Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the golden dusk of Xooberon, a single figure can be seen traversing slowly over the alien planet's desert horizon. Waves of heat curl up from the sand to the air and purple clouds of iodine gas hang low in the sky, hiding dizzying peaks of sunbleached dunes, ancient and mountainous. As the figure approaches, it is revealed to be nothing other than a Xooberonian Pygmy Clawed Groveback, named for it's coincidental similarities to the much larger and more temperate climate adapted Groveback's of Darwin IV, two organisms seperated by lightyears of space but made nearly identical by the guiding hands of convergent evolution.

Or maybe it was God. Who's to say?

It seemed a bit lazy, if you asked Naboo, who can now be seen perched on the Groveback's considerable haunches, to use the same design over and over again and then expect no one to notice it just because you put them all really far away from each other.

Naboo holds up one hand in order to sheild his eyes from the sun and looks out over the sand. It shouldn't be far away now.

There is something else tied onto the beast's back, like a wicker snake basket, but one big enough to hold a rather large man. A small gem can be seen dangling down from it's lid, and a blue haze hangs around the basket like a dark snow cloud. A low, gravelly and perhaps slightly nauseous moan can be heard emanating from it's depths.

"Naboo... I got a bad feeling about dis."

At this momentous announcement of doom, Naboo elbows the basket behind him with a sharp 'thwack!' and the thing in the basket falls silent once more.

The muslin getup and goggles might be good for avoiding the ravaging effects of a sandstorm, but it was really starting to itch, Naboo thinks while readjusting the mouthpiece of his rather irritating beige head wrap. Something magenta glints suddely in the field of sands ahead, and Naboo leaps from the groveback to take off after it in a sprint.

This male fatty tailed dwarf skink, which boasts a bright magenta tail to attract a mate in what is altogether inappropriately named the wet season, has now found itself the victim of a very short man in a turban and is currently running for his life. He doesn't get far, however, for in his haste he's run into a desert sand crab's web trap, disguised as it is as a dry shrub, and now wriggles fruitlessly against his bonds. The desert sand crab, sensing a disturbance, scuttles out of its hidey hole under the brush to inspect it's prey. Naboo winds up and kicks the shocked crustacean as far as he can and watches as it sails over a nearby dune. No crab is going to get in the way of Naboo the Enigma. Not again.

After pulling on a pair of yellow dishwashing gloves, Naboo fishes an empty jam jar and a pair of spindly three-pronged pliers out of his robes, crouching in front of the brush before taking the lid off of the jar and placing it on the ground. He tightens the fabric around his mouth and nose and takes a deep breath. With one gloved hand he holds the wriggling skink down, and with the other he lowers the prongs to tighten around its bulbous tail. The skink struggles for a moment, and then its tail pops off at the base to spew a noxious magenta cloud into the air. Naboo squeezes his eyes shut to avoid the blast, and holds his breath as long he can. When he's pretty sure it's over, he opens his eyes once more and drops the tail into the open jar before screwing it shut. He extricates what's left of the wriggling skink from it's trap and releases it to scuttle away into a nearby hole. Taking off the gloves, Naboo watches as the angry desert sand crab scrambles back towards him over a distant hill. It's probably time to go.

He wistles for the groveback and it trundles forward slowly on it's two truncated legs, blindly following the direction of the sound. The crab is within a few meters of him now, and has most definitely noticed his empty trap. It's high pitched squeal of rage cam be heard more clearly now. Naboo kicks sand towards it before running in the direction of the groveback, which is of course a stupid idea because the thing probably loves sand. After all, it lives in the stuff.

Finally reaching the slow beast, Naboo clambers onto it's back and pulls his feet up quickly behind him to avoid getting snipped at. The crab, not to be stopped, scampers up the groveback's leg and under the lid of the large snake basket. There is the muffled sound of a claw biting down into a thick patch of fur, and the thing in the basket lets out a deep wail of agony.

"Sorry, Bollo!"

Wincing, Naboo reaches back to fasten the latch closed on the basket and snaps the groveback's reigns with a sharp whistle. If Bollo getting aquainted with a crab is the price he has to pay in order to get back to the fountain in peace, then so be it.

