A/N: Characters, lyrics, quotes and anything you recognise still isn't mine. Damn.

The crowd had long since dispersed, instruments removed, and only mess remained. Meat had loudly declared that the first night of a new year was meant to be a celebration, and she was damned if she was going to spend it cleaning, and that therefore, they would have a 'proper' party. Refusing to take no for an answer, not that anyone dared refuse, she ushered them all backstage, where she had previously set many of the Bohemians amassing vast quantities of drink and snacks. Where it had all come from, no one dared ask.

Khashoggi slunk between various groups, refilling glasses, and carrying trays of food, alternating between assisting Pop behind the bar, and making sure the drink flowed all night. From deep in conversation with Galileo and Scaramouche, Meat Loaf spotted the familiar grey suit. Why, she wondered, in the name of all that's Bohemian, did he not let me give him a makeover? She beckoned him, the bright pink nail varnish on her fingers chipped. 'Ali!' she called loudly, 'C'm 'ere, will yeh?' He didn't dare refuse, and walked over, ignoring the inquisitive glances and obvious stares of other Bohemians.

'Miss Loaf.'

Galileo and Scaramouche regarded the unfolding scene with interest; Meat Loaf had been in their company for most of the evening, and in that time had proceeded to knock back at least four double vodkas with coke, and rock knew what else. Khashoggi, on the other hand, was clearly stone cold sober. 'Ya need to light'n up, Commander,' she slurred lightly, her bright green eyes focused solely on him, an expression midway between amusement and confusion on her face. 'Yeh need a drink,' she declared, carefully enunciating the last word. 'And yeh need to let me give you a makeover. Yeh're a Bohemian now. An' Ah got jus' th' thing fer yeh. Wai' there!'

She ran off in the direction of the communal wardrobe. Khashoggi groaned, experiencing fear for once in his life, 'Dreamer… Help me.'

Galileo laughed, 'No can do, mate. It would be good for you, anyway.'

'It might be an M&S suit, but it isn't very rock and roll,' Scaramouche interjected pointedly, suppressing a smirk.

Meat Loaf returned; she evidently hadn't had to look far to find Khashoggi's new clothes. Dumping them in his arms, she turned to Scaramouche, 'An Ah got somethin' fer yeh too, hen. Have Ah ever introduced yeh to me friend-'

'What friend?' Scaramouche asked suspiciously, unsure as to whether or not this friend would be particularly agreeable to her.

'Oh, she's a little dazzler,' Meat explained, 'goes by the name of Malibu.' She held out the half-drunk bottle, 'Try some.' Scaramouche raised an eyebrow, 'Oh, don'a be a party-pooper,' Meat chided, taking Scaramouche's glass, draining the contents and refilling it with Malibu, 'Yeh got any coke or lemonade? Just somethin' t' mix it with.'

Scaramouche nodded slowly and took the glass, sniffing it carefully, 'I'll get some,' she agreed, deciding that for once, Meat could get her own way. Meat had been overly liberal in her dose of Malibu, and at the bar she tipped half of it away and called for Pop to fill the glass up with coke. She sipped it carefully, and had to give credit to Meat; it was actually quite nice. She returned to the others, refusing offers to dance, and arrived mid row between Meat and Khashoggi.

'Pop,' she told Galileo, 'is somewhat…' she paused, searching for the right word, 'severely inebriated. He asked me to do the fandango, and said he did want to get into my pants. What's going on with them?' she asked, observing the row with amusement.

Meat thought leather trousers and ripped up tshirt would work,' Galileo explained, 'but he won't wear them. I told him he ought to at least humour her.' Meat Loaf was plainly drunk and intervening in her plans for the evening was highly likely to make her exceedingly emotional; something they weren't prepared to deal with at the present moment.

'Khashoggi,' Scaramouche whispered conspiratorially to him, 'I'd do what she's asking. You can change back before the night's out.'

'Very well,' the Commander nodded, finally having realised there was no way out of the current situation, other than to wear the clothes. 'Okay,' he put a finger to Meat Loaf's lips, 'I'll wear them. Just promise not to laugh.' Meat agreed readily, glad she was getting her own way.

