lips met briefly, and Howard said in a dazed voice, "You smell like pineapple."
Vince laughed. "That's ... different."
"You're wonderful," Howard said, and kissed him with enthusiasm. For awhile they remained that way, Vince balancing precariously on Howard's lap, Howard's arms locked steadily around his waist, while they figured out how to maneuver around each others' noses, and Vince got used to kissing someone with a beard, a new experience. Eventually they were interrupted by someone clearing their throat.
"Why don't you two young'uns retire to your room," Lester said. He still had his eyes closed.
Howard struggled to get up, though he was careful not to let Vince tumble to the floor, which Vince found to be sort of charming. "Sorry, Lester, sorry, sorry." Vince pressed his hand to his mouth to stifle a giggle, and Howard took him by the hand and led him towards his bedroom door.
"Now, Howard, you treat that lady right!" Lester called after them, and Vince lost his battle to contain his laughter just as Howard firmly shut the door, still apologizing profusely. Then there was only silence.
Author: thickets
Pairing: Howard/Vince AU
Rating: PG
Warnings: set in a sick, sick alternate universe where jazz is really trendy
Word Count: 2100
Summary: Howard saves Vince from Jazz Bullies who don't appreciate glitter and feathers, and takes him back to his place
Notes: For booshbattle, responding to the first half of this prompt: Mighty Boosh, Howard/Vince, AU in which Jazz (and consequently, Howard) are really cool, and Vince (and electro/rock/punk/pop/whatever) is not, alternatively or in addition: bookish/geek!Vince and thick/trendy Howard! I hope to write geek!Vince and trendy!Howard some time in the future!
Unrelated special note: I just returned from a five day conference which is why I haven't replied to any of the comments on Proxy! *flails* THEY ARE ALL APPRECIATED, I will reply to them as soon as I can! Thank you!
An Electro Boy in a Jazzy World
"Oi, you minger! I'm going to ask you one more time -- who do you think you are, walking around dressed like that?"
Vince wiped a mixture of blood and mascara away from his eyes and glared up at the three hulking figures standing over him. One of them straightened his rollneck and grinned menacingly at him. Vince summoned up his last reserve of strength and lobbed an arc of spit right at his face. The man shrunk back and his face turned beat red with anger.
"The little mincing pervert! Let's show him."
The men grabbed him and started dragging him from the alleyway, heading towards a public toilet. Vince shouted and kicked and punched as hard as he could; he wasn't a weakling no matter what those bastards thought, but three against one was too much to handle. He was well and truly fucked.
"Woah now, what's going on here?" The voice that called out was low and there was a sense of bravado to it, but Vince detected a slight tremor beneath it all.
His three tormentors turned towards this new person, and Vince twisted his head around as best he could to get a look, too. To his disappointment, this person was dressed similarly to the other three - a corduroy jacket, complete with elbow patches, and a pair of sensible but worn oxfords. Even worse, he was carrying what looked to be a black trumpet case, and he had a bristly moustache.
One of the men held up a hand in greeting. "We're just showing this ponce what for, mate. Want to join in? You look like a sensible chap."
The stranger's tiny, cautious eyes danced skittishly from the three men to Vince and back. "Now, now," he said, clearing his throat. "That's a bit extreme, isn't it? Couldn't we all, er, talk this out over a cup of tea and a Charlie Parker album? Aren't we all sensible, intellectual, jazz lovers? Violence is beneath us, right? Eh?"
One of the jazz bullies let go of his grip on Vince's silver jacket, letting him drop partially onto the pavement. He reached inside his peacoat's inner pocket and took out a metal cigarette case. He removed one carefully handrolled cigarette, put it to his lips, and lit it with a silver lighter, and then put the case and lighter away. He let out one long puff and then tilted his head towards his friends. "Let's get 'im, boys," he said.
In a flash, the other two dropped Vince and launched at his unlikely rescuer, who, pale-faced, swung his trumpet case at them defensively. Vince stood up shakily. He really ought to get out of here. But ... he grimaced at the sight of the stranger being pummeled by the other three. He was just barely fending them off. Three against one was impossible, but three against two might be a little more even.
