Work Text:
Spending an afternoon in a crowded market that's crawling with trendies is nowhere near Howard's idea of a good way to spend a day off from work. It is, however, very much Vince's idea of a good time, and that alone has proved to be reason enough for Howard to be there now, searching for Vince like a shiny needle in a haystack of hipsters.
It hadn't hurt that Vince had looked up at Howard with his impossibly big eyes when he'd asked, either.
But to be fair, it hasn't exactly been a wasted day for Howard, either; after plenty of perseverance at the record stalls—not to mention his discerning, expert eye—he's come up with three great and fairly obscure jazz albums, including the only solo album ever made by Reggie "Eyebrows" Nelson. He can hardly wait to get home and play it and sink into a particularly blissful jazz trance. Vince will protest, obviously, but he'll let Howard play it after a bit of fuss—he always does.
Vince himself is easy to spot, even in a sea of colorful stalls and even more colorful fashion victims and tourists. Howard can pick him out almost instantly, standing outside a jewelry stall in his white, high-heeled cowboy boots and shocking pink t-shirt and a jacket, shiny with badges, that's been so retailored and reworked and customized through Vince's own efforts that it barely resembles its old charity shop self. No matter what ridiculous thing he's wearing, there is something that makes Vince stand out in a crowd, even as he navigates it with cheerful, breezy ease—some soothing and magnetic quality that draws all eyes, including Howard's, unerringly in his direction. He is in the world, but not entirely of it, eternally amazed by every little commonplace thing, and Howard thinks that he would not be surprised one day to find out that Vince is, in fact, an actual magical creature of some kind.
Vince looks up from the necklaces he's admiring, as if sensing Howard's approaching presence, and aims a brilliant smile in his direction, abandoning his browsing to trot over, waving his shopping bags in triumph. Howard feels a flash of warmth and strange accomplishment at having rated higher in Vince's interests than shiny and pretty things, if only temporarily, and can't help but smile back.
"Howard! Howard! This place is amazing. You're never gonna believe what I found…"
Howard lets Vince's excited chatter wash over him, nodding as Vince shows off his finds, soaking up the Little Man's joyful enthusiasm like warmth from the sun. Just being near Vince has a way of leaching the cold cynicism from Howard's bones.
"…and she threw this one in for half off as well! Brilliant!" Vince finishes, pulling out a rippling, lime green scarf and wrapping it around his neck with a flourish. It should be hideous. Instead, it looks like it was made for the ensemble. "Oh! And I almost forgot," he adds, digging in another one of his bags. "I got you a present, too!"
Howard is torn between appreciation at being remembered and wariness of what's to come. Knowing Vince's tastes, it could be anything from a sequined headband to a ruffled pirate shirt. "It's okay, Vince. I'm sure it can wait until we get home—"
"Aha! Here it is!" Vince holds up a hat—a trilby, to be precise, in a mossy green color that even Howard can't object to. "Genius, innit?"
"It… is pretty good, actually," Howard has to admit. He's a simple man with no need for much in the way of personal adornment—he likes to think that his personality makes a powerful enough statement on its own—but a hat like this might lend a certain charisma…
Vince beams. "Found it in one of the vintage stalls. It's retro, yeah? Reckoned it looked like something one of your moldy old jazzers might wear."
"Vintage? Retro? Moldy? I think you'll find that the words you're looking for are classic, timeless, and elegant. It's not all about your funny little fads, you know. Some things are too classy to ever go out of style."
"Like that mustache? Whatever you say, Howard." Vince rolls his eyes, but can't hide his smirk. "Does that mean you like it, then?"
"I…" Howard hesitates. He loves it. There's no question of that. He just can't decide whether it will make him look rakish or ridiculous. He's not like Vince; he can't just throw on any bizarre costume and make it look like it belongs on him. "I don't know, Vince. Who knows how many heads it's been on? It might be all full of lice or… head germs."
"As if it's gonna have 50-year-old head lice on it," Vince scoffs. "Now quit fussing and just let me…"
Before Howard can protest further, Vince is invading his space, leaning in too close, standing up on tiptoe to place the hat on Howard's head and fuss over the proper angle. When he's satisfied, he stands back to assess the view, and in his wake, Howard catches the faint scent of hairspray and whatever sort of tropical fruit salad it is that Vince uses for shampoo.
"There you go," Vince declares. "I knew it'd suit you. Well distinguished, Howard."
Once again, Howard feels that brief flash of warmth. "Do you—do you really think so?"
Before Vince can answer, another voice cuts in like a bucket of ice water. "Rose for your girlfriend?"
Howard blinks and stares at the woman who's crept up next to him with her basket of slightly past their prime red roses, one of which she's currently shoving in his face. He wrinkles his nose. "Excuse me?"
