On a drunken whim, one ex-patient, known on the charts as Sheridan Driscol, decided to drop by the Clinic one especially dreary summer morning. It was raining. He was soaked to the bone. His hair was a matted black mess of loose curls stuck to his head, and he was miserable. With practically a gallon of scotch polluting his veins, he decided that the most immediate and sure fire way to cheer himself up was to drop in and harass the nurses. Harassing nurses was always fun sport, after all.

So it was that a sodden wreck of blue eyes and black hair, as well as unfathomable charm, stumbled in through the front doors of the receiving area of the Clinic and immediately turned up the volume on his smile. "Good evenin'— em— mornin', ladies an' gentlemen o' Ri'erview!" Dris proclaimed with upstretched arms that ended in a flourishing bow.

He nearly tumbled face first onto the tiles, but righted himself quickly with a pinwheel maneuver of his arms and an emphasized, "Whoa." Peering blearily at the sparse collection of even more miserable and aching patients dotting the waiting room chairs, he staggered further into the receiving area and right on up to the desk. For the gorgeous redhead behind the counter, he sported his most award-winning charmer of a smile.

"Hellooooooooooo, bee-yoo-t'ful," he slurred at her.

Phyllia gawked at him wide-eyed, and a passing RN found it impossible to stiffle a giggle when the man slumped against the ledge of the desk. Dris equally couldn't resist giving that darling little nurse a wink, but he honed right back in on the redhead in a swaggering instant. "Good morning, Mr. Driscol," she said politely, a bit clipped.

The musician blinked at her long and wide. "Eh' None o' that th're mis'er bus'ness, y'hear?" He squinted at her with a pouting frown full on his mouth. "S'Dris. Jus' Dris. Where y'gettin' this Mis'er Driscol garbage from?"

Clearing her throat politely, Phyllia informed him, "It's on your chart, sir."

"Chart' What chart?"

Phyllia turned a 'help me' look upon the tittering RN who was nearby, pretending to be busy searching for a specific patient's chart along the files. The receptionist sighed, resigned to her fate. "You were here back in February, Mr. Driscol, for a vascectomy' Remember?"

The bard's blue eyes widened in horror and he leaned away from the desk, dropping a hand to his groin protectively. "Gods alive, woman! Ain't nothin' y'go talkin' 'bout 'n public li'e that! Y'don't go spreadin' word 'bout a man an' 'is privates. Where's that good f'r nothin' doctr o' yers? Got an earful t'unload on 'er f'r spreadin' 'bout those rumors!"

Turning away from the desk, the flirtatious drunkard flipped a complete one eighty and shouted down the hall. "Oi! Anya! Doc Valkonan! Get'cher sorry s'cuse of a pert lil' bum out 'ere an' putcher nurses in line will ya!"

As soon as he heard that siren's sweet song of a voice, Dris whirled around to face her. "Repro— wut' What'd y'call—?" Except he hadn't accounted for that orderly passing him by just then, and soon found his protests interrupted by a pair of strong arms keeping him from tripping over his own two feet.

Dris turned awkwardly and leaned in against a set of firm abs and pecs. He peered blearily at a name badge that read Steve Nash. Looking up at the clean shaven face of the man, he grinned lasciviously. "Why 'ello there, Steve. Y'mind if I call y'Steve?" Turning up the flirt-o-meter, he fumbled his hand up to the man's bicep for a squeeze that he figured could be blamed on trying to regain his balance.

"Well, that is my name," replied the orderly, biting back a grin.

"An' a very fine, strong name it is," Dris remarked, incapable of restraining the stretch of his devil's own grin himself. He gripped the man's bicep a little harder while he pushed away some, dragged a finger clumsily down his chest. "Y'ain't by chance auth'rized t'give prostate exams are y'Steve?" The bard chuckled saucily as he pivoted back toward Maranya.

Stepping backward, he thumped the orderly lightly on the chest and retreated toward the good doctor's side, just in case he found himself flirting with entirely the wrong man. "'Cuz you c'n 'xamine me any time, 'andsome," he crooned, winking.

Then he bumped, quite literally, into the Chief of Staff, and turned to slide an arm around the good doctor's shoulders. Dris reeked of booze, but underneath the stink of scotch was a heavy layer of sandalwood and rose water. "Doctor," he barked, as if he just now realized she was right there and he was hanging all over her.

"Whazzis 'bout yer nurses goin' 'bout spreadin' rumors o' m'man bits bein' violated" Vascectomy!" He twisted back to scoff that word at Phyllia and Janice. "S'that what we're callin' it these days?" When he twisted back, he gave Steve Nash another saucy wink, and then slumped all against Maranya to whisper in her ear.

"I thought 'twas con-fi-dential," he slurred hushly.

"Ah dropped trou?" Dris was thoroughly baffled by this newfound discovery. Particularly when orderly Steve bemoaned his loss at missing such a spectacle. The drunken bard even so much as looked own at his own crotch to reassure himself that his belt was still buckled and holding his pants securely around his hips. He blinked when he realized that yes indeed he was still fully dressed.

"Bugger," he muttered. "An' 'ere I was thinkin' I'd been givin' the waitin' room a free show." Slouching in his support against the good doctor's side, he leaned back to grin wildly once more at Steve and gift him a wink. Shaking his finger at the orderly, as if he were being very naughty, he said, "Y'wait yer turn, 'andsome." With Maranya adding the stipulation about arranging a dinner date, as she steered him away from reception and down the hall, he called back, "M'free Thursday night!"

It was a very good thing that Maranya was supporting him and leading the way, because Dris did, in fact, stumble every other step. When you've got that much scotch in your system, your feet tend to disagree with every decision your brain makes. "Mischief?" he protested. "Wha' makes y'think I'm intah any sorta mischief? Doc, ah'm a right saint! Wouldn' dream o' causin' no trouble."

Contrary to his own protestations, when they passed by a couple of chatty nurses, he turned his head to grin lecherously at them and pass off a wink. He was satisfied by their hand-to-mouth muffled giggles. Had the good doctor not been steering him along, chances were high that he would've stopped to ask them for their numbers, at the very least.

Hearing the orderly's voice call back down the wall, Dris chuckled deviously. "Thursday then," he murmured, sly. "M'be'avin' m'self full well y'see. Get tha' written down 'fore ah f'rget," he told Maranya as they walked.

The good doctor's clarification of the event in question, concerning when, in fact, he had pranced around reception with his pants down, brought back a bit of fuzzy memory. "Oh aaaaaye! I 'member tha' now. Ye 'ad yer 'ands all o'er m' Johnson." Laughing like the rogue that he was, he tipped back his head and announced, loudly and proudly, quite like he had that day as well, except a little less coherently, "M'rr-ANYA Vuhl-KO-n'n 'ad 'er 'ands ALL o'er me pecker an' liked E'ERY inch of it!"

Well, so much for that behaving himself stipulation. Though hopefully he was too drunk for his pronouncement, for the second time in so many months, to be completely understood. It was just as well that they had arrived at their destination and Dris found someone new to toss his charming smile at.

"Xeeeeeeenia," he crooned, walking backward through Maranya's office door. Wait, wait. He wasn't done flirting this one completely! But the door was closing, and he only had enough time to chuckle and say, "Conference she calls it." That devil's own tooth full grin and the wink of an ocean blue eye were the last thing the woman at the desk saw before the door shut that day.