While they waited for Khashoggi to return, Meat Loaf drank yet more vodka, and insisted Scaramouche danced with her. A 'dance' was perhaps the wrong description; feet were shuffled and Scaramouche supported Meat, who had her arms draped over Scaramouche's shoulders to prevent her from falling over. Abruptly, Meat cocked her head to one side, a strange expression on her face, 'Hen, Ah really love yeh. Ah know Ah don' say it much, bu' Ah really do. Yeh my best friend in this place, an' Ah know Ah can count on yeh t'always be there fer me.'

'Aw, thanks Meat,' Scaramouche said, realising Meat had reached the confessional stage of drunkenness, and it would only take one wrong comment to turn her to an emotional drunk, rather than the happy, all singing, all dancing drunk that was usual. 'I love you too.'

Meat's eyes lit up, her whole face visibly more cheerful, 'Really?'

Scaramouche nodded, 'Yeah. Why would I lie?'

Meat pondered this for a moment, and then kissed Scaramouche fully on the lips. It was at that point that Khashoggi chose to return, and found Galileo watching the two girls, mouth agape. Khashoggi's eyebrow rose. 'Do you think we ought to say something,' he asked, once he had regained the power of speech. Still lost for words, Galileo merely nodded.

Khashoggi approached the two and coughed, once, quietly. Scaramouche both saw and heard him, and made a mental note to thank him for her rescue later. She pulled back, forcing Meat to release her from her hold, bringing Khashoggi into Meat's line of view. Meat toppled sideways, unbalanced by Scaramouche's sudden movement, instinctively, Khashoggi put his arms out to catch her, reasoning that it was his duty as the nearest, soberest person; after that display, Scaramouche, he believed, was rather more than three sheets to the wind. He would have done it for anyone, and he also knew if would be far worse for all concerned, had Meat fallen over.

Meat lay, giggling in his arms, then stopped suddenly, looking at him as though properly seeing him for the first time. 'Shoggsy,' she giggled again, 'Shoggsy Shaggsy, you look good Bohemian. Leather trousers suit you.' She struggled to right herself, forcing Khashoggi to support her in a standing position. She looked him up and down appraisingly; then smiled at him.

'Commander Khashoggi,' she said daintily, 'Scaramouche was rubbish.' Scaramouche went pink and looked vaguely offended. Galileo laughed nervously. Meat continued in the same dainty tone, ' And I want you Khashoggi, and I want you now.' He could smell the vodka fumes, mingled with cigarette smoke, and a musky, sultry scent, unique to her. In her delicate Scottish slur, she proceeded to describe exactly what she wanted him to do to her, and everything she would do to him in return. The language was colourfully pornographic, and in tense anticipation, onlookers waited to see how Khashoggi would react. Khashoggi blinked, and his eyebrow rose. 'I have chosen you, Alistair Amadeus Khashoggi,' Meat continued, blithely unaware of the looks she was attracting, and with the air of one distributing a prize, 'to be the one to make me orgasm.' The eyebrow that had once held the power to decide a man's fate rose still higher.

As soon as Meat's attention had turned from Scaramouche to Khashoggi, Galileo had claimed his girlfriend, his arm tightly around her waist, should anyone else decide to try their luck with her. Scaramouche's delivery of Pop's quote reverberated around his mind. Taking the chance that none of the Bohemians would be foolhardy enough to take Scaramouche while she was standing beside him, Galileo lent forward to Khashoggi, 'Dude, she's middle naming you. I wouldn't argue,' he advised. Khashoggi's earlier look of terror paled in significance to the one that now obscured his face. Khashoggi drained his glass, and that of the Bohemian standing next to him, gulped and allowed Meat to lead him away through the cheering crowd. Wolf whistles, and shouts of encouragement were thrown in the direction of the retreating couple.

His claim to Scaramouche thoroughly re-staked, Galileo turned to her, clearly amused, 'How was it?'

Scaramouche blushed crimson, 'Not a patch on you. Shagileo Gigolo.' She took the drink Galileo offered her, winced, and downed it.

'Well,' he said slowly, making a show of deliberating the possibilities, 'if you can't beat 'em Skirmisher,' he kissed her softly and winked, 'join 'em.'