Title - Legacy
Author - Rina
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII Advent Children or any of the characters from the film. I am not making money from the writing of this story.

Summary - AU. Imagine you have no frickin' idea who the Silver Haired Remnants are. No clue. Never met 'em. Never seen 'em before. Would you be game to get involved with any of the brothers once you found out what they really were? Even if they scared the complete crap out of you? What would YOU choose to do?

Pairing – Loz/OFC, Kadaj/Yazoo
Rating – Swearing, M/F, adult themes, incest themes, slash themes, M/M, preg.

A/N: I'm not really sure how to categorise this fic. It's kind of different to anything I've done before. It's het (Male/Female) with definite slash (Male/Male) elements and is written from a girl's point of view. I do realise that this automatically qualifies my fic as a Mary Sue but please don't judge it so early as I am trying very hard not to let it turn into something lame, insipid and clichéd like that. The main female character is not going to hook up with either Yazoo or Kadaj so rest easy! Besides, everyone knows those sexy boys belong together. ;) Slash will be a huge, important part of this series but so will the other guy/girl stuff. It's just that writing my fic from a chick's perspective gives me as a writer a lot more freedom to play with the story and take it places I perhaps couldn't have otherwise.

I must apologise in advance for the setting as I know it is totally unoriginal however, I thought long and hard about it and honestly couldn't think of any place better to start this with, somewhere that the guys would actually go to and would have contact with other people. Shopping mall? Bowling alley? Chinese restaurant? Yeah, doesn't quite fit, does it? So, I'm sorry about that but it's the best I could do! Hopefully you will forgive me. Also forgive me for the unnecessarily meticulous descriptions of the boys at the beginning but bear in mind, I'm writing as though the author has never laid eyes on them before. Plus it was fun and fangirly for me. //^__^//

Anyway, I should shut up now and let you read the story and make up your own mind about it! Comments are eagerly awaited.

***

Part 1.

"Hey, Cate. Check out those guys." Shandi nudges me, motioning to the small group of men pushing into the nightclub queue ahead of us, like they're too important to wait in line like everyone else. "They look like they just came from a fancy dress theme party. What do you think they're supposed to be?"

"I dunno…" I say absently, my interest immediately caught by the three striking males in their similar black leather suits. They all kind of look the same, as if they're related, like cousins, with the same pale skin and hair in a light grey/platinum-alloy colour. The one at the front is the smallest in stature, his outfit consisting of a form-fitting catsuit with a zipper running up the centre beneath criss-crossed chest straps, the outer trousers slit from the knee down to reveal calf-high boots with yellow edging around the soles. A samurai sword-butt sticks out of a sheath across his back. His hair is not long but it's not short either, halfway in-between, the layered strands almost touching his shoulders. There are bangs drifting in front of his face, stirring in the evening breeze.

The person standing behind him is taller and slimmer, the hair much longer, falling down their back in a sleek, straight curtain. Their ankle-length one-piece suit is more like a dress coat and underneath it are identical boots to the first boy's. Since this person is turned away from us I can't see their face, only a lengthy silver mane – which I'm immediately envious of since mine is cropped and boring brown - but I assume it's a he and not a she because the body shape is not right for a girl. Too linear and hard. Plus the arms are too strong in shape and size. They've also got the same straps crossing over the chest as well as armour-like shoulder pads, which the other guys have too. Slung diagonally over his back is a not a sword but a holster containing a very large gun. It's very detailed and very decorative. He might be in costume but I don't think the gun is a fake. I think it's real.

It's a dangerous world we live in and I'm used to seeing people carrying items of self-defence so the sight doesn't alarm me overly much. It only alarms me when they take them out and start duelling with them in public because I really don't want to get stuck in the crossfire or have a shot ricochet off a wall and into my flesh. I like being alive and unmaimed. I'm sure security has a policy of not allowing weapons inside anyway. Guns and alcohol really don't mix.

Lastly, at the end of the group is a tall, well-built fellow. He's buff and bristling, standing at the rear of his gang like a personal bodyguard. There's a metallic, bulky-looking mechanism on his left arm – almost like a shield - and he's holding it up as though ready to use it in an instant. He has a curving pair of silvery sideburns and his hair is shorter than the other two, swept away from his face. The way it sweeps into a little curled peak at the back makes him look sort of similar to an overgrown pixie. But this would be one pixie you wouldn't wanna mess with. He's huge and intimidating, wearing a permanent scowl, and he's constantly glancing around himself as if suspicious of absolutely everyone. I can sense the aggressiveness in him from here, as though he's just waiting for an excuse to bust some heads.

