Disclaimer: I don't own the concept or the characters. I don't even own Gary Numan and that's properly depressing.

Vince was hung over. This wasn't unusual in and of itself. It was a Monday morning after all. Hangovers were what Mondays were for. As he struggled to find his way out of the mountain of blankets and duvets he'd wrapped himself in the night before he thought back to the time he had tried to explain the art of hangovers to Howard. His friend had stared at him blankly as he'd explained that he never woke up with a hangover on a Sunday because he never actually went to sleep on a Saturday. You can't wake up with a hangover if you're still partying, right? The crash always came on a Monday when the three days of partying would catch up with him but that was ok because he'd gotten away with only one day of misery in exchange for three nights of fun. And it was fun. He just had to keep reminding himself of that.

Howard had scowled and shaken his head, launching into some lecture on the affects of too much alcohol and too little sleep on something called the "immune system" but Vince hadn't listened. He never did when Howard went into geography teacher mode. How could he when Howard was in front of him with his moustache wiggling around like a fuzzy caterpillar. It was too cute.

Vince sat up suddenly, feeling very much like he was about to lose the contents of his stomach. He had not just thought of Howard's moustache as cute. Howard's moustache was a bovril stain, it was a cappuccino smear. It was funny. It was embarrassing. It wasn't cute. Nothing about Howard was cute.

With a groan Vince pulled himself out of bed and headed for the en suite, avoiding the mirrors that lined his bedroom walls. He hated seeing himself on a Monday morning with his hair all over the place and make-up smeared around his eyes. It reminded him too much of the time he'd agreed to dress up as a panda at the zoo. Back then he would have done just about anything Howard had asked of him. He'd had a serious case of hero worship which made him cringe to think back to but the panda incident had been cringeworthy for more than just that. He'd very nearly gotten off with that panda and while he knew he swung both ways, neither of those ways was toward animals. He was pretty sure that was a whole suitcase full of wrong.

Slouching into the shower and turning on the taps Vince yelped as the cold water hit his body but didn't bother to move. Cold water woke him up quicker than coffee, which just gave him the jitters, and he had to be in at work by three for a clothes fitting. He smiled as he thought about the forthcoming fitting and the fashion show at the end of the week. He wouldn't be just a model at this runway show, the designs were his own and every time he thought about it his chest swelled and felt like it was full of butterflies. He liked the idea of his chest being full of colourful and exotic butterflies. Much better than blood and muscles and organs but probably less practical too. Still, he liked the image and wondered if he could incorporate it into his next collection somehow.

It had taken over a year of subtle wheedling to get Jaquettie to even look at his sketches. The man was happy to have Vince as the face of his latest line in jumpsuits, his perfume, his hair products, but he wasn't too happy to have his "face" bother him with independent thought. Vince was just a face, he wasn't supposed to have a brain. Eventually, Jean Claude had seen the designs quite accidentally.

Vince had been sitting in a corner quietly sketching during a lunch break while filming the latest Unicorn Tears commercial. He didn't bother to eat lunch anymore. He'd heard one too many jibes about not being able to fit into his costumes after eating mid shoot and how there were plenty more models out there to replace him. He didn't want to have to come crawling back to the Nabootique like Howard, after only two weeks away. Or like Naboo, who'd had to flee America after Bollo's drug fueled reenactment of King Kong's climb up the Empire State Building. He was determined to be a success and if going without lunch was the way to do it, then that was what he would do. He'd been interrupted by one of the make-up girls who'd been told to find him and deliver him to the head make-up artist to: "fix the problem with his chin." Vince had sighed, knowing that she would eventually throw up her hands in disgust when she realised there was nothing to be done about the "problem with his chin." It was just his chin.

He had left his sketch pad on the floor in his corner and when he had returned Jaquettie had been there, along with two of his assistants, oohing and aahing over his drawings. There had still been plenty of barbed remarks about his naive style and lack of intellect but they had been genuinely impressed by what he'd come up with.

Before he knew it he wasn't just the "Face" of Jean Claude Jaquettie, he was one of his design team and fast on the way to being an independent and successful designer in his own right.

Vince was shaken from his memories by the piercing sound of Gary Numan. His phone was vibrating on his bedside table and he quickly shut off the water, jumped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. He unintentionally caught sight of himself in a mirror and let out a squawk at his appearance. The drowned rat look was well out of fashion and his hair was in serious need of some loving but it'd have to wait for a little while. He wrapped it quickly in another towel and rushed back into his bedroom, trying not to slip as he reached for the phone. There were only two numbers in his phone programmed to play Gary Numan's Cars these days. The flat, and Howard. And since it wasn't Tuesday, he could only assume it was something more important than the weekly recount of how many jazz albums Howard had nearly but not sold and how many trendies had dropped by the shop to ask about him.

With fingers that may or may not have been shaking a little with anticipation, Vince pressed the green button and brought the phone up to his ear.

"Howard?"