Chapter Text

Back at the Nabootique, Naboo sits cross legged on the floor of the living room with the severed tail laying in it's jar on the carpet in front of him. He pushes it slightly to the side, and lays out a small square of white cloth. With one gloved hand, he wipes the sweat off of his forehead.

"Cor, it's hot in here," he swears, his voice muffled by the cloth wrapped over his mouth.

"Is hot because Naboo won't take off desert getup," Bollo pipes up. He's standing to Naboo's side, holding the hostile desert sand crab in one hand and trying to feed it a crisp with the other. Vince had once showed him a video on the internet of a crab eating crisps. It's small black eyes slide up and down on their stalks as its strange mouth parts fold in and out of themselves as it considers the crisp.

"Well, I've got to wrap this tail up for tomorrow." Naboo huffs, unscrewing the cap of the mason jar, gingerly lifting out the tail and placing it onto the square of white cloth which is emblazoned with a complicated black sigil that looks a bit like a pair of bollocks when viewed upside down, "This is risky stuff. It has to be wrapped up, under the full moon at midnight or it's no good."

Naboo stares at the tail for a moment as he tries to remember which way the pointy end is supposed to go. Not that it matters, of course, seeing as the ritual is only a ceremonial one, but he knows Dennis will never let him hear the end of it if he gets it wrong again. He experimentally prods the tail so that the base is facing him before sighing and leaning back against the sofa behind him. He toes the cloth away from him with his foot. Maybe looking at it from another angle will jog his memory.

Without taking his eyes off his crab, Bollo makes his way to the kitchen. Unfortunately for both of them, however, the path to the kitchen is currently being occupied by the small sacrificial tail, and Bollo's foot barrels down on it with an unbearable squishing noise as he attempts to walk past. If he were not so in control of his emotions, and also not as stoned as he was, Naboo would have screamed. It was just as well that he didn't, though, as the contents of the tail (those being more than one would expect) come gushing out and plaster Naboo's front, thankfully somewhat blocked by his goggles and face coverings. Instead, Naboo shouts.

"Bollo!" he wails, a mix of frustration and agony.

Bollo freezes mid-step, one foot still resting heavily on the viciously squashed tail.

"Get off it, you berk!" Naboo exclaims.

With that, Bollo miraculously recovers the ability to move again, and quickly scuttles to stand away from the crime scene. His foot leaves a trail of pink slime with every step. Naboo leans forward to check if any part of the tail is salvageable. Unfortunately, it seems to have burst like a balloon, its tissue-paper like skin lying in shreds. The ceremonial cloth under it has also been stained beyond recognition. Standing up, Naboo groans, carefully peeling off his gloves and pushing them into Bollo's chest.

"Oi!" Bollo grunts, grasping with one hand at the only section of the gloves which are still clean as his new crab friend dutifully makes it's way up his arm to perch on his shoulder.

"This all better be cleaned up by the time I get out of the shower, or I'm taking Barry up on his offer to get a new familiar," Naboo says dangerously as he turns on his heels and storms off in the direction of the upstairs bathroom. With no one else in the room, Bollo sighs. He is greeted by the sound of a crab on his shoulder, eating a crisp.

"I've got a bad feeling about dis."

When Naboo finally returns from the shower, he's wearing one of Vince's plush bath robes and holding a sweat stained lump of fabric which can only be something from Howard's meager wardrobe.

"Get me a magic marker!" Naboo orders to Bollo, who is still occupied cleaning the floor with a mop and bucket, the water in which has taken on an iridescent magenta hue. Bollo grunts at the interruption, yet nevertheless leans the mop against the wall and goes to fulfill Naboo's request. After returning, Naboo uses the black marker to draw his best approximation of the bollocks-like sigil onto Howard's white button down shirt and cuts it out in the shape of a square. He neglects to use a ruler, as Bollo had wisely suggested, so it ends up a teensy bit lopsided, which he hopes Dennis won't notice. If Howard ends up asking him about it, he figures he'll just tell him that walking around with large square holes cut out of the back of your shirt is the latest fashion.