His outfit comes in two parts; leather pants that seem sprayed onto his thighs and ass – both of which are impressively muscular – and a short, snug-fitting jacket with the X-shaped strips over the ribcage, zipped open at the collar to show a slice of bare, untanned skin and the deep cleft of well-defined pecs. He's wearing gloves. They all are. All together the lot of them look like villains out of some futuristic movie.

"I got no idea who or what they're supposed to be but damn. Who cares?" I murmur back to Shandi in awe. "They're hot."

"I guess. If you're into boys." Shandi shrugs and tosses her black dreadlocks over a bronzed shoulder. "The one with the long hair is kinda pretty, though. He looks enough like a chick for me to do him."

As if he heard what she just said, he turns to look at us and I feel a shock jolt right through me. Gods, he's incredibly beautiful. Like a female model from a fashion magazine only with a very unwomanly flat chest and slim male hips. Not only is he the most feminine-featured man I've ever seen but his eyes are completely gorgeous. An exotic shade of green, they're big and soft with long, dark lashes, as though he's wearing mascara, only all-natural.

Head tilted in curiosity, the effete male gazes at Shandi and me, not lewdly or leeringly as a lot of other guys have done tonight as we walked through the streets to get over here but inquisitively appraising, as if he's assessing what kind of people we are. Since Shandi is nudging me rather tactlessly and gleefully in the ribs, his focus stays mostly with me, languorously travelling all the way down to the soles of the black vinyl boots my calves are encased in. They have a row of shiny military-style buckles running up the sides, finishing just under my knees. The chunky platform heels make me feel tall and boost my self-esteem, especially since I've recently shed a heap of pounds, but with the way lady-dude is looking at me, I start to think I could have chosen better footwear for the evening. His lips quirk and he glances back up, an amused expression on his face, before soundlessly turning back around to his similarly-attired companions standing at the head of the line.

"Did you see that? He nearly laughed at me," I hiss to Shandi in mortification while she barely stifles her giggles. "Why'd you make me wear these? They look so much better on you anyway. My legs are too short."

"I lent you my lucky boots because we're trying to get you some way overdue action, remember?" she hisses back. "Don't bother with him, though. He's probably gay. All the pretty ones are. I'd go for the little randy one at the front or the dumb-looking beefcake. He might not have a lot of brains but he'd have the stamina to -"

I make a frenetic shushing motion, shutting my talkative roommate up in case any of them overhears and takes affront to her crass remarks. There are a cluster of women in front of Shandi and I and they are whispering to each other, casting surreptitious glances at the trio of good-looking males in leather. If the guys can hear what's being said about them over the muffled beat of music coming from the open doorway, they ignore it. With faces and bodies like that, they probably get this kind of attention all the time. They're utterly comfortable with what they're wearing too, as if they come out dressed like this often.

The line shifts forward and Shandi and I move up with it. There are two doormen waiting to check our IDs and stamp our wrists, one older and one younger. The older one looks like he's in charge. As we get closer to the entrance the sound of music gets louder, filling me with an excitement I haven't felt in a long time. It's been forever since I've went out clubbing and I'd almost forgotten how enjoyable it could be, having some drinks, dancing and checking out cute guys. Now that I know these unusually-dressed young men are going in there too, it's just made this night get a lot more interesting. They are now the first in line, even though they really should be at the back given their late entrance while the rest of us have been waiting for half an hour or more but I afford them grudging admiration for having the confidence to push in so boldly. I know some dudes behind me are grumbling about their brashness, muttering about who the hell they think they are, but so far nobody has had the balls to actually tell this mysterious black-clad posse to move back. The giant scowling pixie with the arm-shield and bulging biceps might have something to do with that. The head bouncer, a tough-looking guy with tattoos, multiple earrings and slick blond hair in a plaited ponytail, doesn't look like he cares an ounce that they have pushed in, greeting them as though they are VIP regulars.

"Evenin' boys," comes his laconic drawl. "How are we tonight?"

"Ready to party," is the leading male's returning drawl. His tone is indolent but underlying that is a youthful anticipation, like he's impatient to get in and see if there are any new ladies on tonight.

