Author's Note: Another chapter. Bit of a warning: This chapter hints at domestic violence and has a bit of blood in it. Hope it's ok.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Mighty Boosh. Sadly.

Vince was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming but that knowledge didn't help. He couldn't get out and knew he would have to go through the whole nightmare before his subconscious released him.

He was back at the shelter, trying to hide behind his dirty blonde fringe and clinging desperately to the one toy his mother had let him bring. It was a rag doll, one literally sewed together from scraps of bright and shimmering fabrics. His mother had made it for him out of pieces of old costumes. She'd been a dancer once and Vince loved to listen to her talk of the bright lights, bands, music, colour and dance steps and, through it all, the sequins and tulle of the costumes she had loved so much.

Costumes which her husband had set alight while she'd been forced to watch. Vince had watched too, sobbing in distress as the beauty and the magic of his mother's world was consumed by the angry licks of the flames. He'd chanced a look at his father, face red and bloated from drink. His eyes had reflected the flames and to Vince, at only four years old, the flames had seemed to be coming from inside his skull. Vince hated his father, a hatred only equaled by his love for his mother. The monster had wanted to break her, they both knew it but, in the aftermath of the destruction, she had gathered the scraps and made Vince his first doll.

And now here they were, in the shelter with its strange smell and looming social workers and volunteers. His mother sat beside him, clutching her cardigan around her thin frame, her whole body shaking. The beating had been particularly brutal this time and they had barely made it here.

"Vince, sweetie," she whispered to him and he turned to look up into her blue eyes, so full of pain and yet so beautiful.

"Yes, mummy?"

"Whatever happens, darling, know that you are special. Know that I love you with all that I am. I wish I could have given you a better, a better-" she let out a sharp gasp.

"Mummy?"

Vince was shaking now too. The part of him that was the child in the dream was scared and confused but the part of him that knew this was a dream felt sick with impending dread, knowing what was to come, but powerless to do anything to change the outcome.

"I love you, Vince."

"I love you too, mummy."

She was shaking so hard now that she seemed to be blurred, out of focus, and the tears building in Vince's eyes didn't help. He felt like he was losing her, like she was disappearing right in front of him. She was.

"Never lose the magic, darling. Never lose the colour or the costumes or the magic, Vince. Never stop dancing, my love."

With a pained moan she fell from the rickety plastic chair onto the hard linoleum floor. Vince clutched at her arms, her cardigan, her waist, but his hands had come away wet. Wet and sticky and red.

She was gone before the workers at the shelter could even call for an ambulance and Vince had sat with her, letting the blood, which had gone unnoticed by anyone until it was too late, seep into his clothes and skin and soul.

Vince fought against the dream but even as he woke he could still feel the hot wetness against his skin. Suddenly his eyes snapped open. He was awake now but the wetness remained. He leapt out of the bed with a strangled yelp which turned into a gag as the smell of urine hit his nostrils.

The movement woke Blanche who began to cry. It was a pitiful noise and she seemed to be mumbling a litany of sorries as she realised she'd wet the bed. She looked fearfully around her and, upon seeing Vince had begun to cringe away, the sorries coming out as choked sobs. Vince felt terrible that his reaction had made her feel this way and without another thought he climbed back onto the soaked sheets and wrapped her in his arms. She flinched a little at the contact but then relaxed into him.

"It's alright, darling," Vince murmured as he brought her into his lap. "It was an accident is all. Just an accident. Daddy's here, and I'm not mad."

"I'm sorry."

Her voice was so tiny that Vince nearly missed it and the thought of his daughter thinking she had to apologise for something she had no control over made something in his heart clench.

"It's not your fault, sweetie. It's ok."

"But... you was mad."

"No," he shook his head, pressing his cheek into her hair. "No, I thought for a minute that it might have been me, is all. I'm not mad."

He was unprepared for her giggle. It sounded like the tinkle of little, glass bells, all light and magic.

"Grown-ups don't wet the bed," she whispered and he giggled along with her.

"Everybody wets the bed at some point," he told her and she twisted around in his lap to look up at him.

"You got my eyes," she told him slowly. He nodded. "I like you. You really my daddy?"

Vince nodded, unable to speak. His throat had tightened painfully at her words. She liked him. She had only just met him, knew nothing about him except whatever her mother had fed her, but she had decided that she liked him. It felt like a dream, but a good one this time.

"I'm your daddy all right," he choked out through dry lips. "And I like you too. I love you, darling. I love you."

He pulled her back into a tight hug so she wouldn't see his tears, worried that she wouldn't understand.

After a long moment he remembered the state of the bed and their clothes and shuffled over to the edge of the bed, still clutching his little Blanche to his chest. He carried her to the en suite and she began to giggle again, louder this time, as Vince staggered about. He put her down on the tiles and stayed kneeling before her.

