Fic: The Christmas Flu (Howard/Vince, PG)
Title: The Christmas Flu
Fandom: The Mighty Boosh
Pairing: Howard/Vince
Rating: PG
Warnings: none, except for pure ridiculousness
Word Count: 988
Summary: Howard comes down with a nasty cold right before Christmas.
Disclaimer: Doesn't belong to me
Notes: Ugh, you guys are probably sick of me, but here is one more. This one is dedicated to all of you, and especially to monooccularcat, who I believe has been feeling a bit poorly of late. <3
The Christmas Flu
Christmas had been called off.
Vince stood in the center of the kitchen, hands on his hips, frowning. He kicked the stove and marched out of the room.
Howard had come down with a cold a few days ago. At first he'd been quite optimistic. "It'll take more than a case of the sniffles to take Howard Moon down, Vince," Howard said, smacking his lips with distaste after draining his cup of Lemsip. "I'll be right as rain by tomorrow."
But the next day he'd been a bit worse. By mid-morning he'd developed a fever. Vince put him to bed and spent the day wrapping presents, and tried to figure out what was inside his own presents from Howard (already wrapped months before, Howard was always so on top of those things).
On Christmas Eve, his temperature had lowered a bit, but he'd developed a nasty, chest-shuddering cough. Still optimistic, he wrote out a shopping list for Christmas dinner and sent Vince on his way; he returned three hours later with quite a bit more than what had been on the list, and a disturbing lack of vegetables. "They were all out," was all he said.
Vince carried the television into the room that night so Howard could watch the Carols from King's College Chapel and fell asleep against his shoulder in the middle of "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen". When he woke up on Christmas morning, Howard was fast asleep, his cheeks and ears very red, and when Vince woke him up, his eyes were glassy and hot. Vince laid his cool hand to Howard's forehead. "Howard," he said sadly.
"I'm sorry, Vince," Howard said, and coughed.
Now what were they to do? Vince could only just manage to heat up tinned soup, let alone cook Christmas dinner. Naboo and Bollo were away, attending to "important Shaman business" which Vince found quite dubious. Christmas was no fun alone. He hadn't even had the heart to open his presents yet.
He went and stood in the doorway, watching Howard sleep. It's pathetic really, he thought, I'm utterly useless without him, ain't I?
He pressed his lips together. Fuck this, he thought, I'm Vince Noir. I'll find a way!
***
When Howard woke up, he could tell from the cold sweat all over his body that his fever had broken. He sat up with a groan. The room spun around him, but after a few seconds things cleared up. He felt, overall, more himself than he had in days. He could even smell again. He sniffed the air tentatively. He smelled ... roast.
What?
It's Christmas, he thought, I left Vince all alone on Christmas. Howard frowned. Vince ... alone ... Christmas ... then who's cooking?
"Oh no," he said, and stumbled out of the bed. "Vince! Vince! Step away from the range!"
When he lurched into the kitchen, though, Vince was wearing a pinny, ladling potatoes into a serving bowl. "Howard!" he said with a huge grin. "You're feelin' better then? Perfect! Why don't you wash up? Dinner'll be ready in ten minutes."
"Uh," Howard said.
"Go on then," Vince said.
Maybe this is a dream, Howard thought as he soaped up in the shower. A fever dream. It must be. This is impossible. Experimentally, he pinched himself. Nothing happened. He tried again. He was still standing there. "Snap out of it," he muttered to himself, and gave himself a good slap in the face. "Ow!"
"You all right in there?" Vince called from the hallway. He opened the door a crack and stuck his head in.
"Oh ... I'm ... fine. Really," he said.
"Well, hurry up," Vince said, impatiently. "I want to eat, all right! And open presents!"
Howard couldn't help but smile. "Yes, yes! I'm almost done."
"Good!" Vince said, and slammed the door behind himself. Howard heard him running down the hall back to the kitchen.
This must be what madness feels like, he thought.
Vince was standing by the kitchen table, bouncing on his heels, when Howard came in. "Ta-da!" he said, gesturing grandly.
"Ah," Howard said, looking over the table. It all looked ... edible. Good, in fact. "This is ... wonderful, Vince. I ...." he trailed off, unsure of how to put this delicately. "Did you really cook all this yourself?" he said finally.
"Oh, well," Vince said bashfully, "Not ... exactly."
"What do you mean, not exactly?"
"Well, there I was, completely stumped, on my own, not sure what to do," Vince said, his eyes lighting up as they did when he was beginning one of his stories, "when what did I see but my old friend, Simon the Squirrel, tapping on the kitchen window! Well, I opened it up said, 'Simon? Do you know how to cook a Christmas roast?' And do you know what? Not only did Simon turn out to be an excellent chef, but he was traveling with some other woodland creature friends of his, and he got them to help out, too! I didn't have to do anything really."
"Ah," Howard said, "I see. That explains everything."
"Pretty much," Vince said.
"Well then," Howard said. "Let's eat!"
"Finally!" Vince said.
"What's for dessert, by the way?" Howard asked as he took his seat.
"Oh, wow, this crazy woodlark came in and whipped up this genius trifle, wait until you see it, Howard. It's got strawberries, and blueberries, and peaches, and mangoes, I don't know where it was all coming from, she was mental."
"Custard or lemon curd?"
"Nutella. It's like if Picasso ran a patisserie."
"Funny, I didn't imagine a woodlark would be so creative. I'd have pegged the swallow as a more inventive creature."
"That's where you're wrong, Howard. Swallows are too flighty, they can't concentrate on anything. The woodlark has the perfect balance of dedication and pure insanity to create a work of art."
