A/N: This fic is mostly inspired by the pictures of Tony Vincent in the role of 'St Jimmy' from the American Idiot musical, I will admit it. It just sorta reminded me of the Gazza from my previous Green Day inspired fic – Jesus of Suburbia – so I thought I'd revisit that version of our dear Gazza Fizza. For a quick recap for those of you who might not have read it – though you can get it by accessing my profile page – that Galileo was different from the norm in the smallest of respects; he drank, smoked, and slept around. Told you, tiny little changes. Okay, okay, it's a long shot, but let's see what we can come up with here. Trust me people, I know this character (as others love pointing out to me). So, erm, yeah, in short: this is an alternative, 'tougher' Gazza which may or may not follow on from my previous fics with this interpretation of the character... I'll get back to writing the sweet one soon, promise.

St Jimmy

He ran his hands through the unruly mop of top, frowning in the cracked reflective surface he used as a mirror. Cropped sides, and a mohawk on top, it suited him. He pushed back, moving so that he was leaning against the cool stone of the wall behind him. A little less than a year ago, and he was nearly killing himself on a forced detox. Forcing himself off the drugs so he could follow the voices than sung in his head, following his destiny. He let out a soft laugh, picking up the bottle next to him and drinking from it slowly, enjoy the feel of the cool liquid sliding down his throat. Well, he did that alright. He replaced the bottle on the floor, and closed his eyes, relaxing.

After a few minutes, his eyes opened and he stood, slowly, pushing himself off the ground with a grace that he didn't have a year ago. He pulled at the belt holding up the heavily patched trousers, twisting at it so they sat more comfortably, before swooping to grab the bottle and holding it loosely between his fingertips. He left the room he was sitting, moving out into the main tunnel, on a search for one person in particular. He attracted gazes, of course he did, he was the Dreamer after all. It was nothing to do with the fact that he wore nothing under his leather jacket – he claimed it was too warm for a top, though obviously not warm enough that he would forego his precious coat. He came across who he was looking for, and moved up behind them, wrapping his arms around them.

"Hey."

Scaramouche turned round to face him clearly, and her hands reached up, playing with the soft hair that made up his mohawk. "Very rock'n'roll," she commented dryly, a small smirk on her face. "But it does suit you," she assured him. Galileo gave a smirk, as though he had expected no other answer than in the positive. "Stop being so bloody smug," Scaramouche added lightly, stepping back, "and you stink of drink." His smirk grew.

"You love it."

Scaramouche raised her eyebrow, questioning whether or not he meant that. After a moment, she said: "...Maybe." He nodded. "You're quiet," she noted, "much on your mind, Dreamer boy?"

"Singing songs forever and a day," Galileo replied, much to her annoyance.

"Again with being bloody cryptic?" Scaramouche rolled her eyes. There was a brief pause as she narrowed them, "... the drink's the only thing you're on, right?"

"High on life, babe," he replied with a crooked smile. He wrapped his arms around her again. "Can I steal the image in your kiss?" he muttered in her ear, pulling her in as close as he dared. She frowned, face softening slowly.

"You already have it."