To replace the skink tail, Naboo finds an old prune under the couch and soaks it in water until bears some resemblance to both a withered reptilian tail and a marginally unhealthy plum. The sacred bollocks sheet gets folded up into a diamond around it with an old shoe lace wrapped to tie it in place (traditionally it's supposed to be the vein of a horse or the whisker of a catfish, but since he left the zoo, he doesn't have time to be chasing around wild animals all day), and left out on the roof under the moon. Naboo can only hope he's not woken in the middle of the night by a pair of badgers cursing on the roof like last time. Just thinking about it, Naboo can feel the edges of a panic attack beginning to form in his mind, and quickly shuts the bathroom window in favor of spending the night hotboxing him and his gorilla roommate into oblivion.

At his peak in the sky, The Moon watches on from above as two horny badgers meet over what looks like a reanimated prune wrapped in a cloth napkin, ready to fight before realizing that the reward really doesn't seem worth it and choosing instead to do what two horny badgers on a roof do best. At this point, Naboo and Bollo have both passed out watching a VHS taped over with old episodes of Colobus the crab. The next morning, Naboo can't exactly remember if footage of Colobus' affair with Sammy the Crab being broadcast on a Brazilian talk show was the plot of a real episode, or just a dream he had.

"Maybe a premonition?" says the moon, who sees all things (even when he doesn't want to), and shrugs without shoulders, (which mostly just means his eyebrows did something a bit weird), before turning to face away from the crustacean-filled ocean.

Chapter Text

Naboo awakes around 2pm the next afternoon, and realizes to his horror that not only is he late for the ceremony, but Bollo is no longer sleeping beside him, and is instead completely awake and mucking about in the kitchen, if the ringing of the cooking timer coming from behind the wall is any indication. Naboo sits bolt upright and jams his turban onto his head before getting up and rushing to the kitchen.

"Bollo?" He says as he rounds the corner and is greeted by the ape's back hunched over the oven door. "What are you doing?"

Bollo merely grunts, about to turn around with a tray of cookies in hand.

"Got the munchies," he says, with a shrug, by way of explanation.

"What have you been doing all day?" Naboo asks, almost conversationally, his foot tapping on the floor.

Bollo looks up at the ceiling, trying to remember.

"Made two cups of tea for Vince. Harold took one. Put rubbish bags in bin. Mop rest of floor."

"Oh really?" Naboo asks lightly, arms crossing over his chest.

"Made habitat for Craboo," Bollo continues his list, gesturing at the sand crab in a decorative bowl with a bit of cat sand and a hot water bottle. "Went to Dixon's for cat sand and also cat food."

Naboo wrinkles his nose.

"Huh," he says.

"Cut leaves on bonsai tree. Sort recyclables for next week. Test new Sour Patch Scout Strain," Bollo shrugs, "Pretty good."

Naboo notices for the first time a rolled blunt which has been left on the table, but chooses to ignore it for the time being.

"You had a really busy day, huh?" He says instead.

"Mmh, productive," Bollo grunts, finally judging the cookies to have cooled down enough to grip one between his teeth and hold another one out for Craboo to nibble on.

"How early in the morning did you have to get up to do all that?" Naboo asks, and Bollo shifts back and forth on his feet, his inevitable chewing out coming quickly to a head.

The ape turns back to the oven.

"Bollo doesn't remember," he busies himself scooping each cookie up with a spatula and then transfers them to a plate, coming up with an obvious lie. "Maybe, uh, half past one?"

"Bollo..." Naboo says warningly.

"Bollo says he doesn't remember!" the ape balks.

"Did you not remember to wake me up for my incredibly important meeting today either? Is that it?"

Bollo finally turns back to face him again.

"Everytime Bollo try, Naboo start whispering hexes in his sleep!"

Naboo runs his hands raggedly over his face. It did sound like something sleeping him would do. He tried to think of the bright side of the scenario, but nothing came. Dimly, he becomes aware of an oven mitt nudging insistently at his cheek, just as Bollo manages to shove a bite of a double chocolate cookie into his mouth. He chews the bitter mouthful absently and anxiously for a moment until he doesn't really remember why he was worrying so much. Craboo is staring blearily at his own reflection in the glass bowl.

