Fic: It Sometimes Rains in Southern California
Title: It Sometimes Rains in Southern California
Pairing or Characters: Howard/Vince
Summary: After the events of Subterranean Sex Slave Stab-Up, Vince and Howard spend a few days in Disneyland. Confused snogging ensues.
Word Count: 1,785
Rating: Let’s say PG-13, just to be safe
Warnings: Angst, non-explicit mentions of dub-con
Disclaimer: No ownership is implied, no profit is made, and no offense is intended.
Author’s Notes: Clearly, this is a sequel to the above mentioned story. It relies pretty heavily on the events in that story, so if you haven’t read it . . . well, you get the idea. Thanks to everyone who commented on the first part. Your feedback is always appreciated.
Vince had been very quiet in the few days since Howard had rescued him from the basement of Grauman’s Chinese Theater. He seemed a pale shadow of himself, really. Howard wasn’t really sure what it was that was different. He thought part of it might have to do with Vince’s wardrobe. He’d abandoned the mirror ball suit as soon as he could. Howard could see how Vince’s recent experience might have rather dampened his enjoyment of wearing it. Plus it smelled pretty ripe. He’d bought Vince some clothes, but they couldn’t hold a candle to his usual attire. At the moment, for instance, he was wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a ringer t-shirt with Mickey Mouse on it (purchased at one of the many convenient merchandise kiosks in the theme park), with one of Howard’s cardigans on to keep the California chill out. His hair, too, was looking a little deflated, since the hotel convenience store had none of the styling products Vince required to maintain his look. And the worst part, the most telling sign of Vince’s internal turmoil, was that he didn’t even complain. Where normally he would’ve been screaming riot if he were asked to wear a top larger than a ladies’ size small, when Howard brought him his clothes, Vince merely accepted them with a quiet, “Cheers, Howard.”
When they went out into the theme park, Vince seemed cheerful enough. He posed for photos with all the characters in costume, grinning his big, goofy grin, and ate enough candyfloss to stun a workhorse. He dragged Howard onto every single ride, and Howard couldn’t find it in himself to complain. Vince screamed his way through Space Mountain; he spun their teacup at the Mad Tea Party until they both felt like they were going to puke; in the Haunted Mansion, he gripped Howard’s hand as the darkened room shuddered downwards.
And yet, when they were alone in the hotel room, Vince seemed to shut in on himself. He sat quietly on the bed, watching telly and toying with a loose end on the sleeve of the cardigan Howard had loaned him. Howard tried to draw him out with conversation, or with the brightly colored pamphlets he’d found in the drawer of their bedside table, but had little luck.
At night, they would settle into their parallel twin beds. Vince insisted they keep the lights on, and Howard didn’t argue. For a while, they would lie quietly, both pretending to be asleep. Then, when he thought Howard had genuinely drifted off, Vince would climb out of his own bed and curl up behind Howard, one arm around his waist. Howard was never asleep when it happened, but he would have put a fork through his own eye before tipping Vince off to this fact.
The truth was, Howard didn’t really know what to do. They were stuck here in California for a few days while Naboo flew over via carpet. Vince didn’t have his passport, after all, so they couldn’t very well take a plane home, and for some reason vaguely to do with air currents, it took quite a long time to make the flight from London to Los Angeles on a magic carpet. In the meantime, all there was to do was wait, and try to keep Vince from dwelling too much on recent events.
On their third morning in Disneyland, it began to rain, which surprised Howard a bit, since everything he knew about Southern California had been learned from that Albert Hammond song. So instead of braving the inclement weather, they were sitting disconsolately on Howard’s bed, watching a program on TV that featured a woman in a lot of spandex leading an exercise group.
She was orchestrating a slightly vulgar series of back bends when Vince said, “Howard?”
“Hmm?”
“D’you think people are inherently evil?”
A cold feeling resolved itself in the pit of Howard’s stomach. He could pretty well guess what this conversation was going to be about. You didn’t get coerced into the pornographic film industry and come away totally unscathed. But so far they hadn’t talked about it, and Howard had sort of been hoping they wouldn’t have to. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk about it-well, he didn’t, actually, if it came to that, the whole thing made him distinctly uncomfortable, but he knew he couldn’t leave Vince without that metaphorical shoulder to lean on at a time like this.
“I don’t think so,” he said carefully. “Not inherently.”
“I don’t know,” Vince said. “It seems like people do some pretty rotten things to each other.”
Howard felt ill. He thought this kind of thing quite frequently (usually after a particularly bad dressing-down from some bird, or an extra-humiliating gig), but from Vince this sort of sentiment was downright chilling. It was as if the sun had finally collapsed, and Howard knew he couldn’t live without the sun.
