Guess who should be writing Broken Masks and is instead wasting her time on silly AUs? Yeah... it's me.

So, for your reading pleasure until I get round to updating my proper stuff, here's a model/photographer Siren AU for your eyes- two more chapters of this to come!

Most of you will notice snippets of dialogue taken from the show itself, interspersed with original stuff as well of course, but there are also several lines/plot devices that have been inspired by We'll Take Manhattan- a BBC Four film about the relationship between David Bailey and Jean Shrimpton (a model and photographer from the 60s) and their iconic New York photo shoot. I was watching it the other day and thought how well some of the elements could work with Siren, so that's what I've got- I'd heartily recommend watching it if you've got the time. It has Karen Gillan as Jean and she's very good in it, so yeah, give it ago! And the title comes from 'La Vie en Rose' by Louis Armstrong- no real reason, I mean it might appear in a later chapter but I just really love the song.

So yeah, that's about it! For the purposes of this fic Kier and his family live in a house somewhere on the outskirts of London, and everyone who was undead in the series is undead in this (but Amy is most definitely not re-deaded, so don't worry, I'm going AU where it counts!), and I know I said it's based on that film but it still takes place in the modern day.

Enjoy!

It was a familiar feeling, the cover-up slathering over his skin. The strange part was the hand applying it- he couldn't quite get used to having someone else to cover his face for him. Well, a professional shoot needed a professional touch.

He didn't know why he wasn't used to it yet- he'd been in the job for close to six months, now. It wasn't exactly an uncommon occurrence. He'd have to come to accept it sooner or later.

His gaze wondered up from his reflection in the mirror as his assigned make-up artist (a contagiously jolly woman called Shirley) carefully blended the mousse onto his skin, and up to the posters on the wall. This dressing room had been a staging post for many of the great PDS models over the last few years (of course, words like 'great' weren't often thrown around when referring to the undead, and even then only in relation to other PDS sufferers. It was an unfortunate truth he had just come to live with), and their striking (and mousse-covered) faces stared down from frames on the walls. His eyes wondered to the end of the row of framed magazine covers, past beautiful men and women of all kinds until he reached the latest portrait, and winced.

His own face looked back at him, mouth pulled into a stylishly brooding frown he'd never in a million years pull in real life. His lens-covered eyes gazed out blankly, dark brown shining black in the grayscale filter. Even in the picture devoid of colour his skin looked too dark.

"Well, looks like we're all done 'ere!" Shirley chirped, screwing the top back on the pot of mousse and putting her hands on his shoulders as he turned back to the mirror. He looked almost human. Almost.

"Yeah, thanks Shirley," he said. He tried to muster up some sincere gratitude but all that came out was a gloomy mumble.

She met his gaze sympathetically in the mirror. "For what it's worth," she said kindly, speaking in hushed tones for his ears only. "I think you look just as lovely without."

He nodded his thanks, grimacing as she gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze and turned to the door. He wasn't sure if he agreed with her one hundred percent, but he appreciated the sentiment.

With one last glance at his coated face, and one last steadying breath, he stood up and followed his waiting make-up artist.

Duty called.

He heaved his bag over his shoulder with a weary sigh. It wasn't that his job was particularly demanding- sure, it required a lot of standing around, but it wasn't like he could get achy legs or muscle strains anymore. But there was something emotionally taxing about being the only undead in a room full of living people telling you how to stand- frankly, it was too eerily close to his everyday reality for comfort.

With the overwhelming emotional exhaustion of the day, really the last thing he wanted on his way home from work was more drama.

The PDS protestors outside the studio begged to differ.

For a little while he actually succeeded in slipping past unnoticed- he found that so long as you kept your everyday clothes drab and your gait small and unassuming you could pretty much slip under anyone's radar. He almost got smacked on the head by banners a couple of times (a particularly large one reading "Cut The Cover-Up" nearly knocked his block off at one point), but he was actually making good progress through the crowd.

That was until he saw a familiar face in a dress as big as her bellowing voice.

"Amy?!"

She turned to his voice, and her eyes widened.

"Kieren Walker!" she exclaimed, bounding forward and wrapping him in a rib-crushing embrace. "Fancy seeing you here- come to join the good fight, 'ave yeh?"