"I think a bath is in order for you, Miss Blanche. What do you reckon?"

She scrunched her nose up but he reached over to the tub and grabbed a bottle of bubble bath, waving it in front of her enticingly.

"Glitter bubble bath," he sung at her, grinning slyly. "The latest thing from Jean Claude Jaquettie."

She scrunched her nose again and giggled.

"Who's Jean Cad Jack Tea?" She asked.

It was Vince's turn to giggle and he leant over to turn the taps on the tub before turning back to answer her.

"He's my boss, I suppose."

"Oh. Do you work 'n a soap fact'ry then?"

Vince let out a loud bark of laughter which made Blanche jump. He pulled her into another cuddle and laughed until she joined in.

"Nah, not a soap factory, though that'd be a genius place to work I reckon," he said, waggling his eye brows at her. "Just imagine all the bubbles, yeah? And making glitter soap would be... um..." He tried to think of a descriptive word that wasn't genius.

"Genius?" Blanche offered and Vince could barely contain his grin.

"Yeah. Genius."

Together they poured in the bubble bath, probably more than they needed, and Vince remembered to check the water to make sure it wasn't too hot. He felt proud at how well he was doing with this whole dad thing so far.

He got a little nervous when it came to undressing the tiny girl but got it over it fast enough when he realised just how thin she was under the cheap and, frankly, filthy track suit. As soon as this bath was finished, he told himself, he would get her a proper breakfast. He was sure there was something in his enormous pantry that he could feed her. Did little girls like malt loaf?

Vince lifted Blanche into the tub, enjoying her squeals as the bubbles tickled her skin. He stripped off his own clothes quickly and stepped into the shower, thankful that the bath, and Blanche were facing the opposite direction. He had possibly the fastest shower he'd ever had, scrubbing his skin clean, rushing his hair regime and wrapping a towel around his waist before emerging from the shower alcove.

Blanche was still happily splashing away in the tub and humming under her breath. She had a pretty voice, Vince noticed, and was humming in tune. Surely that wasn't common among three-year-olds, was it? Maybe he had a musical genius on his hands. That'd be well cool, he thought. She'd be a star and he could design her costumes. Shaking his head at himself, Vince gathered up their wet clothes and dumped them in the hamper.

"I'll just go and get you something clean to wear, yeah?"

"Yup," she replied, looking up at him with a broad grin and a glittery bubble beard. He shot her an almost identical grin and crept back into the still dark bedroom.

The bedside clock read five a.m. but the thick curtains ensured that none of the predawn light had filtered in. Vince leaned over the bed. Howard was, somehow, still asleep and as Vince watched, the other man murmured something in his sleep. He looked so peaceful, so beautiful, when he was asleep and Vince missed the nights he had crept into his friend's room to go at him with his comb and scissors. Life had been simpler and more complicated all at once back then.

He watched Howard sleep for another minute, not wanting to disturb him but desperate to strip the bed of it's wet sheets. The bed was big enough that Howard's side was actually completely dry but Vince decided that he couldn't leave the bedding any longer. It was starting to really smell. He moved back around to his side of the bed and began to tug the sheet out. Howard rolled over a few times but somehow managed to stay asleep even when Vince had the bed almost completely stripped. He left Howard his blanket, it wasn't wet and there was actually something nice about being all domestic and independent while Howard slept. Maybe when he woke up he'd be proud of how well Vince had coped with the situation. Maybe.

He threw the wet bedding into the laundry and went back to find something for Blanche to wear. He threw on his old green, lightening bolts t-shirt and a pair of boxers and dug around until he found his old pink t-shirt from his zooniverse days. It had shrunk and faded in the wash but he hadn't been able to bring himself to get rid of it. It might just fit Blanche as a dress, with a few alterations of course.

Blanche approved of the shirt and even agreed to let him wash her hair, sighing and relaxing against him as he massaged her little head and gently ran his fingers through the tangles until it was sleek and shiny and, most importantly, clean.

The bubbles were almost completely gone by the time Vince lifted her out of the water and toweled her down, making sure to tickle her ribs as he did so, just so he could hear her laugh again. The t-shirt hung down to her toes but Vince used some ribbon to tie a sash around the middle and turned it into a kind of dress. Blanche twirled around in it until Vince remembered to warn her not to slip on the tiles. Together they'd tip toed through the bedroom, grabbed the snacks Vince had set out the night before, and giggled past the still sleeping Howard, out into the lounge room. Vince turned on some cartoons (Blanche hadn't seemed to mind that they were all in French, she'd just stared at the bright pictures as if she'd never seen cartoons before. Vince wondered if she really hadn't), sat them down on the sofa and pulled a throw rug over them. He'd hugged his daughter tight and, as the sun began to shine through the large, bay windows, they both fallen into a calm and dreamless doze.