“Some people do. But that’s no reason to give up on the whole lot of us.”
Vince looked down at his knees. “It just seems like everybody is just using everybody else, you know? Like my mates. It’s like we’re all just sitting around, pretending to listen to the other person talk, when really we’re just waiting for our turn to talk. I don’t know, Howard.” He was grasping his knees tightly, and Howard thought how fragile his hands looked. “Sometimes I think you’re the only person who even cares about me at all.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Howard said, trying to play it off lightly. “You’ve got bushels of friends. There are whole post-codes full of people who think you’re the greatest thing since satsumas.”
Vince shook his head. “None of my other mates would have done what you did back there. They probably would’ve laughed about it and gone out to a club. They’re the kind of people who forget your name if you aren’t wearing the latest designer ear trumpet. Not like you. You’ve always been there for me, Howard, no matter what kind of mess we get into, or how horrible I’ve been to you. You’ve even listened to Gary Numan for my sake.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, yeah, but you would, when it came down to the crunch. All my other mates-they’re not mates you want to have with you in the crunch.” He looked up now, fixing his baleful eyes on Howard. “But you are.”
“Don’t give it another thought, Vince,” Howard said, shifting uneasily.
“I can’t help it. I just-I think about all the stuff I’ve put you through-unleashing demons, making you journey into the center of my brain, that time with the garden shears . . .” They both shuddered a little, reminiscing. “And I just don’t know why you do it, Howard. Why do you do it?”
“It’s . . . I mean . . . Well, I love you, don’t I?” Howard knew he was blushing a little, discomfited by Vince’s keen, expectant gaze on his face. He was leaning forward, too, intent on Howard’s answer, so close that their knees nearly brushed. “That’s what you do for people you care about. That’s all.”
Vince fell silent, and the quiet that descended over them made Howard even more nervous than his incessant questions had a moment before. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Vince. It was all too embarrassing. The first time he’d told Vince he loved him, he’d been laughed at, and the last time, Vince had told him off and then chucked him for some bird he barely knew (never mind that Howard had done the same).
When Howard finally worked up the courage to look up, he found that Vince had closed the distance between them. And then Vince was kissing him, his tongue preceding his mouth and licking hot over Howard’s lower lip. A flash of pure fire went through Howard’s body, and for a split second, he contemplated letting this go on-he’d wished something like this would happen often enough. But it was impossible.
Gently, he disengaged himself from Vince, who leaned forward blindly, following him. He put one hand on Vince’s chest and said, “Don’t do this, Vince.” He could feel himself trembling.
Suddenly the distance between them seemed infinite. “Why not?” Vince asked.
Howard was blushing even more furiously than before, and his stomach was churning. The hurt expression on Vince’s face was not making this easier. “It’s just not . . .”
“You kissed me once before.” Vince was fiddling with the duvet now, his eyes downcast.
“I know, but-”
“I thought you liked it.”
Howard swallowed hard. “I did, but-”
Vince looked up at Howard through his eyelashes. “I thought you liked me.”
“I do!” Howard cried. “I do like you, Vince. A lot. I like being your best mate, and sometimes I think-” His face felt so hot, he was sure he’d set his mustache on fire at any moment. “Sometimes I think I’d like to be more than your best mate. But the thing is-if I let you do that now, I wouldn’t be any better than all those people who are just using each other.”
“But I want to!” Vince exclaimed. “You can’t be using me if I want you to do it.”
“You can’t-have sex with me just because you think I’m the only person who’s ever been nice to you. You’re upset. In a couple of days, you’ll be home, and you’ll start feeling better, and you’ll look back and wonder what you were thinking.”
“How do you know what I’ll want?” Vince asked sullenly.
He couldn’t help smiling, just a little. “I know you, Vince. Give it a week, a fortnight at most, and you’ll be swanning about with the latest model ear horn just like everybody else.”
Vince gave him a doubtful look. “We’ll see about that.”
Whatever aspersion Howard was going to cast in response was lost, for just at that moment, the phone rang. It was the concierge, who said, “Mr. Moon, there’s a man in a turban to see you, should I send him up?”
And so that was it. They were on their way home. Everything would go back to normal. In a way, Howard was a little sorry to think of it, because that meant Vince would go back to shunning him and writing embarrassing graffiti on the shop windows. Perilous and painful as the past few days had been, he would miss spending time with Vince like this, no obligations, just the two of them, together. But on the other hand, at least this meant he didn’t have to go on the It’s a Small World ride again, which was a relief.