"Uh," Kieren stammered, awkwardly returning the hug. "Actually, I guess, in a way I'm kind of the one you're fighting against…"

She pulled back slightly to look at his face, staring as if she'd only just noticed the cover-up and contacts. "Oh! Oh, right, you're…"

"Yeah…" he said, nodding sadly.

"Well," Amy said generously, smoothing out the lapels of his jacket. "With your handsome mug, s'pose I shouldn't be surprised!"

"Cheers, Amy," he laughed, wincing as another protestor brushed past him with a little more force than necessary.

"Still, shame about the…" she trailed off, gesturing to his moussed-up face. "Y'know. Reckon you'd be dead gorgeous without all that lot!"

"Yeah, well, don't get yer hopes up," he muttered, shifting his bag to a more comfortable position. "Never take it off these days."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. Mousse goes with the job anyway, and it makes a lot of stuff easier. Less staring in the street. 'Sides, not like I'm much to look at underneath anyway!"

"Don't talk like that, Kieren Walker, yer gorgeous!" Amy said sternly, planting her hands on his shoulders. "More than gorgeous, yer… moregeous! Any magazine'd be lucky to have yeh, mousse or no mousse!"

"Well, good luck finding anyone who photographs us au natural in this city!" Kieren laughed.

She smiled at him, and it was a strange smile he couldn't quite work out- there was something sly about it, like she was in on a big secret and was enjoying not telling him. Before he could question her she hastily moved the conversation along.

"Are you happy like this, Kieren?" she asked, sincerely concerned. "Is this what you want?"

He couldn't really come up with an answer. After a while he gave up and shrugged.

"Well, I can just feel the enthusiasm coming off yeh in waves," Amy said dryly, rolling her eyes.

"Look, what does it matter?" he said, exasperated. "It's a job and it means I have money coming in, most places wouldn't even hire me! Can't make a living doing volunteer work."

She reached out and took his hands. "It doesn't have to be like this, y'know."

"Yeah, well, it is, so best just get used to it," he said bitterly, looking down at their joined hands and biting his lip.

The smile was back. "No, Kieren Walker, I mean it literally doesn't 'ave to be like this," she lifted his hands to her chest, pressing them over her unbeating heart. "There's someone I think you should meet. Come with me?"

"What about yer protest?" he said, glancing up at the man in the skull hood standing at the head of the crowd, chanting slogans through a megaphone.

"Oh, I'm sure they can toddle on without me for a bit!" she laughed, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. "So? You'll come?"

He met her gaze, but he could tell she was not going to back down on this one. Besides, he was kind of curious.

So, with a roll of his eyes and a defeated sigh, he answered with a disgruntled: "Fine."

"Yay!" she squeaked, clapping his hands together excitedly. "Brilliant! Seriously, you're not gonna regret this, partner!" she dropped his right hand but kept a hold of his left, dragging him along as she wormed and elbowed her way through the crowd. "You just stick with me, BDFF- and let me do the talking!"

Kieren's confusion only deepened the further they went. A tube ride and three blocks later they were standing outside a grimy newsagent's, and he was more bewildered than ever.

"If this is you trying to get me a job as a paper boy, I already did that for a bit in me teens," he said, eyeing the seemingly disused shop cynically. "Kind of been there, done that."

"No, Dumb-Dumb," she chortled, dragging him towards the scuffed door. "We're moving on up," she said, pointing up to the dusty windows of the upper levels.

The shop was deserted, the old man behind the counter barely glanced up from his newspaper as they swept past. Kieren didn't even have time to take in the rest of the dingy store before he was yanked through a door in the back, and up a narrow flight of creaky stairs.

Amy finally branched off from the main staircase after about two storeys, pulling him away from the splintered steps and into a narrow corridor. She released his hand and strode confidently to the door halfway down the hall, turning on her heel and rapping sharply with her knuckles. Kieren took a few hesitant steps closer, and he was close enough to hear the deep voice as it called through the faded wood.

"Come in."

Amy shoved the door open and strolled in happily, greeting her mysterious friend in a sing-song voice. "Afternoon, Mymon!"

Kieren slowly approached the open door, hearing a chuckle and a familiar thud as Amy no doubt launched herself into his arms. "Hey there."

