You wake up slowly, sleepily content with the steady puffs of breath against the back of your neck and the warm, skinny arms around you. You take a few (admittedly unnecessary) breaths yourself as you wake up, reaching for your glasses. By instinct, the first thing you see is the digital clock Worth keeps by his (crap-ass) bed.

And then you yelp, flailing, roughly knocking Worth off of you but not really caring. Not even completely awake, he's already cursing up a storm. You ignore him like a pro as you start hastily pulling on yesterday's discarded clothes. A little late, you apologize for waking him up as you pull your shirt over your head, but he throws a lumpy pillow at your head anyway, effectively knocking off your glasses. You put them back on and turn to shoot him daggers. He glares blearily at you in return.

"The fuck're you in such a rush fer, Fagula?" he grumbles, voice still thick with interrupted sleep.

You open your mouth to reply but stop yourself, wondering if you should bother lying or not. You're a little worried that the truth might bring on a little more mocking than strictly desired, but it's not like he won't be able to tell if you're lying.

"Er," you say, "I've got a thing tonight. A work thing." (So descriptive, you are.)

He sits up a little straighter (as straight as Worth can), rubbing his eyes and glancing at the clock. "What does a vampire need ta work for? 'Snot like I charge ya for the bagged shit I give yeh."

You scoff, giving your attention back to becoming presentable. "You're thinking of the vampires that don't have to pay bills or buy food for their friends. My fang doesn't exactly scare my landlord out of charging me rent."

He snickers, getting out of bed to gather up his own clothes. "Heh, yeah, guess yeh need 'lectricity fer yer computer so yeh kin do yer little artsy shit," he says, and for some reason you feel a stupid little flutter in your stomach over the fact that he's bothered to remember what you do for a living, that you're an artist.

Distracted, you watch as he throws yesterday's clothes into a basket in the corner (proof that he must wash his clothes sometimes even if you don't know when the hell) and goes over to his small, shabby dresser. He pulls on a pair of boxers and an undershirt before starting to dig through his clothes in earnest. "This work thing—izzit formal and fancy and all that shit?"

You shrug, suddenly remembering that oh yeah, it's 6:15 in the evening and you've got to be at that hotel on the other side of town by 7:00 and you didn't drive here, shit. "Uh, yeah, kind of, I guess. Er, I designed a new logo for this art-supplies company and they're revealing it tonight at a big anniversary dinner, and it's pretty important so…I've got to go back to my apartment and grab some nicer clothes…"

Which really means 'I need to get the hell out of here so I can go back and grab a suit right now so please stop talking to me,' but you don't think he gets it, because he just stares blankly at you for a few seconds before going back to rooting through his dresser for clothes, as if he completely expects you to keep standing there. (Which you do, but still. Honestly, you've got to go.)

But then he pulls out a white button-up and a pair of nice slacks with a matching jacket which, yeah, still has the inexplicable fur-lining, but hey. What the hell is he doing?

"Uhh, Worth? What are you doing?"

And the look that he sends you makes your stomach drop, because he's wearing that devious smile that he gets when he's thought of a really great way to get you all flustered and pissed off for a few minutes.

"Well I gotta see what my darling Connie-honey is doing with his precious time away from me, of course. I'm just so proud of him and his work, doncha know."

And you're already feeling flustered and pissed off and wow, he's really good at that isn't he. "Oh come on, Worth, don't be such an asshole. This is a really important night for me, and you're not going to ruin it. You can't go with me."

"I can't believe I'm letting you go with me. You better not ruin tonight for me," you grumble as the two of you walk towards your apartment.

He says, "I'll be on my best behavior, Princess," but it's not like that means much, now does it. And yeah, he does look kind of presentable compared to his usual state of being, but as far as anyone else goes he's still this random, grungy guy that you're bringing to a big official event (and what kind of guy does that make you, since he's basically your date?).

Not a very smart guy, as far as you can tell, but whatever. You're at your place now, which means you've got to be thinking about hair gel and outfit coordinating and not about Worth. Granted, that's a little hard when he's walking right next to you, totally ready to get into your apartment and rearrange all your shit, but you can deal with that. Before long you leave him in your open living room with a warning and disappear into the bathroom that connects to your bathroom, and you're in the Getting Ready Zone. You've got the perfect outfit planned, stylish black and red to offset your newfound dead-pale skin, crisp, sleek lines all the way down, the works. You're going to look damn good once it's on, like a fucking professional—

And then once it's on, you realize that you have no idea how you really look, because the suit is all you can see when you look in the mirror. That, and your glasses hovering in midair. How it looks with your aforementioned newfound dead-pale skin, you've got no idea. That your hair doesn't look like total shit, you're only assuming. Damnit.

