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“Boothill, darling,” Argenti began, somewhat trepidatiously, gazing over the mountain of decorations in the corner.
“Yeah?” Boothill asked, already slightly concerned as to where this was going.
“Dearest. Light of my life. O bounteous silver rose of—”
“Yer layin’ it on too fudgin’ thick,” Boothill said. “What’d I do this time?”
Argenti’s brow creased apologetically. “Well, you see, my love. It’s about the decorations that I asked you to help with.”
“Yeah? What about ‘em?” Boothill asked, glancing over once again at the enormous pile. “Ah fudge, did I forget summin?”
“No, no, you were quite thorough, my thanks,” Argenti said quickly. “It’s more a matter of… the scale. You recall that I was quite specific as to the desired dimensions of each element of the overall display?”
“Yeah?” Boothill asked, wondering if there was any possible way for Argenti to actually get to a point in less than half an hour.
“Ah.” Argenti turned his gaze back towards the stack of decorations in the corner. “Then would you care to explain why the tinsel that I specifically requested be fifteen centimetres wide is nearly half a metre across?”
“Half a wha?” Boothill asked, dumbfounded.
“Half a metre. Fifty centimetres,” Argenti explained, with infinite patience. “The tinsel you procured isn’t quite that thick, but it is still roughly forty centimetres in width.”
“It’ll fit.” Boothill shrugged. “Prob’ly. Can always cut the shoot out of it if it’s too big, right?”
“Well, yes, and I should be able to do so with minimal aesthetic damage,” Argenti agreed. “But the question remains as to why you acquired tinsel over double the width that I requested.”
“I was wonderin’,” Boothill said. “Ain’t never seen tinsel fifteen inches wide myself, but you’re the expert in decorations, right? You say jump I say how fudgin’ high your Argenti-ness sir.” He flashed a sharp-toothed grin.
Argenti’s brows furrowed. This time significantly less sympathetic and significantly more tired of Boothill’s shoot. “Boothill. Darling. Did you confuse fifteen centimetres for fifteen inches.”
“Don’t see what’s to confuse,” Boothill said, leaning back on the couch nonchalantly. “Who the fudge measures in centimetres?”
“Almost the entire known cosmos,” Argenti said, drily.
“The parts of it that conform to the muddle fudgin’ IPC’s bull-shirt universal standards, ye mean!” Boothill argued, folding his arms.
“Which is almost the entire known cosmos, as you very well know,” Argenti responded, still clearly unimpressed.
“Yeah, well, way I see it, s’really the least anyone can do to oppose their gat-darn domination over every part of our muddle-fudgin’ lives—”
“You absolutely understood my meaning,” Argenti interrupted, still very clearly pursed off, “and are very well aware that this show of pettiness has done less than nothing to impede the IPC’s imperialistic reach, and significantly more than nothing to impede my holiday decorating.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Boothill said, draping an arm over Argenti’s shoulder, who didn’t even pretend to maintain his huffiness and leaned into Boothill’s embrace. Heh. Never failed.
“Of course…” Argenti said, somehow managing to avoid heaving a sigh. Dang, Boothill really was good at this. “I suppose this would also explain why the baubles look more like golden cannonballs?”
“Prob’ly.”
“And why the candles are so enormous as to require classification as a fire hazard?”
“Yer invitin’ them crazy brass studs from Express Crew, an’ me,” Boothill pointed out. “Candles are the least o’ your fudgin’ worries s’far as fire, ye think?”
Argenti levelled him with an unimpressed stare. “Our friends of the Astral Express are at least capable of decent behaviour, which you had better be on, o great beacon of beauty that gives my life purpose.”
Boothill actually flushed at that one. A small smile had slipped onto Argenti’s face. “Hijo de puter,” Boothill tried to spit. “Puter? I’ll shoot down every last one o’ those sons o’ britches—”
Argenti laughed uproariously, body shaking in Boothill’s arm in a way that would cause some very fun thoughts were it not for the fact the little shirt was laughing at him. “I appreciate the effort to insult me in my native tongue, thwarted though it might have been.”
“Yeah, laugh it up.” Boothill growled, folding his other arm to huff. Although still keeping one arm draped over Argenti, naturally. “Been tryin’ every dang language in the cosmos to see if they missed any.”
“As it would emerge, the most powerful cultural and political force in the cosmos can be quite thorough, when they put their minds to it,” Argenti said in a teasing drawl.
“Don’t have to fudgin’ tell me,” Boothill said, glaring at the far too large candles that he himself had bought, as if they were the expression of all of the IPC’s evils. “Priss-ants can póg mo thróne.” He paused. Then sighed.
“They owned the Asdana system,” Argenti pointed out. “I highly doubt they’d forget the old language there.”
“S’always worth a try til it ain’t,” Boothill grumped, settling back on the sofa. Maybe he should run a hand through Argenti’s hair, calm him down. But then that’d reward him for bein’ a sassy little birch when Boothill was pursed off, so he resisted. Barely.
“Out of interest, is there any part of the decorations that you didn’t acquire in completely the wrong size?” Argenti offered.
“You’re the one’t ordered ‘em wrong,” Boothill countered.
“By not ordering them in inches, a measurement that has been obsolete for a couple of thousand Amber Eras,” Argenti deadpanned.
“Don’t hear you complainin’ about my inches most the time,” Boothill drawled, turning to face Argenti with a sharp grin.
Argenti flushed magnificently. “I. Well. That seems hardly relevant to—”
“Don’t think you’d much prefer that was eight centimetres, huh?” Boothill leaned closer, letting his smile turn even more predatory.
Argenti shoved a hand in front of Boothill’s face, staving off a very time-consuming distraction, no doubt, and scooched out of the chair, face as furiously red as his hair. “Our after dinner celebrations can be discussed after dinner, my beloved,” he forced out. “And certainly not until we’ve finished decorating. We don’t even have the tree up yet!”
At that, there was a pause.
“Boothill… Darling…?”
“Yeah?” Boothill was still grinning on the couch.
“Where is the tree.”
“Well, it should be arrivin’ any minute now,” Boothill said, glancing towards the vastness of space outside their window. “I gave ‘em the right coordinates an’ everythin’.”
As if on cue, there was a twist in the dimensions, as a truly enormous space-freighter materialised along the star rail. Carrying behind it…
“Boothill.”
“Argenti.”
“Explain.”
“Well…” Boothill started, stretching out. “The instructions you sent me very clearly specified a height of 3m for the tree.”
“Yes.”
“An’ well, as I sees it, there’s only one unit of measurement that abbreviates to m.”
“Darling—”
“An’ lemme tell you, it weren’t easy to find a Yule Tree three miles high,” Boothill continued to drawl, grinning madly. “Had to go halfway ‘cross the cosmos to some giant tree planet. Fought off varmints ten times m’ size! Cuttin’ it down took forever. Had to call in half my favours wit’ the Rangers just to get ‘em to transport it—”
“Boothill, you little shit!” Argenti screamed, as Boothill collapsed into uproarious laughter himself.
Sometimes, life was real fudgin’ great.