"Don't you want to buy a rose for your girlfriend over here?" she repeats, oblivious to Howard's discomfort. She nods in Vince's direction. "A pretty rose for a pretty young lady…"
Vince smiles but ducks his head and looks away, nervously fussing with his hair and digging the toe of one boot against the pavement, and Howard is filled with a sudden righteous irritation on his behalf. It can't be easy to be put in this position again and again, and Vince has been mistaken for Howard's girlfriend with astounding regularity these days, ever since leaving school and coming to work with Howard at the Zooniverse. Vince is too kind to correct people on their assumptions when they're clearly making him uncomfortable, but Howard has no problem setting the record straight.
"No need, ma'am. He's not my girlfriend," Howard says, sidestepping away from her offensive assumptions and unwanted flowers. "We're not a couple."
She opens and closes her mouth several times, looking between Howard and Vince. "Oh. I thought—"
"You thought wrong," Howard tells her. "Come on, Vince. We've got to get going, anyway."
There is a strange, troubled look in Vince's eyes that Howard can't quite place, but he nods in agreement and falls into step beside Howard.
The walk back to the bus stop is quiet, as is their wait for the bus—a bit too quiet. Howard normally cherishes the odd bits of silence where he can find them, but this one feels ominous and unpleasant. It's unlike Vince to be so quiet for so long, or so serious. He seems somehow duller and more ordinary, his eyes a paler shade of blue. All the bounce and excitement of earlier is gone, and even his hair seems to have deflated a bit.
"Vince?"
"Hmm?" Vince barely looks up from the toes of his boots.
"Is something wrong? Are you feeling all right?" Howard peers sidelong at Vince, looking for telltale signs of sickening. Vince rarely gets ill, but when he does, it's always spectacular.
Vince shrugs. "Yeah, 'm fine. Bit tired, maybe."
"You just seem a bit…" The arrival of the bus saves Howard from having to elaborate, which is just as well, because he has no idea how to explain the source of his concern.
One of Vince's heels catches on the steps of the bus as he clambers up them, and he teeters precariously, but as always, Howard is right there to steady Vince and help him up the rest of the way. Vince clings to Howard's arm for support, but his thank you is subdued, by his standards.
The bus driver is more effusive, giving Howard and Vince a smile that makes Howard want to squirm out of his skin. Public transport isn't meant for small talk. He only wants to pay and find a seat and ignore eye contact with the other commuters at all costs, like a proper Englishman.
"Now there's a good lad, looking out for his girl," the bus diver says, giving a wink in Vince's direction. "If I was you, sweetheart, I'd keep this one."
"Ah, actually, sir, we're not together," Howard cuts in, wanting nothing more than for this conversation to be over. "He's not my girlfriend."
Vince makes a strange, choked noise next to him—no doubt as uncomfortable with the whole thing as Howard is—and turns abruptly away, ambling to the nearest seat, leaving Howard—as ever—to take care of the practical details, like actually paying their fares.
Howard not-so-secretly hates public transport—it feels vaguely unhygienic, it smells, and he always feels as though he's on display in front of a hostile audience that's much too close for his liking—and because he is so wrapped up in his own discomfort, he has been sat next to Vince for some time before he realizes that there is something wrong. Gradually, it penetrates through his many layers of self-consciousness that beside him, Vince is shaking and turning his face away.
Vince is crying, and Howard's heart freezes in his chest.
"Vince? Vince, what's wrong? Vince?" There is no answer; Vince only shakes his head, lower lip quivering and tears streaking down his face, and stares down at his hands, twisting and turning the handles of the plastic carrier bags into an anxious knot. There is nothing more unbearable than seeing Vince be unhappy—he exudes pure, hopeless misery in his distress the way he radiates joy in his usual happiness—and it's such a rare occurrence that Howard finds he has no idea how to respond.
He feels suddenly, horribly incapable of fixing this. He's never been more useless. He can feel the eyes of every person on the bus needling him with their judgment, wondering what monstrous thing Howard must have done to make Vince cry.
Howard would rather like to know that himself.
He reaches out an awkward arm, not quite sure how to settle it over Vince's shoulders. "Shhhh. Hey, c'mon, it can't be that bad. Did you break a nail…?"
Vince shrugs out of Howard's reach and presses himself tighter against the window of the bus. From somewhere behind them, Howard hears somebody saying, "Ooer! You're in the shit now, mate. She's never gonna forgive you for that."
"She's not—he's not my girlfriend, so just piss off and mind your own business!" Howard turns and glares and is gratified to see the man's gloating smirk fade into wariness. Howard might not be able to fight his way out of an empty crisp packet, but he knows he at least has intimidating size going for him.
But any sense of satisfaction dies when he turns back to find Vince, still teary and staring at him reproachfully. "Vince?"
"Why d'you always have to do that?" Vince demands.
"Do—what?" Howard has the distinct sensation that he's sitting an exam for which he's never even read the textbook. "What do I do?"