The bouncer chuckles deeply. "I bet you are, Kadaj. But first, you know the drill. Weapons. Hand 'em over. Tommy here'll take them from you."

He motions for the second security staff member to step up and the kid, clearly still-in-training, holds his hand out nervously.

"Aw, c'mon." I can hear the put-on pout in Kadaj's voice. "We'll behave."

"Yeah, that's what you said last time," the head doorman replies unbelievingly. "Took us all weekend to clean your mess up."

"I apologise for that, Roscoe," Kadaj says politely. "I'll be certain to keep my brothers in line tonight."

Roscoe gives him an arched eyebrow. "It's not your brothers I'm worried about. It's you. Wherever you go, so does trouble."

"Trouble is fun." Kadaj smiles unrepentantly. "You know you love it when we come here. You'd be bored out of your wits otherwise, herding humans through the door like cattle all night."

"Eh, you got a point," Roscoe concedes. "I still want your toys, though. We'll take excellent care of them like usual."

"Oh, fine," Kadaj sighs, reaching around behind his back and sliding his weapon free with a hiss of metal on leather, polished steel gleaming under the street lights as it is revealed. I see with surprise that it has two blades – like one isn't fatal enough – and the handle is blue with gold embellishments, a small tassel dangling from the butt of it. He lays it flat against his gloved palm, lovingly stroking along the underside. It's a really, really nice sword. With the way he is handling it, it's obvious that he knows how to use it too.

Before he hands over his prized possession, Kadaj stares penetratingly at the younger bouncer, making him gulp nervously.

"Tommy, is it? You're new and you don't know the rules yet. Let me explain them to you." Kadaj is speaking in an overly patronising way, like he's talking to a brainless child.

"One: Don't let anyone touch our weapons. Two: Especially don't let anyone touch THIS weapon. It's very valuable and it is not easily replaced. If I find out anyone touched it, played with it or even /breathed/ on it they're going to have to answer to me. And that includes YOU, sir," he stresses to the second, more uneasy doorman, giving him a frosty, menacing look.

"Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal." The other guy nods jerkily, taking the sword from Kadaj, careful to handle the twin-blade on the blunt side. He walks into a small coat room, carrying the weapon gingerly in both hands held away from his body, as though afraid it might come to life and bite him.

"Goes on the top shelf, Tommy," the first bouncer calls out to him before taking Kadaj's offered wrist and stamping the space of skin between his glove and sleeve with the club's logo. Shandi told me it costs a small wad of Gil to get into this popular place but for Kadaj and his crew that rule apparently doesn't apply. Unclipping a red velvet rope from between two barrier stands, Roscoe lets Kadaj go through, telling him cheekily, "Be good, kiddo."

Smirking at him, Kadaj rejoins, "You know that's impossible. See you later, Roscoe."

Shaking his head at what he knows is going to happen a bit further on in the evening, Roscoe glances despairingly after Kadaj's boyish form as he disappears smoothly up the stairs. He then turns to the long-haired member of the clan who has been patiently waiting for his turn, nodding respectfully at him. "Yazoo."

The one named Yazoo nods back, a graceful sideways incline of his head, compliantly passing over his ornately-embellished gun for safe keeping. It's a nice piece too. It's large and long but despite its size it seems light, not heavy. Or maybe it just appears that way because he's accustomed to lifting it. When the head bouncer gives it to Tommy the boy staggers with the unexpected weight of it so it can't be that light after all. Yazoo doesn't tell either of them to be careful with his firearm, seeming already certain that it's in good hands. While Tommy goes back into the coat/weapon storage room, Roscoe stamps the inside of Yazoo's white wrist and welcomes him through the red rope as well, Yazoo smiling graciously for the courteousness. He seems like the quiet, introspective type; the type that stands back, listens and observes. He seems like a thinker, not a talker. Given that I don't know him at all, I'm only guessing here but my theory is based on the fact that so far, I haven't heard him utter a single syllable. Maybe he's introspective or maybe he's just mute. Not that it matters either way. When you're that friggin' beautiful, people wouldn't even notice if you only communicate with nods and smiles. You can have a whole conversation using just nods and smiles. That's how I respond when people start telling me about something tedious and won't shut the hell up.

As the biggest, broadest male out of the bunch steps forward, removing that weird device from his forearm, Roscoe glances uneasily at it. "Uh…Listen, buddy...Is that thing off? Last time I went to take it down from the shelf I got zapped straight across the room. Hurt like a son of a bitch."