Sequel: The Main Thing
Pairing or Characters: Howard/Vince
Summary: After the events of Subterranean Sex Slave Stab-Up, Vince and Howard spend a few days in Disneyland. Confused snogging ensues.
Word Count: 1,785
Rating: Let’s say PG-13, just to be safe
Warnings: Angst, non-explicit mentions of dub-con
Disclaimer: No ownership is implied, no profit is made, and no offense is intended.
Author’s Notes: Clearly, this is a sequel to the above mentioned story. It relies pretty heavily on the events in that story, so if you haven’t read it . . . well, you get the idea. Thanks to everyone who commented on the first part. Your feedback is always appreciated.
Vince had been very quiet in the few days since Howard had rescued him from the basement of Grauman’s Chinese Theater. He seemed a pale shadow of himself, really. Howard wasn’t really sure what it was that was different. He thought part of it might have to do with Vince’s wardrobe. He’d abandoned the mirror ball suit as soon as he could. Howard could see how Vince’s recent experience might have rather dampened his enjoyment of wearing it. Plus it smelled pretty ripe. He’d bought Vince some clothes, but they couldn’t hold a candle to his usual attire. At the moment, for instance, he was wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a ringer t-shirt with Mickey Mouse on it (purchased at one of the many convenient merchandise kiosks in the theme park), with one of Howard’s cardigans on to keep the California chill out. His hair, too, was looking a little deflated, since the hotel convenience store had none of the styling products Vince required to maintain his look. And the worst part, the most telling sign of Vince’s internal turmoil, was that he didn’t even complain. Where normally he would’ve been screaming riot if he were asked to wear a top larger than a ladies’ size small, when Howard brought him his clothes, Vince merely accepted them with a quiet, “Cheers, Howard.”
When they went out into the theme park, Vince seemed cheerful enough. He posed for photos with all the characters in costume, grinning his big, goofy grin, and ate enough candyfloss to stun a workhorse. He dragged Howard onto every single ride, and Howard couldn’t find it in himself to complain. Vince screamed his way through Space Mountain; he spun their teacup at the Mad Tea Party until they both felt like they were going to puke; in the Haunted Mansion, he gripped Howard’s hand as the darkened room shuddered downwards.
And yet, when they were alone in the hotel room, Vince seemed to shut in on himself. He sat quietly on the bed, watching telly and toying with a loose end on the sleeve of the cardigan Howard had loaned him. Howard tried to draw him out with conversation, or with the brightly colored pamphlets he’d found in the drawer of their bedside table, but had little luck.
At night, they would settle into their parallel twin beds. Vince insisted they keep the lights on, and Howard didn’t argue. For a while, they would lie quietly, both pretending to be asleep. Then, when he thought Howard had genuinely drifted off, Vince would climb out of his own bed and curl up behind Howard, one arm around his waist. Howard was never asleep when it happened, but he would have put a fork through his own eye before tipping Vince off to this fact.
The truth was, Howard didn’t really know what to do. They were stuck here in California for a few days while Naboo flew over via carpet. Vince didn’t have his passport, after all, so they couldn’t very well take a plane home, and for some reason vaguely to do with air currents, it took quite a long time to make the flight from London to Los Angeles on a magic carpet. In the meantime, all there was to do was wait, and try to keep Vince from dwelling too much on recent events.
On their third morning in Disneyland, it began to rain, which surprised Howard a bit, since everything he knew about Southern California had been learned from that Albert Hammond song. So instead of braving the inclement weather, they were sitting disconsolately on Howard’s bed, watching a program on TV that featured a woman in a lot of spandex leading an exercise group.
She was orchestrating a slightly vulgar series of back bends when Vince said, “Howard?”
“Hmm?”
“D’you think people are inherently evil?”
A cold feeling resolved itself in the pit of Howard’s stomach. He could pretty well guess what this conversation was going to be about. You didn’t get coerced into the pornographic film industry and come away totally unscathed. But so far they hadn’t talked about it, and Howard had sort of been hoping they wouldn’t have to. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk about it-well, he didn’t, actually, if it came to that, the whole thing made him distinctly uncomfortable, but he knew he couldn’t leave Vince without that metaphorical shoulder to lean on at a time like this.
“I don’t think so,” he said carefully. “Not inherently.”
“I don’t know,” Vince said. “It seems like people do some pretty rotten things to each other.”
Howard felt ill. He thought this kind of thing quite frequently (usually after a particularly bad dressing-down from some bird, or an extra-humiliating gig), but from Vince this sort of sentiment was downright chilling. It was as if the sun had finally collapsed, and Howard knew he couldn’t live without the sun.