"You're an idiot, Noir," he muttered to himself, and removed his feathered boa - that particular part of his outfit had inspired the most outrage in his attackers - and wound it around his hand like a length of rope. Then he launched himself at the nearest man's back.
The man reared backwards and Vince quickly looped the boa around him, constricting his arms, and tied it tightly and neatly before he could get loose and the others could realize what was happening. Then, gripping the boa and one shoulder of the man's cardigan, he pushed him towards the other two, succeeding in knocking one of them over and causing the third to stumble. The tied-up man fell on top of the bully he'd knocked to the ground, and they both struggled to get up, cursing. Meanwhile, the stranger saw his opportunity and pummeled the last bully in the head with his trumpet case, knocking him out.
"Come on!" Vince shouted, grabbing him by the arm. "Let's get out of here!"
They pelted down the pavement, turned a corner, and kept running until they'd put a fair bit of distance between them and their attackers. As they stood against a brick wall, desperately catching their breath, Vince found himself unconsciously leaning against the other man's shoulder. His legs felt as if they were going to give out, and his face was still stinging from the beating he'd been given.
"Thanks," he said when he could speak again.
The other man blushed, then smiled - a nice smile, nothing like the shark grins the others had given him. "All in a day's work, sir," he said, proudly. "A man of action like myself can't just let injustice roam unchecked on the streets of London. It would be ... er ... unjust."
Vince hid his grin, then reached out and brushed some stray glitter that had migrated from his own clothing onto the stranger's corduroy. "Well, that's very brave of you," he said cheekily. "Though you look like a pretty normal jazz freak, if you don't mind me saying. I expected you to join in."
The man harrumphed. "Those idiots give jazz a bad name," he said. "Though really, you ought to be more careful. Aren't there, er, special places where people like you hang out?"
"People like me? Christ, I just dress cooler and listen to better music than the rest of the world. I ain't a leper."
"Sorry," the man said, blushing. "Wait, what do you mean, better?"
Vince stumbled a little and gripped his forehead. "Ooh, everything's gone swimmy all of a sudden. Those bastards did a real number on me."
The stranger grabbed him, holding him upright. "Are you all right?" he asked worriedly, peering at Vince's bruised and swollen face. When he squinted his tiny eyes almost disappeared, but the lines around them looked kind and caring, and for some reason they made Vince's heart flutter a little. "Is there anything I can do to help, um ... what's your name?"
"Vince," he said, weakly.
"Howard," the man said. "I mean, that's my name. Howard."
"Well, Howard," Vince said. "I could take you up on that offer of a cup of tea from earlier on. But hold the Charlie Parker, right? I don't want to break out in a rash, I'm enough of a mess now as it is."
:::
"There are other forms of music besides jazz, you know."
"Of course there are! There's scat ... bebop ... funk ..."
"Ugh. No. No no no no. Have you never heard of Gary Numan?"
"Isn't he the bloke that got pelted with rotten veg during a gig once?"
"Yeah, by a bunch of jazz freaks who crashed it!"
"I don't understand the appeal of this ... electro-nonsense though. I mean, machines making music? What's wrong with good, traditional instruments? Like the trumpet? Or the tuba?"
Vince groaned and shifted the ice pack to other side of his face, and took a sip of tea. Normally having this kind of conversation with a jazz fan resulted in trouble, but there was something warm and safe about bickering with Howard. He toed off his boots and pulled his legs up, tucking his feet under the settee cushion. Howard's flat was very brown and boring, not unlike the man himself, but Vince felt oddly relaxed. Howard's flatmate, Lester Corncrake, was an old jazz man who didn't even know what electro was; moreover, he was completely blind, and upon being introduced to Vince had somehow jumped to the conclusion that Vince was a lady, a conceit Vince decided not to try to overturn. Presently he was snoozing in a rocking chair in the corner, oblivious to his and Howard's debate.
"It ain't about the instruments," he protested.
"Not about the instruments! I beg your pardon, sir! Music is all about the instruments."