"Oh. Sorry about that, dude. I musta forgot to put the safety on," the burly guy says apologetically, his voice deep and rich. He presses something under the metal contraption and there's a click. "There ya go. Just don't bump this button, all right?"

Taking the strange weapon, Roscoe gives him a resentful look. "You could have told me that BEFORE I ended up slamming back-first into the wall. My fingers still tingle sometimes."

The brawnier brother shrugs unconcernedly, pulling a gun exactly like Yazoo's out of a holster on his left thigh and shoving it into Tommy's arms. "I wouldn't worry about that. It'll wear off sooner or later."

"It better be sooner or I'm sending you my medical bill." Roscoe gives him a stamp and lifts the rope, inclining his head welcomingly. "Enjoy your night. And no smashing the furniture this time or that's another expense you'll be getting slugged with."

Sideburns just grins wolfishly. "I'll try not to. Can't promise anything, but."

They butt their fists together as if they're old pals and then the doorman stands aside, letting him enter the premises. The gaggle of gossiping girls in front of us pay their fees and are let in and Shandi and I soon follow, the tattooed bouncer scrutinising our identification cards, taking our money and imprinting our wrists with red ink before waving us through, grinning flirtatiously at our party-girl outfits. I smile back, always having had a thing for muscly guys, especially with tatts and earrings. He's kinda sexy. But what's even sexier lies at the top of that staircase so I eagerly climb up them after my roommate, trying not to get too jealous at her long, long legs as she strides athletically up the steps in her wedge-heels. She's wearing a tiny pair of white shorts and a sparkly blue bandeau top, showing off a perfect tummy and yards of amazing dark copper skin. Her ebony hair is formed into thin ropes and on the end of each of them are little black beads that clink against each other when she moves. She's a tall, skinny babe and I can't help feeling small and stunted next to her, not to mention pale. Then again, there's a lot of pale folk in this town, including those tempting triplets and I look forward to watching them all night and imagining them out of their suits. If we can find them, that is. This place is looking packed to the rafters and every step I take upwards brings more people into view. Shandi said it was the trendiest place to be on a Saturday night and it appears that she's correct.

Once fully inside the club, the dull beat of music we heard outside becomes loud and pumping, the pulse of bass throbbing through the centre of my body. A greyish smoke haze hangs in the air, punctuated by stabs of coloured laser lights, shooting and whirling across the room, making ever-flowing patterns and designs on the walls and ceiling. Columns of black marble reach up to the roof and spaced beside them on the carpeted areas are couches and lounge chairs, along with tall potted tree-ferns which I'm betting people use as ashtrays. I gaze around in exhilaration, noting the long bar running along one wall, the huge dance floor which is already half-occupied, the central spotlighted stage for the main acts and finally, the various podiums situated around the place where scantily-dressed ladies are gyrating their hips suggestively and spinning around poles for the entertainment of men. Also surprisingly, for a lot of women too. Checking out the strippers are prettily-dressed lipstick lesbians, like Shandi, and then on the opposite scale there are some butch chicks with short, clipped hair as well as manly clothing and mannerisms.

Not here for the female flesh, I search the milling mass of people for the three intriguing brothers, finally locating them to my right. It's easy to spot them since they're the only ones with hair the same colour and shininess as metal. They have a few brief words, cash is distributed evenly and then they split in different directions. The wild-child called Kadaj starts strolling across to the podiums where the dancers are, an anticipative smirk on his cherubic lips. I'm fairly certain he's not old enough to be in here but I'm also fairly certain nobody is going to challenge him about it either. As he's striding confidently through the crowd, people are stepping to the side and swiftly moving out of his path, like there's an invisible force field around him, everyone sensing that it's a wise idea not to get in his way or piss him off.

Yazoo doesn't so much force people aside as flow through them, silently and fluidly, like he isn't even there, like a ghost. That's not to say people don't notice him; it's just usually after he's already passed by. That's when the staring starts. His shoulder blade-length hair shimmers under the lights like threads of spun silver, swaying gently across his back, appearing soft and fine yet heavy and luxurious at the same time. The hem of his long ebony coat swishes around his ankles as he walks. He seems like a creature too perfect to be real, untouchable and ethereally elusive, like a wingless angel or an ageless vampire, but here he is, walking amongst us mere mortals, giving us a glimpse of what true grace and beauty is. Like everyone else, I watch him in enthrallment until he is swallowed up by the crowd and the cigarette haze and I can't see him anymore.

