For Ana. She told me to write this.

Disclaimers applied.


Nobody denied you. Ever.

Not even when you were a drunken, bumbling, stumbling idiot. Yeah, not even then.

You swirl your Bloody Mary with its accompanying celery stalk, astonished that you still have the ability to stir and not spill all over your lap. Impressive. You laugh stupidly, grinning from ear-to-ear.

And then she sits next to you at the bar, whipping out a clearly fake ID. A rebel, eh? You love a good rebel. Almost as much as you love setting things on fire. And you sure love setting things on fire.

You watch her as she tap-tap-taps on the counter with her pristine nails, manicured perfectly with an ever so lovely shade of fire engine red. She orders some fruity cocktail drink, and you cringe.

Damn girls and their… fruitiness.

The bartender makes his way over, sliding your fifth (sixth?) drink in your direction and places her freakishly feminine concoction in front of her.

She pushes her radiant wine-colored hair out of her face, and you can't stop staring.

And neither can some other chump.

He comes over to her, gives you a glare of the utmost contempt, and tries to sweep her off her feet. Wait for it… wait for it… oh yeah. Rejected. Burn. Burn.

"It's called charm, buddy," you say in your head as the man walks off, and your body sways enough to make you fall off your stool, "Too bad I couldn't have loaned you some of mine."

And little miss fruity-sexy-whatever whips her head over to face you. Her eyes are a cold shade of violet, glowing with annoyance and the memory of a terrible day still fresh in her mind.

"Excuse me?" she spits, her voice like sweet, sweet venom.

And that's when you realize that you had actually said that aloud. Shit.

"It's called charm." Your words are dribbling out of your mouth before your lips have a chance to stop them, "He didn't have it. I… I…" You slam a finger into your chest. "I do."

"You don't look like Price Charming," she says icily, sipping her drink gingerly.

"Why would I?" you ask the tiled ceiling, "Besides, you don't look like a princess who needs saving."

She ponders this for a bit, and you watch her pretty, pink lips turn up into a smirk.

"Who are you?" she asks with a smile. She's amused, and you know it. That's amusement written on her face right there. Damn, you're good.

"Axel," you say, "A-X-L-E. Got it memorized?" You take a long drink. Your catchphrase would never get old. Never. Never ever. Ha, that rhymes.

She hesitates.

"Like… the car part? The piece that connects the wheels?"

Mental note: Don't try to spell when drunk. Results are not successful.

You have to play this off cool. Because you're Axel, and you're way cool. You smile like the drunken idiot you truly are and point one of your spidery-like fingers her way.

"Better, bitch."

She looks slightly offended, but she starts laughing. She's cracking up, looking positively gorgeous, and hot damn, you're good.

"I'm sure," she says, the sarcasm dripping with each word. But her smile is still glowing radiantly on her face.

She finishes her drink and drops a few munny on the bar. She's turning to leave. No, not yet. Don't leave.

"Hey, a name for me? A number?" You can hear your words slurring together into nonsense that shouldn't be considered part of the English language.

She stops and giggles.

"Well, you did make me laugh," she says, walking back to you. "That's a rare thing these days." She takes a paper napkin from the bar, and you watch her write.

Before you can pull a suave move on her in ultimate Axel-fashion, she slips the folded napkin in your open hand. Your green eyes are wide with astonishment because she's holding your face in her hands and-

She kisses you. And you kiss her back. And she tastes… fruity.

"Thanks for making me laugh," she whispers in your ear, her breath hot and moist against your neck. You shiver with delight.

She walks out, swaying her underaged hips rather sexily. God, she's tempting you. You blink, shaking all those dirty thoughts out of your head, and you remember that you actually got her number. Let the Hallelujah chorus ring.

You unfold the napkin and burst into a fit of the drunken giggles.


Nice try, Axel.

Better luck next time.

xoxo- Kairi