"Did you make cannabutter too, Bollo?" Naboo asks with mild surprise, taking the rest of the cookie from his familiar and nibbling on it. Before Bollo has a chance to answer, Naboo has wrapped his arms around his sides and is burying his face into his chest.

"You're so talented, Bollo," Naboo muses, voice muffled as he speaks.

Bollo gives a curt nod.

"No wonder it reeks in here," Naboo continues quietly to no one in particular. The positive side of this scenario has now made itself known to him. If he's late, who cares? Maybe if he does a bad job enough times, Dennis will finally stop expecting him to be responsible for things. The dumb pinched expression he knows Dennis will have on his face makes him slip into a fit of giggles while still burrowed in Bollo's fur.

Having enough, Bollo finally hoists Naboo up with a hand under each arm pit and lowers him to stand a foot in front of him. Naboo wobbles on his feet for a moment before regaining his balance.

"Ok, Naboo, time to go now," Bollo gruffs, taking charge of the situation.

"Yeah, alright," Naboo relents, rocking back on his feet and squinting, trying to remember if he forgot anything important.

"Naboo should change robes," Bollo suggests with a sniff, "Naboo is still wearing pajama robes, with PBR stain on them."

Naboo glances down at the offending garment quickly.

"Oh, that's right," Naboo marveled under his breath, some of his bearings falling back into place, "How embarrassin'."

Realization lights up behind his eyes.

"And what about-" he starts, before Bollo cuts him off with a grunt, pointing at the table where the sacred tail and bollocks sachet are sitting bundled on the table.

Naboo smacks a hand to his forehead.