I note that the bigger brother doesn't bulldoze into the horde or go for the dancers. He heads straight for the bar, glaring at some unfortunate kid sitting in what I presume is his favoured spot. Afraid of getting his head punched in, the kid speedily vacates the stool, the larger male claiming it and putting his first order in; orange-coloured liquid over ice in a short glass. Shandi and I started drinking back at our apartment so we're halfway tipsy already but we can definitely handle more so we cross over to the liquor-supplying station as well, only further down, away from the big guy so he can't hear us talking but near enough so that I can check him out if I feel like it. Which I very well might.

"Isn't this place great?" Shandi enthuses as we take our seats. "Look at all the eye candy!"

She means the strippers but I glance at the yummy chunk of leather-covered muscle a few feet away and reply murmuringly, "Oh yeah. Total eye candy."

"What would you like, ladies?" comes the efficiently friendly voice of the bartender, one of three working behind the counter – two guys and a girl, all decked out in professional uniforms of white shirts and black vests. He's young and mega-cute, with bright blue hair styled into long spiked barbs, like porcupine spines.

"Coconut Sunset, thanks," Shandi rattles off, barely even glancing at him; already eyeing off everything in high heels within a ten metre radius. He gazes at me with expectant violet eyes.

"And for you?"

"Ball Bruiser, please," I say with a smile. Grinning back, the dude pulls out a couple of glasses and starts expertly pouring and mixing. I observe his skilled motions with interest, still smiling to myself. Ordering dirty cocktails gives me a kick every time, though I'm sure this guy has heard them all a million times over. And worse. His movements are fast and practised and in only a minute or so he whips up a layered yellow and red tropical blend for Shandi and then slides a creamy lilac-coloured creation across to me, both of them sporting straws and bits of fruit on the rims; Shandi's a piece of pineapple and mine a split cherry. I guess it's my shout because my roommate is too occupied ogling skirts to open her purse so I pull some Gil out of my pocket and pay the blue-headed guy behind the counter, thanking him warmly and a little flirtatiously for his speedy service. He grins cutely at my appreciation and darts off to serve someone else. I watch as he flips a bottle in the air and deftly catches it, the white shirt he's wearing pulling across his arms and upper back, showing how toned and fit he is. That bar-boy is totally beddable. I'd love to see him out of that shirt. However, there's practically zero chance of scoring with him as he's clearly busy working and doesn't even have time to talk to me, let alone do any bedding. Pity. Stirring my drink with the straw I sigh wistfully to myself, lamenting my inconvenient taste in men. I'm in a club full of hundreds of eligible bachelors and here I am crushing on the staff. Yeah, I really know how to pick 'em.

Fortunately, there's another beddable bachelor sitting just a few stools away from me and he's not here to work. At least, I /hope/ he's a bachelor. Knowing my luck, he's probably married with five kids. As I'm taking a sip of the smooth blueberry and cream concoction in front of me I furtively peek at armshield-dude, looking for a wedding ring. I don't see any. He's got gloves on but there's no ring-bulge under the second finger of the left one. If he was wearing a gold matrimonial band I'd be able to see it because those gloves are just as close-fitting as his pants are. I take a sneaky glimpse downward, wondering how the heck he squeezed his sizable thighs into those skin-tight leather trousers. I mean, he looks amazing in them but to get the damn things off you'd need a can opener or something. I don't even need to be furtive while I ponder this because he's not paying attention to anybody or anything around him; only to his drink. He listlessly swirls the ice cubes around in his glass, throwing his silver head back and chugging down the amber liquid before promptly ordering another one from the female barkeep. He's actually very handsome in a manly, macho, square-jawed type of way, and his body is beyond outstanding, every bit of it rock-hard and powerful. He's not that old, either – maybe mid-to-late twenties, which is my preferred age bracket. He must have felt my eyes on him as he unexpectedly glances my way, intercepting my stare. He's frowning but he doesn't look pissed though. Just intense. Very, very intense. I turn away quick, feeling quite stupid and obvious. I may as well be wearing a shirt that says 'Desperate'.

"You gonna drink that or what?" I say to Shandi, motioning to the cocktail on the bar she doesn't even realise is there.

"Oh. Thanks, roomie," she belatedly smiles, grabbing it and tossing the pineapple chunk into her mouth, talking while she chews. "So, are you glad I dragged you here now? Admit it; it's not that bad to go out in public and socialise. You know, around other actual humans?"