"Brought a friend to see yeh," she said, and Kieren could hear the smirk in her voice.

"That right?" he said, although he sounded like he was just humouring her. Kieren actually found himself feeling nervous.

"Trust me, Mr. Photographer- you're gonna love this one!" she said confidently, skipping back to the door and poking her head round, meeting Kieren's nervous gaze with a grin. "Well, come in then, Handsome! Don't be shy- he doesn't bite!"

"Not unless I'm asked," the voice called out, and Kieren thought if he had a blood flow he'd be blushing.

"Behave," Amy called back, giggling. When Kieren made no move she grabbed his hand and pulled him the last few steps to the doorway. As he staggered to a halt he looked up with an anxious 'hello' on his lips.

It dried up the second he saw him.

The man leaned against a counter, a smouldering cigarette hanging from his lips and his hands flicking through a sheaf of negatives. His long white sleeves were rolled up to his elbow, his black braces off his shoulders and hanging by his hips beneath the untucked shirt. He glanced up, pearl-white eyes surveying Kieren from beneath his meticulously gelled hair. With a smile in his direction he removed the cig from his mouth, smoke puffing from his lips as he stubbed out the remainder in a nearby ashtray.

"Simon," Amy said, tugging the dumbstruck Kieren into the room. "This is Kieren Walker- don't let the face paint fool yeh, he's moregeous!"

Simon looked him up and down, and Kieren felt pinned beneath the intensity of his gaze.

"Well, that's believable," Simon murmured, possibly thinking neither of them would hear as he turned to the counter and slid the negatives back into their folder. "You wear that stuff all the time, Kieren Walker?"

"Uh, yeah, pretty much," Kieren said, shifting his bag on his shoulder uncomfortably.

"Why?"

Christ, how many times was he going to be asked in one day? "Just makes a lot of things easier."

"Less drama," Simon said, but it didn't feel like a question.

"Yeah," Kieren agreed quietly.

Simon leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. His lips quirked up into a sly grin. "Well, where's the fun in that?"

"That's what I'm always telling him!" Amy laughed as Kieren gaped at them both. She cuddled his arm playfully, plonking her head on his shoulder. "So, what d'you think, Mymon? I think he might be just what yer looking for!"

"Can someone explain what's going on?" Kieren sighed exasperatedly, throwing his free hand up in frustration. He was getting pretty bloody sick of cryptic zombies.

"Simon works for In The Flesh- y'know, that PDS mag no one ever buys?"

Simon glowered at her. "Cheers, Ames."

"Anyway, I think a moregeous mascot such as yourself could be all it needs to turn around," Amy said brightly, ruffling Kieren's hair affectionately. "Anyone'd stop and look if that handsome mug of yours graced the front page!"

"God, Amy, will you just let it go?" Kieren groaned, extracting his arm from her grip. "I get it, you think I'm cute, and that's great- yer my best friend, of course yeh say that! But I'm not exactly front page material, here!"

"Bazaar would beg to differ," Simon interjected, pulling the battered issue out from beneath a pile of folders and holding it up, Kieren's face gazing out from the ash-flecked paper. "Thought I recognised yeh."

"That's different," Kieren muttered. "They do my cover-up, it's a whole big thing."

"And you don't think you'd pull it off without?" Simon asked, once again affixing his intense stare on Kieren's mousse-covered face.

Kieren met his gaze and felt like shrinking under the scrutiny. He shook his head. "No. I'm nothing special."

Heavy silence fell on the room, and Kieren shifted restlessly under their combined gaze.

"Well," Simon finally broke the silence, straightening up and picking up a cloth from the table. "If that's how yeh feel," he murmured, moving to stand in front of Kieren. "Perhaps you ought to give us a chance to formulate an opinion?" he held up the cloth, raising his eyebrow challengingly.

Kieren stared at him, and thought about just walking off. He could just go home, go to his job tomorrow and return to his normal life, no weird undead drama. He didn't need to prove anything to this random guy he'd just met.

But he still wanted to.