"That!" Vince gives him a watery, red-eyed glare. "Ever since I been at the zoo, for months now, every time somebody thinks I'm a lady or calls me your girlfriend or whatever, you're always falling all over yourself, telling 'em how I'm not your girlfriend, we're not together, like it makes a difference to people we're never gonna see again."
Howard blinks. Whatever he expected Vince to say, it wasn't this.
"But… we're not together," he points out.
"But that ain't even the point, is it?" Vince bursts out. "The point is, you can't stand to have strangers thinking for even one minute that we could be. Like you're so ashamed. And you make me feel like… like I'm embarrassing you, just being me and being near you." Vince's face begins to crumple again. "And it don't matter what other people think about me, Howard, but I care what you think. You're my best mate."
Howard finds it difficult to speak past the sudden ache in his throat. "You're my best mate, too, Vince." This time, it feels like pure instinct to reach out and pull Vince closer to him, wrapping an arm around Vince's back and feeling his skinny arms circling Howard's waist and letting the little man cry into his coat without worrying too much about the mess it will make, or the condition of the records now sandwiched between them.
What's a coat or a record, after all, compared to Vince's feelings? And for that matter, what's accuracy? There are more important things than correcting people on their assumptions.
"I could… I could never be ashamed of you, Little Man," Howard says, remembering all the times in the past when Vince has stood up for him and stood by him without hesitation. He thinks of Vince setting the hat on his head, trying to get it just so, and telling him that he looks distinguished. "No matter what you do or how you're dressed… I like you just the way you are, Vince."
Vince's response is to tighten his hug around Howard's middle, and in this case, Howard doesn't mind at all.
They ride the rest of the way in silence, except for the occasional sniffle from Vince, arms around each other. When they get to their stop and get up, it's like waking up from a dream or having been under a spell, and Howard is almost surprised to remember that the bus is filled with other people who have probably been watching them.
For once in his life, he can't be arsed to care. He holds Vince's hand as they leave and helps him down the steps in his impractical boots.
"'M sorry about that, Howard," Vince says, stuffy-nosed and sheepish, as they walk down the street. "Didn't mean to cry all over you like a big girl's blouse. That was well embarrassing. It just kept happening, and I felt all…" Vince makes a comically horrible face, in place of the feelings he apparently can't describe.
"It's fine," Howard says, and is surprised to find how much he means it. He knows it should have been mortifying, one of his anxiety nightmares come to life, and yet all his brain can focus on is Vince. "Vince… I only kept correcting people because you're not my girlfriend. Boyfriend… whatever. And I didn't want them to make assumptions about you."
He stops and stands still for a moment and breathes the chilly, damp air deep into his lungs, closing his eyes. When he opens them, he speaks.
"You're not mine. But I would never be ashamed to have people know it, if you were."
"Do you really mean that, Howard?"
Howard looks down at Vince. His eyes are red and puffy, his skin is blotchy from recent tears, he has a bit of lipgloss on his teeth, and his eye makeup has been smeared in a way that even Alice Cooper might find a touch over the top. But the eyes themselves are wide and sweet and genuine, and so is his smile. Being the focus of that smile always has a way of making Howard stop slouching and stand a foot taller, and now is no exception.
"Yeah, Vince. I mean it. Anybody would be lucky to have you."
The smile widens, bright and electric, and Howard straightens up a bit more.
"Cheers, Howard. Oh, and Howard?"
"Yeah?"
"You do look distinguished in that hat. Honest."
"Thanks, Vince."
The rest of the walk home passes as most of their walks do—a mix of teasing and crimps and companionable silences—and it's not until they pass by the corner shop that Howard remembers they are out of milk and that Vince will be wanting it for his Coco Pops in the morning. (Howard himself is a sensible wholemeal toast sort of man. Sometimes with a scraping of Marmite, when he's feeling self-indulgent.)
The shop isn't overly busy, and it's the work of a minute to retrieve the milk, while Vince occupies himself. (Vince has a talent for finding something to entertain him in any shop, no matter how ordinary.) Howard has a clear view of the cheerful, brightly colored array of sweets from the register, and at the last moment, he grabs a packet of Jelly Babies and puts them down next to the milk. He's not much for sweet things himself, really, but Vince loves Jelly Babies, and they're bound to banish any lingering sadness in him.
The cashier smiles at the impulsive addition knowingly. "A present to cheer up your little lady, hmm?"
Howard follows the direction of her gaze over to where Vince is perusing the fashion magazines, absently twirling a bit of hair around one finger while his expression shifts minutely with his approval and disapproval of each new look offered up, leaning on the shelf to disguise the discomfort of his too-tall heels. Howard already knows that Vince will exclaim and enthuse with gratitude over the unexpected present, as though Howard has offered him the moon instead of a cheap bag of sweets.
And he will smile.
"Yep," Howard says without hesitation, feeling a smile of his own coming on. "Got it in one."