Defeated, you poke your head out of your bedroom. Worth, who's inexplicably holding one of your small potted plants, looks over at you and cocks an eyebrow. "Yeh done putting on yer makeup, Princess?"

You give him a faux-laugh, stepping completely into the living room, watching with (premature?) satisfaction as he gives you a one-over, his other eyebrow rising to join the first. "Heh. How do I look?" And it's sort of an honest question, but you put a sarcastic edge to it because you know better than to expect an honest answer.

"Like a proper art-fag," he responds, and, well, okay, you guess it's the closest you'll ever get to a compliment from him. And it's okay, really, because isn't a proper art-fag close to what you were going for anyway?

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, asshole. Screw you."

"Nah, we gotta hurry and get to the dinner, dear. No time for that."

As it is, you make it to the hotel where they're holding the dinner with five minutes to spare and only minimal pushing, shoving, and arguing. Quite a feat, actually. You're vaguely proud of yourself as you're led to your reserved table in the huge room. Part of you even wants to try grabbing Worth's wrist to see if he really is going to keep acting like a semi-decent human being, but the rest of you is scared of pushing your luck. You don't want him making a scene or shouting the word fag in the middle of this particular crowd. So you don't try.

Once you're seated, he pounces, rattling off all the insults he can think of about the other people here, whispering them right in your ear, as if he'd been deliberately holding back earlier for some reason. You elbow him in the ribs hard because even though none of the people here are your friends per se, they're still your people. But that only encourages him, and he starts a game by pointing out every yuppie he sees and telling you exactly what he thinks about them. At You keep telling him to shut the hell up because he's being so rude, but deep down you know that he's pretty much right on all counts, and the only reason you don't laugh at his comments is because you don't quite want to let him win.

You two keep this up pretty much right up until the first speaker gets up to the microphone, and then the two of you shut up. But as the guy talks about their company like they're some kind of goddamn saints as far as the art community is concerned, Worth practically twitches with unspoken commentary. You can just tell that he wants to say something about the poor guy's loud pink suit, but he's refraining. The twitching only gets worse as more speakers come up to the podium, and you suddenly realize that he's actually making an effort to keep from ruining your night. And even though you don't need to breathe, your throat still gets all tight like you're some stupid teenage girl who's crush has just held her hand for the first time. In a daze you think, 'I'll have to make this up to him tonight.'

And you're still thinking about that when suddenly you hear your name over the loudspeaker, and Worth is jabbing you in the ribs with his (pointy, oh so sharp) elbow, muttering, "Stand up, stupid." Practically tripping over your chair and your own feet, you stand up and wave at the crowd of artists, who are clapping and acting like you're some sort of name in the community even though they haven't even revealed the logo yet. But still. They're applauding you, and you see that even Worth is giving you a few lazy, indulgent claps too. And even though he's probably only doing this because he also knows that he's going to make you make it up to him, you're still apparently a teenage girl, because you still feel all flattered and happy and stupid about it. You sit down before you can do anything embarrassing, grinning nervously, and suddenly it's time for the reveal. Everyone gets quiet as the big screen at the front of the room warms up, and suddenly every one's clapping again because, hey, there's that logo you worked on for so long, the one that's going to put so much fucking money in your bank account, yes please and thank you.

And Worth is sitting next to you, quiet for once, his eyes following the curves and silhouettes of the logo almost thoughtfully. (Almost.) You watch him, concerned and a little self-conscious, but he just gives you an odd look. "Ya didn't draw that," he informs you, sounding serious as hell.

"Oh, I didn't? Oh well, shit, we're probably at the wrong dinner, then. Thanks for letting me know."

And he cackles and looks back up at the screen, cocking that eyebrow again. And then he says, "Well, we don't need ta fuckin' be here anymore; you've done your bit. Lezzgo."

For half a second you have a flashback to when your mother would always insist on leaving your awards ceremonies at school right after you got your A-Honor-Roll and Perfect Attendance medals, because your name was so early up in the alphabet and there was no real obligation to stay. But then you're distracted because he's grabbing your wrist and dragging you out of the huge room through an emergency exit that he really shouldn't have been using. But the alarm doesn't go off and you don't even have time to bitch about it before he's pressing you against a wall and kissing you so hard that you think he's trying to make a point.

What his point is, you have no idea. You think he's just ready to go back to bed. Apparently his ability to function in semi-regular society only lasts a couple of hours at a time before he short-circuits. But that's fine. That's him. And he totally didn't ruin your night, so what more can you ask of him?

You manage to convince him to let you drive the two of you back to your apartment before you let him completely revert back to his usual devious self, but only just barely.