"I'm not socialising yet," I reply grumblingly. "You realise I'm missing my shows as we speak? Captain Kincaid is supposed to kiss Xuula tonight and I'm gonna miss it."

Rolling her eyes to give me an exasperated look, Shandi rejoins, "What would you rather do – watch other people get lucky on TV or get some yourself? I know you think Captain Kincaid is a hunk with a laser-gun but he's not gonna fly his spaceship down to your bedroom window and climb through it anytime soon."

"Well, at least Captain Kincaid wouldn't bore me with brain-numbing small talk or turn out to be some obsessive stalkery freak who follows me around all night," I fling back. "I hate the whole meeting-new-guys thing."

"You have to meet them and talk to them in order to gain back your confidence," she reminds me, sipping on her Coconut Sunset. "It's the only way to get over this whole nasty divorce thing. You gotta start acting like a single girl again." She gestures to the crowd with drink in hand.

"C'mon, Cate. Open your eyes. There's tons of guys in here who'd be keen to break your man-drought. What about that one right there?"

I give an unimpressed expression at the man she's picked out. "What, him? He looks like a caveman. Look at how thick his eyebrows are. He's clearly never heard of waxing."

She indicates to someone else leaning on a marble column. "What about him, then?"

"Major sleaze. Probably addicted to porn."

"How do you know?"

"I can just tell."

"Okay. Next to the tree-fern?"

"Stuck up his own ass."

"That guy?"

"Loser."

"Him?"

"Too boring and ordinary."

"Or maybe you're just too fussy."

"Or maybe I just have high standards."

"Or maybe you just like those guys with all the weapons that pushed into line before us. You're turned on by them because they look like characters from one of your science-fiction shows." Shandi glances down the bar at the muscle-bound dude in the ultramodern black suit to illustrate her statement, looking back at me with a knowing smirk. "Stop me if I'm getting warm here. Or if /you/ are."

"Shut up." I feel my cheeks growing pink at her accurate guess. "They're interesting, all right?"

"I wouldn't get too excited," she cautions. "They're probably gamer geeks who play Ninja Siege in their basement every Saturday night and then go out to show off the costumes they bought over the internet."

"You reckon?" I query doubtfully, picking the cherry off the rim of my cocktail glass and popping it into my mouth. It's possible they could be role-players but I'm not getting the geek vibe from them. Not at all. The only vibe I get from those brothers is a mysterious, edgy one. And then there's what the bouncer said about them trashing the club last time they were here. Geeks don't trash clubs. Geeks sit in a corner and be geeky. They don't stride into a place like they own it, as these three have done.

"I don't think they're gamer nerds. They're way too cool to be nerds," I muse to Shandi, setting the cherry stem into a nearby ashtray. "Shit, even if they are, I don't care."

"So, go for it," she encourages. "If you like them that much, do something about it."

"And do what? Try to chat all three of them up at once?" I make a negative face. "Yeah, right."

"Well, just pick one, then. Which one is the hottest?"

"Oh, man. That's a tough call," I confess, peeping at spray-on-pants guy again. He doesn't catch me this time. I can't see the other two anywhere but I know they're all equivalent in the hot-as-hell stakes.

"While you're thinking about it, we should have another drink," Shandi helpfully suggests, draining the last of her Coconut Sunset and smacking her lips. "You aren't drunk enough to hit on anyone yet."

"No, I'm not," I concur, hoovering up the final dregs of my own drink with what would have been a loud slurping noise if could you hear it over the thumping music. "But I'm getting there."

"Same again?" she asks me, holding up her hand and clicking her fingers for bar service.

"Nah, think I'll try a Purple Panther. And you're buying this round. I ain't made of money, ya know."

"Mixing your drinks…you'll have one mother of a hangover in the morning." She shakes her head. "What is it with you and the colour purple anyway?"

"What? It's a great colour. Oh, darn. I was hoping it'd be the other guy," I mutter in disappointment as the second male bar staff member comes over to serve us. He's got light brown hair in a crew-cut and is nowhere near as cute as porcupine-boy but as long as he can keep the drinks coming, I'll forgive him for that. Anyway, if I want to look at something cute, I can always turn to my left, lean back on my chair and visually molest the firm, leather-clad rear end of the pixie on steroids.

Anybody got a can opener?

***