“Some people do. But that’s no reason to give up on the whole lot of us.”
Vince looked down at his knees. “It just seems like everybody is just using everybody else, you know? Like my mates. It’s like we’re all just sitting around, pretending to listen to the other person talk, when really we’re just waiting for our turn to talk. I don’t know, Howard.” He was grasping his knees tightly, and Howard thought how fragile his hands looked. “Sometimes I think you’re the only person who even cares about me at all.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Howard said, trying to play it off lightly. “You’ve got bushels of friends. There are whole post-codes full of people who think you’re the greatest thing since satsumas.”
Vince shook his head. “None of my other mates would have done what you did back there. They probably would’ve laughed about it and gone out to a club. They’re the kind of people who forget your name if you aren’t wearing the latest designer ear trumpet. Not like you. You’ve always been there for me, Howard, no matter what kind of mess we get into, or how horrible I’ve been to you. You’ve even listened to Gary Numan for my sake.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, yeah, but you would, when it came down to the crunch. All my other mates-they’re not mates you want to have with you in the crunch.” He looked up now, fixing his baleful eyes on Howard. “But you are.”
“Don’t give it another thought, Vince,” Howard said, shifting uneasily.
“I can’t help it. I just-I think about all the stuff I’ve put you through-unleashing demons, making you journey into the center of my brain, that time with the garden shears . . .” They both shuddered a little, reminiscing. “And I just don’t know why you do it, Howard. Why do you do it?”
“It’s . . . I mean . . . Well, I love you, don’t I?” Howard knew he was blushing a little, discomfited by Vince’s keen, expectant gaze on his face. He was leaning forward, too, intent on Howard’s answer, so close that their knees nearly brushed. “That’s what you do for people you care about. That’s all.”
Vince fell silent, and the quiet that descended over them made Howard even more nervous than his incessant questions had a moment before. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Vince. It was all too embarrassing. The first time he’d told Vince he loved him, he’d been laughed at, and the last time, Vince had told him off and then chucked him for some bird he barely knew (never mind that Howard had done the same).
When Howard finally worked up the courage to look up, he found that Vince had closed the distance between them. And then Vince was kissing him, his tongue preceding his mouth and licking hot over Howard’s lower lip. A flash of pure fire went through Howard’s body, and for a split second, he contemplated letting this go on-he’d wished something like this would happen often enough. But it was impossible.
Gently, he disengaged himself from Vince, who leaned forward blindly, following him. He put one hand on Vince’s chest and said, “Don’t do this, Vince.” He could feel himself trembling.
Suddenly the distance between them seemed infinite. “Why not?” Vince asked.
Howard was blushing even more furiously than before, and his stomach was churning. The hurt expression on Vince’s face was not making this easier. “It’s just not . . .”
“You kissed me once before.” Vince was fiddling with the duvet now, his eyes downcast.
“I know, but-”
“I thought you liked it.”
Howard swallowed hard. “I did, but-”
Vince looked up at Howard through his eyelashes. “I thought you liked me.”
“I do!” Howard cried. “I do like you, Vince. A lot. I like being your best mate, and sometimes I think-” His face felt so hot, he was sure he’d set his mustache on fire at any moment. “Sometimes I think I’d like to be more than your best mate. But the thing is-if I let you do that now, I wouldn’t be any better than all those people who are just using each other.”
“But I want to!” Vince exclaimed. “You can’t be using me if I want you to do it.”
“You can’t-have sex with me just because you think I’m the only person who’s ever been nice to you. You’re upset. In a couple of days, you’ll be home, and you’ll start feeling better, and you’ll look back and wonder what you were thinking.”
“How do you know what I’ll want?” Vince asked sullenly.
He couldn’t help smiling, just a little. “I know you, Vince. Give it a week, a fortnight at most, and you’ll be swanning about with the latest model ear horn just like everybody else.”
Vince gave him a doubtful look. “We’ll see about that.”
Whatever aspersion Howard was going to cast in response was lost, for just at that moment, the phone rang. It was the concierge, who said, “Mr. Moon, there’s a man in a turban to see you, should I send him up?”
And so that was it. They were on their way home. Everything would go back to normal. In a way, Howard was a little sorry to think of it, because that meant Vince would go back to shunning him and writing embarrassing graffiti on the shop windows. Perilous and painful as the past few days had been, he would miss spending time with Vince like this, no obligations, just the two of them, together. But on the other hand, at least this meant he didn’t have to go on the It’s a Small World ride again, which was a relief.
Sequel: The Main Thing