"I see. Well, Happy Christmas, Vince."
The End
Fandom: The Mighty Boosh
Pairing: Howard/Vince
Rating: PG
Warnings: none, except for pure ridiculousness
Word Count: 988
Summary: Howard comes down with a nasty cold right before Christmas.
Disclaimer: Doesn't belong to me
Notes: Ugh, you guys are probably sick of me, but here is one more. This one is dedicated to all of you, and especially to monooccularcat, who I believe has been feeling a bit poorly of late. <3
The Christmas Flu
Christmas had been called off.
Vince stood in the center of the kitchen, hands on his hips, frowning. He kicked the stove and marched out of the room.
Howard had come down with a cold a few days ago. At first he'd been quite optimistic. "It'll take more than a case of the sniffles to take Howard Moon down, Vince," Howard said, smacking his lips with distaste after draining his cup of Lemsip. "I'll be right as rain by tomorrow."
But the next day he'd been a bit worse. By mid-morning he'd developed a fever. Vince put him to bed and spent the day wrapping presents, and tried to figure out what was inside his own presents from Howard (already wrapped months before, Howard was always so on top of those things).
On Christmas Eve, his temperature had lowered a bit, but he'd developed a nasty, chest-shuddering cough. Still optimistic, he wrote out a shopping list for Christmas dinner and sent Vince on his way; he returned three hours later with quite a bit more than what had been on the list, and a disturbing lack of vegetables. "They were all out," was all he said.
Vince carried the television into the room that night so Howard could watch the Carols from King's College Chapel and fell asleep against his shoulder in the middle of "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen". When he woke up on Christmas morning, Howard was fast asleep, his cheeks and ears very red, and when Vince woke him up, his eyes were glassy and hot. Vince laid his cool hand to Howard's forehead. "Howard," he said sadly.
"I'm sorry, Vince," Howard said, and coughed.
Now what were they to do? Vince could only just manage to heat up tinned soup, let alone cook Christmas dinner. Naboo and Bollo were away, attending to "important Shaman business" which Vince found quite dubious. Christmas was no fun alone. He hadn't even had the heart to open his presents yet.
He went and stood in the doorway, watching Howard sleep. It's pathetic really, he thought, I'm utterly useless without him, ain't I?
He pressed his lips together. Fuck this, he thought, I'm Vince Noir. I'll find a way!
***
When Howard woke up, he could tell from the cold sweat all over his body that his fever had broken. He sat up with a groan. The room spun around him, but after a few seconds things cleared up. He felt, overall, more himself than he had in days. He could even smell again. He sniffed the air tentatively. He smelled ... roast.
What?
It's Christmas, he thought, I left Vince all alone on Christmas. Howard frowned. Vince ... alone ... Christmas ... then who's cooking?
"Oh no," he said, and stumbled out of the bed. "Vince! Vince! Step away from the range!"
When he lurched into the kitchen, though, Vince was wearing a pinny, ladling potatoes into a serving bowl. "Howard!" he said with a huge grin. "You're feelin' better then? Perfect! Why don't you wash up? Dinner'll be ready in ten minutes."
"Uh," Howard said.
"Go on then," Vince said.
Maybe this is a dream, Howard thought as he soaped up in the shower. A fever dream. It must be. This is impossible. Experimentally, he pinched himself. Nothing happened. He tried again. He was still standing there. "Snap out of it," he muttered to himself, and gave himself a good slap in the face. "Ow!"
"You all right in there?" Vince called from the hallway. He opened the door a crack and stuck his head in.
"Oh ... I'm ... fine. Really," he said.
"Well, hurry up," Vince said, impatiently. "I want to eat, all right! And open presents!"
Howard couldn't help but smile. "Yes, yes! I'm almost done."
"Good!" Vince said, and slammed the door behind himself. Howard heard him running down the hall back to the kitchen.
This must be what madness feels like, he thought.
Vince was standing by the kitchen table, bouncing on his heels, when Howard came in. "Ta-da!" he said, gesturing grandly.
"Ah," Howard said, looking over the table. It all looked ... edible. Good, in fact. "This is ... wonderful, Vince. I ...." he trailed off, unsure of how to put this delicately. "Did you really cook all this yourself?" he said finally.
"Oh, well," Vince said bashfully, "Not ... exactly."
"What do you mean, not exactly?"
"Well, there I was, completely stumped, on my own, not sure what to do," Vince said, his eyes lighting up as they did when he was beginning one of his stories, "when what did I see but my old friend, Simon the Squirrel, tapping on the kitchen window! Well, I opened it up said, 'Simon? Do you know how to cook a Christmas roast?' And do you know what? Not only did Simon turn out to be an excellent chef, but he was traveling with some other woodland creature friends of his, and he got them to help out, too! I didn't have to do anything really."
"Ah," Howard said, "I see. That explains everything."
"Pretty much," Vince said.
"Well then," Howard said. "Let's eat!"
"Finally!" Vince said.
"What's for dessert, by the way?" Howard asked as he took his seat.
"Oh, wow, this crazy woodlark came in and whipped up this genius trifle, wait until you see it, Howard. It's got strawberries, and blueberries, and peaches, and mangoes, I don't know where it was all coming from, she was mental."
"Custard or lemon curd?"
"Nutella. It's like if Picasso ran a patisserie."
"Funny, I didn't imagine a woodlark would be so creative. I'd have pegged the swallow as a more inventive creature."
"That's where you're wrong, Howard. Swallows are too flighty, they can't concentrate on anything. The woodlark has the perfect balance of dedication and pure insanity to create a work of art."
"I see. Well, Happy Christmas, Vince."
The End