"Fine," Kieren said, snatching the cloth from his hand and raising it to his face. With long, forceful stokes he removed the carefully applied layers of mousse, the cloth turning creamy orange with every swipe. He didn't have a mirror to hand, but he felt the freedom as the weight lifted piece by piece. He definitely did the best he could, given the circumstances. When he thought he was done he dropped the stained cloth onto a nearby table, and reached up to carefully pick the contact lenses out of his eyes. He blinked as they slid out, his dry eyes prickling in the sudden exposure to the dusty air. Hardly surprising- even at night he liked to keep them in.

When the worst of the prickling had subsided he looked back up, and immediately found himself under Simon's scrutiny. He had his head cocked slightly to the side, his lips turned up into the slightest smile as his captivated gaze swept the length of Kieren's uncovered face, lingering on every detail. Truth be told it was slightly unnerving, but that didn't stop his stomach fluttering in a not-entirely-unpleasant fashion.

Finally Simon broke the stare with a grin as he turned his back, wondering over to the counter and leaning against it as he picked up the pack of cigarettes.

"So," he said, popping one in his mouth and offering one to Kieren with a smile. "When can yeh start?"

That night, Kieren lay face-up on his bed, staring at the ceiling vacantly. His mind was elsewhere.

He'd left Simon's studio without giving an answer- he hadn't had one to give. Instead he'd left with Amy whining in his ear and Simon's number scrawled in black pen on his arm. He absently reached over to trace his finger over the stark lines in their looping script- he wondered what Simon's handwriting must look like written on paper without the rush. He could picture him savouring every letter.

A part of him realised how stupid it was to even consider the offer- he'd struck lucky getting such a well-paid, high profile job so early on. He'd gone years thinking no one would ever hire him for anything, given his condition. He'd never considered himself model material, but he wasn't going to turn down a job when he had no idea when the next one would come along. Sure, his parents were happy to have him round for now but he'd have to move on sometime, and he couldn't exactly do that with not a penny to his name. Whatever Simon's magazine could pay him, it was safe to say it would be a fraction of what he was already making- they could barely afford to keep their own company running, going by the state of Simon's studio. And that situation wasn't going to improve unless they had a truly phenomenal spike in sales.

That was a whole other problem. He turned his head to the side, and met his own gaze in the mirror where he applied his cover-up day after day. He blinked slowly at his pale reflection, wrinkling his nose at his mottled skin and pearlescent eyes. Who wanted to see that on the front page?

Well, maybe one person.

He was glad his heart didn't beat anymore- otherwise it would probably thump right out of his chest every time he thought of that look Simon had given him. Staring at his exposed face like it was some kind of rare commodity, like he'd just unearthed unforetold treasures.

Kieren turned his head to the other side and saw the newspaper, lying crumpled on the bed beside him where he'd dropped it upon entering. Rolling onto his side, he smoothed it out and flipped it open, carefully scanning every page.

He counted nine PDS sufferers. Four in adverts, their faces covered but their undead state still painfully obvious to his experienced eye, mostly advertising make-up (and in one case funeral services- frankly, he thought that was in pretty bad taste). The other five were mentioned in snippets of news, mostly articles about ULA attacks, and a couple of features about the struggling economy. In every column someone managed to blame something on people with PDS, and in every article the picture used was of an uncovered face, usually taken in a moment of anger to make the 'attacker' seem more threatening. He saw a picture of a pale man in a rabid state and realised with a jolt that it was a stock photo- he'd seen it a few months ago, decorating a warning sign for rabidication. Whoever the unnamed PDS sufferer was, they hadn't even seen fit to use his real face.

He thought about the world and the media, the unforgiving attitudes towards people like himself who were only trying to fit in. He thought about Amy, her boundless enthusiasm and her unwavering confidence in him. He thought about Simon, wearing his natural face like a badge of honour.

His hands found the phone on his bedside table, his fingers keyed in the numbers he'd somehow unconsciously memorised. He held the receiver to his ear, and waited patiently for three and a half rings until he heard a click and familiar lilted voice greeting him.

"Hi- it's me," he said, turning once again to look in the mirror, mouth set in a determined line. "I can start tomorrow."

Well, there ya go!

New update for It's Only Life will be up this week, but I'm probably not going to post anything else 'til next week at the earliest- hopefully Broken Masks will be among them!

(And yes I did name the magazine In The Flesh- what you gonna do about it? No regrets.)

Until next time!