"Uh! Right! Thank you Bollo!" Naboo calls out as he runs back into their room to to pick out one of his nearly identical robes and turbans from his closet.

~~~

Once they've finally set out, Bollo manages to navigate them to the clearing in the forest where the ceremony is to be held. It isn't the usual spot, and the clearing is larger and more well lit in the daylit, along with being accessible to any sort of magic user. The spot used to be a lot more secluded, but in recent years has become a popular haunt for all types of supernatural practitioners. Today, as a result of Naboo's sleeping in past noon, the clearing is populated by several picnic goers with checkerboarded blankets, a circle gathered around a baby pink campfire topped with a whole roasted watermelon on a spit, a few campers with red striped awnings strung up with fairy lights, and even a sandpit where a quartet of actual fae are playing an exceptionally aggressive round of beach volleyball. Bollo touches the carpet down on the most unoccupied area of the grounds, which happens to be on top of one of the campers, accompanied by the annoyed shouts of those inside.

"Sorry!" Naboo calls out as he slides down the camper's metal side, followed by his familiar, onto the campgrounds, barreling into a rather brutish pink haired nymph along the way and thwarting her attempt to volley the beach ball barreling towards her. Instead it bounces on the ground once and hovers briefly over a familiar bunch before landing squarely in two expectant, black leather clad hands. Saboo stands up from the crowd, beachball tucked under one arm, and unfastens a pin from his lapel before jabbing it pointedly into the globe in his hand.

The fae on the makeshift volleyball court cry out in anger as they watch the destruction befalling their ball, the once proud sphere slowly atrophying into a flaccid puddle of primary colors. Saboo makes eye contact with Naboo and maintains it as he rakishly tosses the folds of deflated plastic to the grass in the vague direction of the sandpit and refastens his pin casually to his lapel.

"Look who finally decided to show up," Saboo says dourly, in a way that would have spoiled Naboo's mood if it hadn't been for Bollo's help earlier. Now, as it is, all Naboo can see is that from this angle, Saboo seems to have a small cleft in his chin under his goatee which he never noticed before. Naboo feels a grin spreading across his face that's entirely inappropriate for the situation, which only means he has to suppress his urge to laugh even harder.

"Saboo, be seated." Dennis orders, peeking his head forward from the group to look in Naboo's direction. Saboo grumbles, but does as he's told.

"We're all very glad to see you too, Naboo," Dennis speaks up from his cross legged position on the floor, misinterpreting Naboo's good mood, as Saboo mumbles something which sounds suspiciously like him begging to differ.

Dennis brings his hands together in front of his chest and lays his pale gaze on Naboo once he and Bollo have settled down into the circle.

"Now then," Dennis nods curtly, surveying the group with a slightly eerie grin on his face, "Shall we get started?"

Chapter Text

As the ceremony commences, once again, Bollo's foot comes down heavily on the tender bud (though this time it's just a re-hydrated prune) and it's contents go flying onto Dennis' front. The leader of the Shaman Council remains in stunned silent for a moment before his reaction overtakes him. Naboo, unseen by anyone, rolls his eyes in frustration.

"It's in my mouth!" Dennis exclaims suddenly, "It got in my mouth!"

"Dennis, spit it out!" Saboo cries.

Dennis swallows.

"No, don't swallow it, you berk!" Saboo scolds.

"Just spit it out!" Tony pipes up from the ground.

Dennis wipes at his tongue with the collar or his robe, which is also covered in juices.

"No, don't do that!" Saboo gripes.

"Here, wash your mouth out," Tony calls, helpfully tossing a canteen to Dennis. Dennis takes a swig from the bottle offered to him and holds it in his mouth for a moment.

"There you go!" Tony cheers, a bit too soon.

Dennis swallows again.

"Don't swallow that!" Saboo cries, "You're just ingesting more of it!"

Saboo huffs.

"You're like a dog that finds something on the floor and then doesn't know how to get it out of his mouth!"

Dennis wipes at his tongue with his hands.

"Dennis, stop rubbing your hands on it, you're just getting more of it in your mouth!" Tony pleads.

"Stop shouting at me!" Dennis cries. "I don't have spitting muscles!"

Saboo's head jerks towards Naboo.

"Naboo, check the grimoire to see if these skink tails are poisonous or not."

"No need," Naboo lies, not for the first time that day, "They aren't."

"Well, check again," Saboo snaps, "If there's one thing you're known for, it certainly isn't your prodigious knowledge of toxicology."

"Fine," Naboo glares at him, going over to the grimoire and leafing through the pages until he finds what he needs.

"See!" Naboo exclaims, as Saboo peers over his shoulder, "It says that the fatty tailed dwarf skink is completely harmless!"

"Wait, there's more than that!" Saboo interrupts, pulling the large book away from Naboo and towards himself, "'While the fatty tailed dwarf skink is, in fact, non-toxic, the same thing cannot be said for the severed tail. For, when the tail of the fatty tailed dwarf skink tail is removed, a chemical reaction occurs inside of it producing a powerful neurotoxin.'"

Saboo gives Naboo what manages to be both a smug and contemptuous glare, before being interrupted by Tony.

"Is it the type of neurotoxin that makes you hallucinate or the type that gives you brain damage?" the pink cephalopod asks brightly.

"Well," Saboo murmurs, scanning the page with a creased brow before interjecting dramatically, "Both! 'If ingested, the affected party will experience delusions, delirium and euphoric hallucinations half an hour after initial consumption. Six hours after, if left untreated, the infected party will enter into a trance like state, followed by paralysis and then death. Unfortunately, at the publication of this tome, there is no known antidote for fatty tailed dwarf skink poison.'"

With that, Dennis keels over with a moan onto his back.

"Saboo..." he groans weakly, reaching out one pale hand and lightly grabbing onto Saboo's wrist.

Saboo turns to look down at him.

"Yes, sire?" Saboo responds with concern.

"You're gonna have to stick your fingers down my throat and make me vomit," Dennis chokes out.

Saboo, with some effort, manages to pull his hand away.

"Dennis, I'm not going to do that," he utters sharply.

Tony enthusiastically sticks one pink tentacle up in the air.

"I'll do it!" he cheers.

"That's quite alright, Tony," Dennis says quickly, maneuvering himself back into a seated position. "I guess I'm just going to die then."