"Nah, man, it's about the way it makes you feel, ain't it? Whether or not it makes you dance inside." Vince gyrated a little, still seated on the settee, to demonstrate how electro made him feel. Howard looked momentarily distracted.
"Ah," he said. "Well, I suppose that's true. Jazz makes me feel like that too."
Vince couldn't understand it, but he supposed it was possible that jazz could have that effect on some people. Some very special people. "All right," he conceded.
"The thing is," Howard mused, "even though jazz is so popular - and of course it's popular, it's the dominant musical contribution of the twentieth century - shush you, no sniggering - anyway, despite that, sometimes it feels to me like most people who say they like it don't really understand it."
Vince resisted asking him what exactly there was to understand about jazz other than that it was vile, and simply drank some more tea.
"So, what do you do, Vince?" Howard asked.
"I work in a shop. In Camden."
Howard crinkled his forehead.
"You know. It's one of those places where 'people like me' hang out."
"Oh."
"What about you, then?"
"I'm a music teacher. I teach people how to play the trumpet."
Vince shuddered. "I'm sorry I asked."
"I'll have you know, sir, I'm very well-respected. There's a waiting list a mile long of people wanting to be my student. They'd do anything to have a moment of my time!"
Vince smiled, amused at Howard's blustering defense. "Well, guess I ought to count myself lucky then, eh?"
Howard blinked, confused, and then slowly returned his smile. "Yes, you should."
Vince laughed and pulled the melting ice pack away from his face. "Well, I should be going." He drained the last of his tea from the cup.
Howard looked a little disappointed. "Oh," he said. "But it's dark out now. Maybe ... I mean, you never know what kind of louts are prowling around this time of night ... maybe you should wait until daylight?"
"What, stay here for the night?"
"Er, yes." Howard looked embarrassed and twitchy.
Vince looked around. "Well, I suppose I could sleep on the sofa, if that's okay with you."
Howard jumped up from his chair. "Oh, no! You can sleep in my bed. I mean, I'll sleep on the settee. You know it's just Lester," he nodded towards the man's slumbering figure, "sometimes he roams around in the middle of the night ... you don't want him sitting on you ... or ..." he trailed off lamely. He sat back down, abashed.
Vince put his hands on his hips and surveyed his host. In every respect he was everything Vince abhorred in the hoards of jazz fans that roamed London. His hair was a curly, wispy nightmare. His moustache was sad and wilted. But sitting there now, thrumming his fingers against his knee anxiously, there was something Vince inexplicably found ... endearing. Cute, even. Comforting. He wasn't like the others, somehow. He was different.
I hope this ain't a mistake, he thought, and casually strolled over to Howard's chair, and then slowly, afraid of startling him, lowered himself into Howard's lap. "You don't have to sleep on the settee," he said warmly.
Howard blinked spasmodically, his hands rearing up, clenching and unclenching at the air. A gloriously red flush spread up from his collar and quickly overtook his face, inching up to his hairline and beyond. "I - I -" he stuttered, then gulped and nodded frantically. Vince grinned broadly and relaxed against him, sliding one arm behind his neck and drawing his head in for a kiss. Awkwardly, Howard brought his arms up to encircle Vince's body. Their lips met briefly, and Howard said in a dazed voice, "You smell like pineapple."
Vince laughed. "That's ... different."
"You're wonderful," Howard said, and kissed him with enthusiasm. For awhile they remained that way, Vince balancing precariously on Howard's lap, Howard's arms locked steadily around his waist, while they figured out how to maneuver around each others' noses, and Vince got used to kissing someone with a beard, a new experience. Eventually they were interrupted by someone clearing their throat.
"Why don't you two young'uns retire to your room," Lester said. He still had his eyes closed.
Howard struggled to get up, though he was careful not to let Vince tumble to the floor, which Vince found to be sort of charming. "Sorry, Lester, sorry, sorry." Vince pressed his hand to his mouth to stifle a giggle, and Howard took him by the hand and led him towards his bedroom door.
"Now, Howard, you treat that lady right!" Lester called after them, and Vince lost his battle to contain his laughter just as Howard firmly shut the door, still apologizing profusely. Then there was only silence.